Germs, Pathogens, and Other Friends

luka bloom - you couldn't have come at a better time - live - audio only

2011-03-02T07:05:00.000-05:00

It's back....!

2011-02-24T14:56:00.003-05:00

Towing costs to regular repair shop, then AA Speed: $140.00

New Carburetor System, various Engine work: $2068.18

Being able to give my brother his truck back?

Not priceless, but damn close.

Ian McShane...

2011-02-16T16:19:00.000-05:00

...or Brad Dourif.

Either one.

Just Sayin'.

Young men...

2011-02-14T00:54:00.003-05:00

Still show up on your doorstep at midnight with presents for Valentine's Day.

Poor, deluded boy.

However, the coffee was strong, the chocolate was sweet...and the rest is inappropriate to post here.

The Facebook Generation and Why I Sometimes Hate My Job

2011-02-07T06:00:00.004-05:00

I haven't touched this blog in quite a while, I know. My father died on October 17, 2010 and since then I haven't been motivated to update.

My life remains much the same, in that I still go to work for my requisite weekly shifts, I still pay half as much as I make in child care costs, my ex-husband is still breathing on the planet. Nothing much has changed, except, of course, everything has. I find I am still unable to write about my father, though it is becoming easier to speak about him.

I have endeavored, instead, to simply bury my head in work and school in order to continue with a daily routine that, on the surface, appears normal. Therefore, I've tried to be slightly more diligent about keeping up with Facebook. It makes me feel like complete tool.

I know that I should be more interested in what people are doing, and, I think I am interested in what they are actually doing, just not so much how we all feel about certain colors, who's stalking your profile page, and, dear god, Farmville. What is worse, I think, are those small, stabbing moments, which, before the digital generation came of age, were avoidable--painful little stings of ego and emotion which were spared the average individual because there was no way to instantly update a status. What examples, you might ask? Consider this: One of my girlfriends, in real life, has been tenderly pursuing a potential relationship with a man. There have been racy texts, promised assignations, blah blah. So, she logs into facebook the other day and sees that he's changed his status to "in a relationship" and the only person to "like" this fact is the woman with whom he is now "in a relationship" with. Nice for the two of them, a small smack in the face for my friend. He didn't bother to text her, speak to her, or even politely warn her this was coming. In this electronic mode, the information outstrips polite behavior. I think it's happened to everyone on some level...I know it's happened to me.

I know that when I blogged regularly and had a regular stable of readers, just like writing a monthly or weekly feature, I felt under pressure to continue to post. I think Facebook is just a minicosm, though less interesting, of the same. I don't feel compelled, though, anymore, to do anything. It's liberating. I've updated facebook recently, but otherwise, I just continue on my own way.

I have turned a corner in my adulthood, I suppose. I'm forty now...Yep, just turned a couple of weeks ago in January, and now it's culturally acceptable to be a curmudgeon. Each time I see a little smack like that...a little dig of the knife, it simply reinforces my own belief that people are inherently selfish and that to extend yourself to others is a waste of resources. I've become much happier now that I've managed to finally let go of my last emotional ties. I find that it's easier to have compassion for people, to care about what is really happening now that I am not focused on receiving emotional fulfillment from another individual. Forty, for me, is the year of liberation.

I have spent most of the last year, professionally, focusing on becoming better at my job--learning as much as I can in the Emergency Room where I work. It's a small, community hospital which has been experiencing some difficult growing pains since a larger, corporate health care system has taken over. I know that many of my colleagues have taken the changes personally, and if there is one thing I hate about my job it is the fact that most of my colleagues seem to take these changes personally. Anyone who is employed by a large company should understand that "the big green machine" rolls forward. The individual employees are resources for the company. The policies and procedures that are set are, first and always, geared for a bottom-line expectation of profit and cost-containment. That is the sharp reality. If I were to drop dead in the middle of my shift, the idea is that my co-workers would step over my dead body and keep on working...that's what hospitals do. Anyone who thinks otherwise should find a new line of work.

Ideally, you provide the best patient care possible with the resources that you have. For the administrative structure to expect that is only normal. If it seems impersonal or harsh, well, it is...but that doesn't necessarily make it wrong. We should all be concerned about safety, about good practice, about providing the best services we can in a safe environment. My Emergency Room suffers from a serious lack of professionalism. It bleeds from the top down. I work in a place where people feel free to say anything, in any tone, and behave in juvenile ways that, in any other place of business would result in termination. I work in a harsh environment where many people feel entitled and at least as far as now have had no negative consequences for inappropriate behavior. Will the culture change? Probably not until we all realize that as a team we make the culture...and if we care about what happens in our facility, then we all have to recognize that the problems start with each individual and move right on up the ladder.

Most of the people I work with have never worked in any other industry--their entire professional experience is in health care. I don't believe that's healthy. It just fosters the insulated bad habits that everyone complains about and no one tries to change. It's overwhelming, and sad.

Of course, this has been a particularly bad week. Maybe I'll think differently at the end of this next week. I guess, only time will tell.

Who we are on the inside...

2010-09-11T02:06:00.003-04:00

...is rarely reflected on the outside.
On the inside...I feel like the above, I have that kind of anger and malice in me.

However, on the outside, this is a closer reflection.

(and some may say, in this case, the reality is close to the picture.)

Hn.

It's all bumpy and downhill from here...

2010-09-09T20:57:00.002-04:00

As my between 1 and 3 readers know, my father is dying.

Hospice has been in place for a couple of weeks and while it was a rough entry into the process, the fact that my dad broke his leg last week has put, not to be too punnerific, a real kink in the works.

The significant other has returned to Hungary and I don't expect to see him for months. I have nudged him gently, by text, to indicate that he really, really should plug in a bit more if he wants to fulfill those obligations he has. Has he? Not so much.

It's becoming something of a great big shrug for me at this point. Is there email in my box? No. Did I expect it? No. Consequently, in watching my father now that he has gone to rehabilitation hospital, it occurs to me that the old adage is true: You die alone. The part that is unspoken is...it's an unbearable process for those you leave behind. Too many questions, too many regrets, too many sharp reminders that the life you have is not worth what you paid for it.

However, it's nice to dust off the blog, especially since himself doesn't read it....or at least it's months before he does. And that let's me off the hook.

The other night at work, I was doing CPR on a patient who had no business being a full code, but was. I didn't mind the work, even though I looked very foolish in my Curious George scrub top. I could feel her ribs cracking under my hands, and despite every "heroic" effort, the oldest son finally asked for the team to stop, and there I was towering over the dead body of a woman I'd known both as a patient and as a community member.

I felt for her family. I felt for the rest of the team, but for myself I felt nothing. For her, I felt nothing. She wasn't there anymore. She left that room probably long before I started chest compressions.

It just makes me wonder...the nature of my job now and who I've become...I don't feel very much since the Significant Other left. I don't feel very much at all. Am I just saving it up for when my father dies? I think I know the answer to the question and I don't think I like it.

The ultimate in philosophy

2010-06-07T23:48:00.002-04:00

I am certainly not the first person to posit that everything in life can be explained by the Godfather. In fact, my older brother, with whom I share this house, also subscribes to the same philosophy...as do many others, however, there is still something to be said for following Don Corleone's wisdom.

My own father is very ill, and still in the hospital. As a family, we have banded together, as we tend to do in these times of adversity. If it seems, therefore, that I have gone to the mattresses, it's just that I'm tending to family matters. I promise, dear reader, it's merely business...it's not personal.

Labrynth

2010-06-01T14:33:00.002-04:00

There have been changes at work. The changes will continue. In fact, since the merger with the Big Daddy Corporation came to completion in December, the changes have been fast-paced--though I have yet to see an improvement in patient care. They assure the employees, though, that this is coming. As for me, I just keep my little button nose to the grindstone and keep on working.

In an interesting move, one of the directors of my department was removed last week. She was allowed to resign, I believe, but it was, literally, a case of one day she was there being the boss, the next day it was as though she had never existed. That's the way it works in hospitals, of course. Regardless of how well you do your job, how much you love your work--or how much you might personally care about patient safety--if you were to drop dead in the hallway, the next shift would just step right over your carcass on the way to clock in. Hospitals have to work that way, because they never close.

It was sad to see some of the louder, mouthier employees the day following the director's dismissal. It seems it took less than 24 hours for them to decide that this person's efforts to schedule all their whims and desires--who took a personal interest in their lives and families--was really the heart of the problem in the first place. There was a lot of "good riddance" vibe the next day at work. For myself, I am nervous--it seems to me that the last advocate to stand between us bottom-rung, bedside caregivers and the corporate boot is now gone. It doesn't portend well.

But, on the good side, I still have a job. I am still working my mad hours. I did go out on Friday night, where I discovered that I can no longer drink like a fish. I came home so drunk and sick that I can't remember getting into my house, but I remember calling DW so he could talk me down until I could safely pass out. Poor thing, I kept on the phone for over an hour, rambling as I do when tired and emotional, and he was able to patiently forbear my chatter. He even checked on me the next day--a good friend, truly.

And now, after the holiday is over and my dad's birthday completed...it's time for me to get ready to go back to work. I hate office politics. I hate the struggle with my children, my family, my ex-husband. I hate, too, the difficulty I'm going to have with the ex over the summer disposition of the children since he has decided it is "not convenient" for him to accept his obligations for the summer visitation schedule. The present partner, the LTB, will arrive on the 10th of June, and I'm sure a day or two before I will become thrilled about it. Right now, it's just one more logistical nightmare, since I am scheduled to work, yet I had already put in to have the day off. It never fails.

We are, as a family, one cat down. My favorite, little Lucy, has been missing since Friday. The kids are upset and so am I. I hope she's ok, but considering the traffic on my street, she probably isn't. Ah well, some weeks are good, some bad. I'm not sure this one counts as either yet.

See you soon, I hope, my dear one reader.

Just some thoughts...

2010-03-31T00:36:00.002-04:00

I stumbled across this pic while surfing the net in relation to Coronary Artery Bypass Graft and it has been in my mind ever since.

A long time ago, my one reader will remember, I used to blog daily concerning the vagaries of my life, the nature of love and the nature of public displays, via the blog, of affection. That one reader might also remember that the blog often became what Anne Bradstreet would have termed: These are private words addressed to you in public...

...and this entry might be classified as the same.

I was discussing my friend, herein called Pooh Bear, Pooh Bear's life with him today at work, and found myself saying, "You know, no self-respecting, real woman is going to look at you twice until you excise the crazy from your life." You'd have to know Pooh Bear, but it's a true statement. However, immediately on the heels of this utterance, I found myself blushing and in point of fact, I avoided him for the rest of the evening. It wasn't a difficult task, since I had very heavy patients today, all of whom were sick, and one of whom would be flown out to a major trauma center.

My avoidance of Pooh Bear, however, had nothing to do with that.

I was avoiding him because I felt stupid immediately after saying what I did--since all the memories of my own, personal crazy, came flooding back in that instant.

The nice thing about this blog, and my current relationship, is that I can say whatever I want to say, confess what I need to, and generally speaking mouth-off in whatever way I see fit without any outside interference. The Partner knows better than to try and censor me...and I am beholden to no one else. Therefore, I shall now begin my...missive.

I begin, of course, with the general disclaimer that I am in no way seeking to re-start relationships past, neither am I looking for absolution. The past is cemented and there is no redressing to be done. Therefore, I say, let it be known that I do no seek to establish anything new, but merely to address, in public, my one reader with some words I have hinted at in person. An apology? Some might read it that way, but that apology has already been made. A lament? Maybe. A chance to right my own Karma? Even I am not so desperate.

Regardless...here it is.

I am not, by nature, a creature of infidelity. I am, in fact, a serial monogamist. That is a fact well established. Neither am I, by nature, a shrinking violet. I am difficult, opinionated, and somewhat dismissive. Certainly I am dark in my thinking, sarcastic in my humor, and hot-tempered in relationships. I am also, I think, fun and easy going when in good humor ... and not altogether unintelligent.

It is humbling, I think, when ex-lovers move on with their lives and you come to realize that...honestly...you didn't mean that much to them. It is sobering to know that the person you once believed thought you to be the love of his life has come to love someone else...probably more than he ever loved you in the first place. That's the tricky thing about ex-lovers...they never have the decency to die of a broken heart--even as I did not allow myself to die of the same ailment. They pick up their pieces, they file you away in a dusty jacket called "past crazy girlfriends" and move one to someone better, prettier, more successful, and probably more intelligent than you ever were. They tell their friends that they are lucky to have escaped your clutches, and, eventually, they make jokes about you in passing--without remembering why they ever loved you in the first place. Criminal, isn't it? And doubly painful when you realize that you've probably done the same thing.

I have come to understand, now that I am nearing 40, that there are some hurts that never go away. There are words that cannot be unsaid and expressions of face that will always be remembered for their hurtful impact. But, even though those things cannot be erased, or the pain mitigated, a thinking person can still forgive the transgressor especially since these things never happen in a vacuum. To have the ability to look at the past with an eye toward justice is...a burden. It's so much easier to blame the other party than it is to accept that you had a strong hand in how the relationship played out.

It only makes the hurt sharper--a keen, stabbing pain that catches me unaware, as it did this evening. I thought I had passed the point where memories could be that painful. I was wrong. Looking back, too, I can see that there was much in my previous relationship that I did incorrectly. And yet, had I done everything right, the end would have still been the same. Knowing that the eventual disposition would have been the same doesn't make the burden any easier to bear.

I suppose that the desire to be someone else's unforgettable is common. It's a shame then when you realize that there really isn't any such thing. We are all, all of us, forgettable...there are just too many humans breathing for there to be any other conclusion. So what is to be done? I handle it this way: I remember, fondly, the intention and the motivation knowing that regardless of what was said or done, dear reader, that was never what was intended. I remember, shame-facedly and painfully, all the bad times, ugly scenes, and cutting words so that I might spare myself something so very like regret. Want to know a secret? The second part doesn't work so well.

Want to know another secret? Being replaced doesn't sit well with me, and sometimes I get narky about it. But, I am philosophical about it, too. There is no other way it can be.

That being the case, I wonder why it is that I allowed myself to make the same mistakes over and over. Especially when it came to you. When I counseled Pooh Bear on his own crazy choices, I was immediately thrown back to the Garden of Heligan. I wonder sometimes...and only just sometimes...what would have happened if, when offered the umbrella, I had simply said, "Hey, thanks...thanks for thinking of me."

It probably wouldn't have changed a thing...but maybe, like string theory, it would have changed everything. In another universe, a parallel existence, maybe it did. I'll never know.

And that's it, isn't it. The real kicker. I'll never know.

And neither will you.

Some idiot once said that Love never dies. Sure it does, painfully and spectacularly at times. And sometimes with a wimpy little gasp. Doesn't really matter if it goes out as a full code, complete with CPR and Intubation, or with a DNR. It dies all right. The shitty part, though, is that sometimes there is a half-existence, where it's not quite dead, but it can't be reached. Limbo...the aborted state of love. An unclaimed, quivering, gasping thing that resists resurrection. Sad really. So very sad.

And thus, do I bring to a close these private words addressed in public, and care not who reads them. The Partner rests his head assured of my constancy, as he should be, because my daily actions prove my words. And you? What about you, my dear one reader? Does it bother you that I still think of you, and after all that happened, I think of you only with fond regret and without malice or rancor? It took me a long time to get there. If it bothers you that I still care for you, I have to say...that's just too bad. You'll simply have to live with it.

Because God knows that's what I have do...simply live with it.
Maybe I'll be able to face Pooh Bear without blushing tomorrow, but the outlook is cloudy...it'll take time to live this one down.

So long, for now, dear reader, and...thanks for the umbrella.

When you bust your ass...literally

2010-03-29T11:07:00.002-04:00

So, earlier this week, when I was shooing Fathead Stubbylegs away from the same plastic bag he'd been grooming for over an hour, I slipped on the hem of my pyjama pants and, cartoon-like, when flying up into the air (both legs) and landed flat on my back, on the hardwood floor, and heard a distinct snap. (How's that for a beginning run on). Later, when I could move and after I assured Micro-Germ 1 that she did NOT have to call 911, I discovered distinct pain in my...ass.

So, I did what any self-respecting nurse would do...I got the kids off to school, showered and dressed, and went into work early so that one of the ER Docs could examine me. It ended up being a Doc who's known my family for a long time, so having him prod my butt was rather like being groped by an aging stranger...awkward for everyone involved...however, as he peeled me from the ceiling he was able to deliver the following news...I have broken my coccyx. 6 to 8 weeks to heal, nothing to be done but Ibuprofen and tylenol. He offered me narcs, but I don't like them really, so I passed. Today, though, is my first day off since the occurrence and I'm proud to say that I have managed four 12-hour shifts in a row without crying. I'm feeling pretty special all in all.

In other updated news...I'm off my 6 month preceptorship at work and carrying my own team now. It's pretty nerve-wracking, but I'm getting by. I find, however, that my favorite patients are those whom are intubated. They never ask me questions I can't answer.

My father is presently in hospital as well, His CHF has kicked back up, so I'm headed over there now to visit...after I shower at my parents' house...where I can stand up. The broken tail-bone means I can't sit in my own bathtub without crying. Showers are definitely the best.

...And it's spring break...the microgerms are with their dad for the week, so it's extra shifts for me.

...finally...of the weird things I find myself saying on any given day...this has to be the best.

I was working second triage this week. A pt. came in, I checked him in and while taking his vitals he said to me, "Damn, those are the prettiest eyes I've ever seen. Green, right? Never seen eyes that color...you're really beautiful."

My reply? "You're blood-pressure is 286 over 200, Sir...it's probably just the head-bleed talking."

I'll try to post more regularly now that I have the new computer. Cheers to my one reader!

Not dead....

2010-01-31T09:56:00.000-05:00

...just exhausted.

More updates soon...just working overtime at present.

On a pale horse...

2010-01-07T22:44:00.002-05:00

It all began with the cursed bread.

The shift I worked before the New Year's Eve Kidney Stone Adventure was interesting. I am still being precepted (and that is a very, very good thing because believe me, you don't want me on my own) by Mega-Nurse, and we had "the Cardiac Rooms." which are large rooms on the back wall which are filled, most of the time, with really, really sick people...and some just plain unusual patients.

That shift, Tuesday, in fact, we had the usual chaos, but for a short while, we had a gentleman who was...not to put too fine a point on it...unable to make water, drain the lizard, leave a yellow letter, take a leak...urinate. Please feel free to insert your personal euphemism of choice. This fellow was three years post-prostate biopsy and had had this very same problem before. So, we catheterized him. No easy feat, I assure you, because it's hard to introduce a long, latex tube into the slightly smaller urethra when your patient is hopping around the room and flapping his arms like a chicken. But, we did. More specifically, another nurse did. I came in, did my assessment and then the Doc came in, did his assessment, and the quick and dirty is--the fella left with a small catheter bag and an appointment for followup with a urologist for the next day. He was so pleased with his care (and pleased he'd released the near 800ml I drained from the bag before he left) that he, being a baker, ran back inside and gave me, and the Doc each a loaf of bread.

Friendly gesture...thoughtful, even...right?

Dead. Wrong.

Since receiving the cursed bread, for what else could it be, I have had the kidney stone adventure...micro-germ 1 fell down our steps, backwards, and bruised her back, micro-germ 2 has had never-ending bowel problems, I now have a bit of a cold, and...my father is very ill and in the hospital.

My dad has CHF at present, a new diagnosis for him, and not brought on by a surfeit of salt (though that can't be good), but, rather, a near complete heart block and state of A-Fib has tipped him over into the CHF and he has been in the Hospital since Monday night. He remains there now, stable, but not appreciably better and will most likely need a transfer to another facility from our hospital.

I need to write more about this, but right now I'm just too tired. And, I'm on duty tomorrow.

However, let me say this, to my one loyal reader at any rate...sometimes, when you go down, you never recover back to your baseline, and at the end of days, that slippage occurs with each crisis. I know that, as a family, we are at that place now with my Dad.

It is the beginning...the first true steps down the path to the one, inescapable end that must eventually claim us all. It's time like this that I am both pleased and sad not to believe in God. I'm pleased, of course, because I do not hold out false and unreasonable hope...and sad to think that when this particular person slips away that my world will be altered for the worse...

and for always.

Happy New Year....and welcome to kidney stones

2010-01-02T11:27:00.001-05:00

So...On New Year's Eve, at 11am, I was slated to work. I woke up at about 8am...felt a little queasy and my back was sore on the right side. I figured that I'd pulled a muscle while moving patients the day before that.

So, I popped a couple of pepto, washed and dressed and called my babysitter over early since I was still feeling a little creepy.

I left the kids in my sitter's capable hands, went next door to tell my parents that I was going to work, either as a nurse or as a patient, then left to drive to the hospital.

I threw up at the intersection of Telegraph Road and Prince William Parkway.

By the time I got to the hospital, I was restless and unable to find a position that was comfortable either sitting or standing. Then, of course, was the fact that I was throwing up bright yellow bile. Then, there was the fact that I wanted to pee, but couldn't.

So, I became a patient, and after an exam, a lock inserted and labs drawn, the administration of 4mg of morphine, 30mg of toradol, and 4mg of zofran, and one CT scan later...it would seem I have some kidney stones.

Happy. Fucking. New Year.

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)

2009-12-24T21:58:00.001-05:00

Death Cab For Cutie....

Always manage to get it right.

Yep.

Erm...White Christmas...?

2009-12-20T21:50:00.007-05:00

As if.

Well, this is my house, badly in need of painting and listing a bit like a pirate ship. And, of course, covered in snow.

We were expecting this. And, in fact, the weather reports did rather well...after all was said and done, we had over two feet of snowfall, some drifts over four feet, and in the crater-like depression that is my yard, snow over my knees and up to Abby's chest...see further pics.

I don't, at my age, particularly enjoy the snow. I have to work tomorrow and my driveway has yet to be dug-out by the local snow removal guy. I'm not at all excited by the prospect of further digging out. Anyway...here are more pics for your enjoyment.

My parents house, shown above, as the snow continues to fall and the first of the dig-out guys arrives.
My front porch...and the jaunty santa hats sported by my lions are also covered in snow...this has since been rectified.

My four foot wall nearly swallowed.

My buried car, and this taken before the last 8 inches of snow fell. It's still buried.

My crazy dog.

And...the crazy dog again. She, like the micro-germs, really likes this white crap. Meh. I could live without it. Besides, my yard will be the Green Sea once this stuff melts. Begs the question though...how much really did fall in Hungary?

Poetry and Music

2009-12-16T20:56:00.003-05:00

...so what do you do when the best comes to an end?

Simply wait for the best to return.

My Germ-Partner has returned to parts Hungarian.

Feh!

...Is it the drains...?

2009-12-01T13:58:00.003-05:00

Simon is in the yard taking a piss.

Well, now, what a sentence is that to begin my blog anew after so many weeks absence?

It is, however, sadly true.

The happy news I can report is that my significant other, Long-Term-Boyfriend, Germ-in-Crime, has finally hauled his trim, not at all blobby ass over to the states for a long overdue, years in fact, visit.

I can also report that the plumbing in the house is knackered.

Just before Thanksgiving, the toilet started flushing strangely...as in not flushing at all, but we suffered through until yesterday when the first plumber, by the name of Mr. Jackassington, arrived and stayed long enough to inform us that there was something wrong, he couldn't fix it, and we could, by the way fuck right off. Enter, therefore, plumber number #2, you should pardon the expression, who has been here for 3 hours and counting...but he says it's a venting a problem and that it should be sorted soon.

Since I last blogged...Micro-germ 2 has changed schools, Micro-germ 1 made the prinicipal's honor roll, My germy parents remain well, my upstairs neighbor (my second brother) has not shot me, Thanksgiving was brilliant and all is right with the world.

Except for the drains.

I'm really, really tired of walking up the hill to my parents to urinate. Am I jealous of Simon and his standing-up-to-relieve-himself-in-an-out-of-the-way-corner-of-the-yard abilities?

Ab.so.lute.ly.

...The Best Day of the Year...Sort of.

2009-09-09T09:27:00.003-04:00

...Yesterday was the official, first day, of school.

Micro-germ 1 did very well, reporting that her clothes were not unfashionable, she didn't come home in tears or threaten to never return. She likes her teachers, likes her classmates, and thinks the school is the best thing EVER. Of course, she hasn't had time to get in trouble yet, either. Ah, Micro-germ 1's teacher...your day will come.

However, for some, that day is already at hand. Micro-germ 2 did NOT have such a pleasant experience. From the note his teacher wrote me, which came home in his backpack, he started off the day all smiles--stopped at every water fountain between the bus dropoff point and his classroom. Then, as he became more frustrated, he turned into a biting and pinching monster. I warned her. I really did.

You see, a week ago Thursday, I went to the open house, after which I had my IEP meeting so that his IEP from his previously school could be formally accepted. Nothing wrong there. My first sinking-stomach-pit-feeling was the set-up of the room. First, it's on the hall nearest the street--lots of noise from traffic and air-conditioning unit. Not a good sign. Then, the six desks for the the students in the class were set in two, neat little rows, with Micro-germ 2's desk situated on the end of the second row. Perfect proximity for nailing whatever little classmate was next to him. But, the set up was, for want of a better term, distinctly academic. This setup inspired my second sinking-stomach-pit-feeling. My meeting, however, went fine, but I couldn't help leaving with the sensation that, as a team, they had no idea what kind of kid they were actually getting and there was a sensation of almost forced cheerfulness.

Now, let's be honest, if I had to be the educator for a kid like my son--I would HAVE to have, I mean it would be absolutely essential to possess the belief that underneath the behaviors and the tantrums turned the cogs of a little mind in desperate need of my magical abilities to educate. I would go home and shoot myself otherwise, and this particular teacher has this quality in spades. But, it's mixed with a more than healthy does of *unreality* that has coupled, I would bet my house, to create within her a sense of dread and frustration. So, this morning, I called her...and my bet is safe. She feels, she says, frustrated as a teacher because she doesn't know how to integrate my son into an academically oriented classroom with her other five students who already are head and shoulders above him and know the routine.

Well, I don't know what to do either...so I just sort of hang on by my fingernails, and wait for the next disaster. Micro-germ 2 did NOT come off the bus in tears, but I bet they were streaking down his teacher's face at some point yesterday. Still, the germ is as much a full human being as the next, living breathing minion and has the right to his education. Therefore, the school will just have to adjust. I simply continue to make myself available and try my best to assist where I can. At least he gets his new communication device today, and maybe that will help.

But...as a parent, I wish there was some way, on the twenty programable squares, for him to tap out, "This really sucks and you do, too" which is what, I know, he is thinking.

As for me...I'm off to the store. Apparently, they still insist on eating.

Who says you can't go home again...?

2009-09-02T07:41:00.002-04:00

He should have added: You can get there, sure, but be prepared to paint the house.

Yeah, yeah, Copes, I know...I promised an update. I intended to update, too. Really, I did. However, moving back to Virginia has been...eventful and today is the first day I feel prepared to write about it.

We moved on or about August 11. The day before, we (myself, Captain Ju-Ju and the Manny) came down to help my brother move some of his things from the lower two floors where my small army is now encamped, up to the third floor which is the location of his large, airy, spacious, light-filled (No, I am NOT in the least jealous) apartment. Then we cleaned a little.

Then we went back home and I picked up my truck. In case you are interested, google U-Haul's 26-foot super-mover. That's what I drove. That's what also got me pulled over by the Federal Park Police on Mount Vernon Parkway and ticketed for having a commercial vehicle on the road--even though the office, when I called the day before, assured me that since I rented the truck with a non-commercial driving license, that it was not, in fact, commercial. That ticket fight is pending...more on that at a later date.

So, we packed the truck. Our ex-housemate, Colin-from-the-block, screwed us by not paying rent AND not getting all his stuff out of the house in-time. He still managed to ask for rides to work though. In some respects, therefore, the split was very good indeed.

So, having arrived with the truck, and with the assistance of BF Drew, we unloaded and even though I made 5 trips to the local dump, sent out small mountains of discardables out on trashdays, gave away as much as I could get strangers and friends to take, and finally rented my own dumpster (into which a neighbor tried to put his old furniture, and we rolled into the street), we still had way too much to fit into the house. However, all the cats, the dog, both kids, and the big kids made the cut. I decided to keep them.

We have, also, just by our moving in cost my parents thousands of dollars. There was the house preparation...the plumber...the yard...our food (and we eat a lot)...the cost of my NCLEX exam...the gas....Ah, I don't want to go on. Suffice to say, I've practically bankrupted my next door neighbors, and I can never really hope to repay them.

I took the NCLEX on the 21st of August. I hadn't even looked at an NCLEX review question since I graduated. The morning of the 21st, I took a practice test, then scanned my book in the car (My father offered to drive me and I accepted)...it was not at all what I expected and, as I usually do after big tests, I felt sick afterwards. However, Monday, I learned that I passed, and my license was in the mail, so to speak. Tuesday, I went to the Hospital where I'm meant to take a job and started in-processing, and, yesterday, I had my first orientation day. Yay...A JOB!

I'll be working in the Emergency Room of the Hospital where MY MOTHER worked for 25+ years (let's face it, she still consults there). Yeah...it's no pressure at all.

During this time, I've been working with (arguing with, prodding, making waves at) the school where my kids are slated to begin next Tuesday. Micro-germ 2 is slated to go to an autism class, but it doesn't sound to me that it's the right fit. I'll know more on Thursday when I have my IEP meeting. Additionally, Captain Ju-Ju, Micro-germ 2 and I went to visit his previous school on the 28th of August. He has really missed his teacher, and I was so very glad to see her myself. There were tears...mostly mine. I was comfortable at his previous school, and I knew not only that he was safe and learning, but the people around him loved him. As Mrs. Bennet might say, if she had been of a sensible mind and in my situation, who knows if these other educators will be so agreeable? I have determined, therefore, that his teacher can have custody of him during the year if I'm unhappy with his situation. And now seems an appropriate time to acknowledge his teacher, E.S. as a reader of the blog. The only nice bit about the school change is that now we can just be friends instead of just parent and teacher.

But...the busses are scheduled and both kids will be picked up right here at the door, though, as usual, on separate busses as the boy requires some additional help. And...we are alive.

Some things during this time have transition have been funny, some tragic, and how do I feel about living back at the family seat? I can't really say, beyond my being grateful for a roof and a place to lay my head...I'm sure the oddities will follow.

So, until the next time...take care, readers. I will take pictures when I find my camera...and, Copes, if you are so curious as to what we are doing down here...you could always stop by sometime.

This is not a defeat...

2009-08-02T20:01:00.002-04:00

...we're just moving.

No blog updates until after the move is completed. Expect word from us somewhere in Mid-August, but certainly before September 1st.

Before I Die: 90 through 100

2009-07-26T20:41:00.003-04:00

Having decided on this final list...I've also decided to post the list in groups of ten...counting from one hundred to one. So, without further explanation--after all, lists are self-explanatory--here are my choices for the last ten items on my list of things to do before I die.

100. Juggle 3 items for more than 5 minutes.
99. Picnic on the Appalachian Trail
98. Play Laundry Day, from Dr. Horrible, on the piano (or keyboard)
97. Play a perfect pinochle game
96. Read Le Petit Prince, en francais.
95. Watch Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog (the best internet movie musical ever) again.
94. Teach Micro-germ 1 to make jelly
93. Teach Micro-germ 2 to swim
92. Spend the night in the woods outside the Patapsco Female Institute
91. See the Grand Canyon
90. Photograph a red-winged blackbird.

So, readers, those are the first 10. Or, rather, the final 10. I am considering making a blogsite just for the list, and writing about each one as I accomplish it. Thoughts? Either leave a comment or send a mail and let me know.

What's Love Got To Do With It...?

2009-07-22T20:56:00.002-04:00

After long consideration, more than a week, in fact, since my last discussion with the sometimes-reader of this blog, Copes, about the nature of life, whether it's ours to do with as we will, and the nature of death--whether it's ours to choose at whatever time we will, I muse, still, on the question he posed to me at PubDog: Doesn't love, or the pursuit thereof, or the promise thereof, have some role to play in whether or not we live or die?

Over those ridiculously tiny draft mugs of beer that we drank, I reminded him that I have had in my life love of many flavors--great passion, disappointment, and even the solid, dependable kind, but it is my considered opinion that love--that maligned and too-oft written of emotion--maintains its reputation of being worth dying for when all evidence points to the contrary.

Whenever I begin to think on things of this nature, I turn to my first source of consolation...Marcus Aurelius. What could that true and yet ruined voice tell me about this travesty we call love, but by which name we really mean life? He said, you know, "Men exist for one another." But is that so? Should I base my existence on the fact that I have within my circle other people for whom I am responsible? Certainly, I am no hermit, and on the face of it, while I don't like the responsibility it implies, I agree with the statement. I do believe that humans exist. I believe in existence, that is to say, I think that we are alive, and that we breathe, and that we move forward in space and time--even if not in a strictly linear fashion. That next little bit though...the part that troubles me...do I exist for others?

Since I do not believe in a divine authority of any kind, and further, I may admit, that I believe we are, in fact, universal accidents--the right combination of matter, in the right place, at the right time, with the right spark that sees us as a link on the quite lengthy evolutionary chain, as a consequence I do not believe in a religiously-stated moral imperative that bids me be responsible for my "brother in nameyoursavoirhere." I do believe in ethics, though...what is the good life, how should it be lived and what is at stake. I do devote a great deal of time to thought, and to examining my own life's structure, and I have always believed in doing what is, if not completely beneficial, is at least not harmful, to those around me.

But lately I have begun to question, as I sometimes do, what is right when it comes to ending life. For example, shortly after Copes left, the news broke that Sir Edward Downes and his Wife chose to end their lives in dignity in Switzerland--Lady Downes was terminally ill, and Sir Edward was loathe to go on without her, and his own health failing. I haven't read the entirety of the self-righteous chorus that has condemned her decision. Most of the people that I know, and we do tend to surround ourselves with like-minded companions, respect the couple's decision and have expressed a similar sentiment and desire for a dignified end to life. Part of what makes their decision palatable to many, of course, is, frankly, that they were old and in poor health. There is very little understanding of like kind for those whom are young, perhaps not in a terminally ill situation, who choose to end their lives before nature might intend.

Marcus Aurelius also said, "The soul becomes dyed with its own thoughts." And there is truth in that. After all, what are we if not the summation of our thoughts. How often do our feelings become the truth of our thoughts. Consider this: You meet someone, and perhaps you like the look of him, or his wit, or even that lop-sided little smile. But that's it...a meeting. Now, imagine yourself spending time in happy consideration of that person. What if your thoughts are bent more and more cheerfully on that person and every time you see him--running into him at the gym, or at the gas station, the mood remains upbeat. You think of him a bit more often perhaps, and as your thoughts remain attractive, so does he become more attractive to you. As he becomes a more attractive figure in your mind, perhaps even unconsciously, you begin to display those little hallmarks of flirtation and openness that signal availability. Maybe he responds to them as is natural, and the bud of a relationship is formed. Now, it is a large leap from mere flirtation to mortgage/kids/bickering...but is not love, in part, determined by the shape of our thoughts? It is chemical, at least in the beginning, but not entirely. It is, as I reminded my ex-lover, a decision...a drive...and a familiarity. And Absolutely NO basis for rational decision-making.

Before I go further, I should also add that Marcus Aurelius also said, "The sexual embrace can only be compared with music and prayer." Heady stuff, he means, and to be sure, he is right...but not rational. It is, dear readers, anything BUT rational. I do not write to diminish its importance. It is important, though...not essential.

Even as I...or anyone reading this...is not essential. The world turns around, whether we are here or not, and therefore, I ask, why should any of us NOT have the right to choose when and how we will disembark from this particular merry-go-round.

Marcus Aurelius, among the many things he wrote, did pen the following: When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive - to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.

I have always taken that very seriously. I have felt very privileged to have the life that I have, but I'm not at all sure that simply because I breathe that I must feel beholden to a society that cares little for me. I have tried to see things on a more personal level...and feel beholden to those in my inner circle. Copes, Marcus Aurelius put great stock in living a good, measured, and meaningful life. He believed in love, sex, wisdom, power, and people. I have believed in these things, too. However, my opinion, concerning our discussion of the days past has not changed.

Thinking on these questions, though, has made me consider a great many possibilities, and I find that I have some unfinished business. To that end, I've made a list: 100 things to do before I die. Now, on this list are some things I've already done, but to cross them off now would be cheating, so to speak. Therefore, I have not made a list, crossed through 95 items, and congratulate myself on only having 5 to go. Not at all. This list starts me afresh. I'll be posting it later this week, perhaps at the weekend, and may leave it in list form on the sidebar. Readers interested in taking part are always welcome.

A final thought on love...for anyone who thinks it's grand. I point you to:

Today...

2009-07-13T14:25:00.002-04:00

I am a real nurse.

I passed my exams, and now on to the move.

Leaving Drew

2009-07-02T07:34:00.003-04:00

This has always been one of my favorite pieces of art. La Vérité sortant du puits, which can be translated as The Truth leaving the well by Édouard Debat-Ponsan. If you want to see it, I mean really see it, then it's off to Paris with you and the Musee D'Orsay.

I haven't been thinking much about Art lately. I've really only been thinking about school, dreading my impending move, lamenting my lack of health, etc. etc. on and on, you get the picture.

However, day before yesterday, my best friend, Drew, and I went to see the second Transformers movie. Seeing movies is something he and I do together and, I suppose, is not uncommon between close pals.

I struck me though, as I came back home, that of all the people I will be leaving behind when I leave Maryland, I will miss Drew most acutely.

Consider this: I showered before I left my house, but I forgot to shave my legs. When your best friend is a guy, the great thing is...you don't HAVE to shave your legs before you go on a date. Understand, Drew and I do not have one of those modern male/female friendships that come with attached benefits. We have a very traditional, very staid relationship based on mutual affection, shared interests, loving support one for the other, and a dedicated hatred for our enemies both collective and singular. This being said...I was not feeling happy about the carpet on my legs, so I stopped at the CVS on the way to his house, bought razors and shaving cream, and shaved my legs in his bathroom, at the sink, after I arrived. His only comment...? "Well, it's not like you have to shave for me, but I feel bad you bought razors. I have a ton."

Exactly as a best friend should be, right?

We have, too, our subjects that are slightly discussed--almost never outright--and those areas where our differing opinions are known, but we don't make meals out of them. For example: Drew is no great fan of Simon. My friend thinks my partner treats me with incredible disdain and after his furious rant some time ago, the subject has never been broached again. I have my decided opinions on the state of his relationship as well. I ranted for an hour about almost two years ago and have since kept my mouth shut as well--because his relationship is his and mine is mine, and ultimately, we each of us live with what we've chosen.

There lays between us, though, a nice, deep, rut of truth. I don't lie to him and he doesn't lie to me. As bad as things around us get--there has been, since we've known each other, someone to call in the middle of the night when the girlfriend has a nuclear meltdown, someone to watch the kids at the last minute because I can't get home from an appointment, someone to see a movie with in the middle of the day when you should be studying for Monday's exam.

And...I will miss him when I go. To say that we will be less than 70 miles from one another when I relocate is not to say that we will be, to borrow a phrase, "Settled within an easy distance to one another." Anyone whose traveled the Beltway knows better than that. Of all the things and people I will leave behind...leaving Drew will be hardest of all.

...and then there was snow

2009-06-29T15:06:00.001-04:00

Well, they fixed the new Air Conditioner....finally.

And we can all breathe again.

2009-06-26T19:03:00.001-04:00

98 degrees in the house. Still. No. AirCon.

2009-06-25T21:27:00.003-04:00

Death by midnight.

2009-06-25T21:27:00.001-04:00

Air-Con cannot be repaired.

2009-06-23T19:15:00.001-04:00

Air conditioner death....goodbye cruel world!

You have to Craul before you walk...

2009-06-18T14:50:00.004-04:00

I have an imaginary friend. Not really a friend so much as a fictional character whose adventures I've been cataloging in a new manuscript that is as of now unfinished and not ready for another pair of eyes (with the possible exception of Copes whom has always understood my writing process). Anyway, this is the kind of character that begins to breathe and take on his own sort of life and often I find myself embroiled in conversations with him. His name, as you might have guessed, is Craul.

Sometimes out loud.

I think it frightens at least two of the cats.

So, today, in the kitchen he says to me: "You know, I'm a little cramped in your room."

"It's not my fault you're eight feet tall." I continued making tea.

"Technically, it is since I'm, as you like to say, merely a figment of your imagination."

"And, as you're constantly bleating--you exist in your own right. So, if you don't like the ceiling height, move out."

"I understand we ARE moving out."

At this point he snorted, licked a fang and whipped his bifurcated tail at the Wolfie.

"Well," I replied, quietly. "That's true. We're moving. To Virginia. Are you going to make trouble?"

"Don't I always?" he quipped and stalked out of the kitchen.

Great. Even my imaginary friend is pissed off.

2009-06-17T16:37:00.002-04:00

Um...excuse me...but was there any doubt??

And, if you take this quiz, be prepared for the atrocious spelling and grammar. Ahhhh...it burns!!

You Scored as 90-100%

You make it out with everyone and you did it great, and made sure the infection was closed within the city. You know your info on zombies, and you believe they exisist.

80%

75%

70%

61%

50%

52%

90-100%

48%

60%

45%

40%

36%

10%

32%

30%

20%

11%

0% Chance

Electric Light Orchestra "Bluebird"

2009-06-17T09:59:00.002-04:00

Where have we been and where are we going?

Just a little more than five years ago, long before Simon and I were together...in this strange way in which we are together. I was separated from my now ex-husband and dating Copes, the sometimes reader of this blog formerly known as DW. Simon was married, or as good as, to Z.--the mother of his own little micro-germ (or Frog as the case may be).

We have come a long we, the two of us, and some might even think it in a decidedly downward direction. I am moving back home over the next two months so that I will be closer to my family and living on a family property since, five years after the initial separation, I cannot afford to support my now expanded family and the best job for me to take in consideration of everything, is in Virginia. Simon no longer lives in KanTowers, but has been exiled to a smaller, and from the sound of it, somewhat disappointingly appointed KanGhetto, but...still we exist.

I remember the taste of hope and optimism. When I first met him, we were two people with the world between us and masters of that which we thought we controlled. Funny old thing, though, life. Turns out, we really don't control anything at all. And maybe I'm the better for knowing that. I do wonder, though, if that has turned me into a crummy mom, but my kids seem to be muddling along. And maybe, too, that's why I burst into tears this morning, when the song above-posted played on my iPod.

I've been having a right good pity-party this morning. I can't seem to find the people I need to contact. It's a half-day at school for the kids today, and while I am the most hands-off of parents--I miss them terribly today. But, mostly, I have been moaning about how good things used to be. And they were. They were pretty damned good. But...I wasn't with Simon--not in the biblical sense. That spot in the bed was occupied--and while that is long over, I don't regret it. Still, I miss him today. Really miss him. In fact, I miss him so much that if I were to see him on my doorstep at this moment, I'd kick the shit out of him for making me go through this. Of course, the ass-kicking part would require effort...and we all know I'm not that kind of girl.

Funny, though...still, how things work out. A little over five years ago, when he and I were just friends, and SUFC Chatroom buddies...he posted this little gem...

Sunday, February 29, 2004

Word of the Day

eldritch (n) What one's mummy always hoped one would marry into.

A PROPOSAL

Okay, let's look at the positives...

1. She's definitely female.
2. Words of more than three syllables hold no horrors for her.
3. She seems to have a remarkably sound grasp of the 'Football, Beer and Sex' raisons d'etre.
4. Six inch heels? Need I say more?
5. She would seem to be well aware of all the erotic possibilities of a Blades' replica shirt.
6. Her knowledge of obscure bourbons is probably on a par with that of mine regarding single malt scotch.
7. She has a perfect balance of wit, sense, humour and intelligence and knows the value of a well crafted insult.
8. If I mention Sophocles, she won't think it refers to John's lesbian sister.
9. She could probably teach me a lot about html, of which I remain in total ignorance.
10. Her views on parenting are uncannily close to my own.
11. She is undoubtedly a dirty stop-out and would provide generous assistance should I chance upon a bar in serious need of propping up.
12. She reads my blog and turns not away from that which is contained therein.

And the negatives...

Well, apart from a seeming preference to Nietzsche over Wittgenstein, I can't think of any right now...but then again, I am on my second bottle of the white stuff with which I was presented last week...an eminently drinkable Chardonnay, seeing as you ask.

So, notwithstanding all those wondrously beguiling positives, there was still something holding me back. Until today that is. When three minutes and forty seconds of earworm blinded me with the realisation that not only does she...blah...blah...blah...blah, she also loves jazz!

Marry me, Jess!

I wonder, Simon...does the offer still stand?

Crepescular

2009-06-13T10:16:00.003-04:00

For all that people have told me that one of my greatest talents is communication, I cannot describe what depression is like for me. The trite and cliche phrases that most people think of when they consider what depression is...the dark clouds, the melancholy, the overwhelming physical pain, the grey mist...all those things are very true...and not true at all.

I hate commercials for pharmaceuticals for that very reason. If we really understood the chemical process behind the process, then I might be less skeptical, but I have taken medications myself and experienced the debilitating side-effects and none of the relief. I know patients that have had wonderful results and I have always been so relieved for them. I would like a little of that relief myself. However, for me, it has been the development of more traditional coping mechanisms that has been essential to my continued functioning.

One skill I've used to combat the pain of my own depression is what I call the "Responsibility Factor." I have, thanks to my mother I'm sure, an over-developed "duty gene." The more I am personally responsible for, the more I struggle to fulfill what I see as my own duty. I suppose that's why loss hits me so hard. When I lose something for which I have been responsible, even for a short time, I feel it keenly.

Anyone who knows me knows that laughter is one of my favorite things. I seek occasion to laugh, and enjoy it, but it is as though I have two very separate and distinct selves in this arena. I see the laughter and the joy equally as I combat the tide that always threatens to overwhelm me. And I don't think I am at all unusual. I think many, if not all, people have similar thoughts and processes. We all deal with it in our own way. I've been tired, in physical pain, and worried for longer, it seems, than I can remember...but I still cruise along. I think most people do. I suspect that our "intelligence" has outstripped our evolutionary need and the stress we live under manifests itself in these psychobiological conditions, like depression, that make our lives such a struggle.

We all seek a balance, however, and find our own ways through the jungle. I rarely write about it, though I probably should. I just...do what I do. I find things, people and animals to be responsible for. I have my two kids, the big kids, Colin...a houseful of pets...and...a dog.

I maintain that every depressed person should have a dog.

So...why did I get Abby? Well, a family should, in my opinion, have a dog. And I needed some four-legged therapy.

A house without either a cat or a dog...

2009-06-07T11:15:00.003-04:00

...is the house of a scoundrel.
(Portuguese Proverb)

This is Abby.
She is a German Shepherd/Chow/Any Guess is a Good Guess mix.
I chose her from the rest of the pound puppies at the shelter last Saturday.
I liked her better than the ill-mannered German Shepherd Jenna.
I also disapprove of dogs with porn star names.
Some of you know German Shepherds to be Alsatians. They are the same breed.

I have been on the look out for the right dog for our family for some time. I had initially decided to wait until a service dog for Micro-Germ 2 could be trained and acquired, but I ultimately decided against that because it is as yet unclear as to whether or not the boy will even be interested in a canine companion. For myself, though, as a person whom has always had a dog--indeed my parents have bred dogs my entire life, it has always seemed a bit strange--as though something is a little off--to live in a house without one.

We have the cats of course, and the snakes, and the bird, and certainly, we have Randall-the-scorpion. But these 9 pets do not a single dog make, therefore, I found Abby. However, it is certainly possible that she found me.

Having considered all the pure-bred possibilities, and having talked with some breeders of my acquaintance, I decided since I am not in a position to get back into the dog-world, so to speak...in that I do not intend to show, breed, or groom a number of dogs again...that an adopted animal, preferably a mutt, might just be the best choice for us. When I went to the shelter here, the process of adopting a dog is more stringent and comes with more strings than adopting a child, so I ultimately passed on the purebred Jenna. I still feel a little sad about that, since I know she has since been euthanized. The problem with Jenna was that she was a young Shepherd who'd spent her entire life chained in the yard with no training, and nothing to occupy her quick and agile mind. Consequently, she had become dog-aggressive and overbearing. She reacted well to me, but I did not react well to the holier-than-thou staff at the Howard County Animal Shelter. I could easily foresee that adopting that dog would have put me in far greater touch with the local authorities than I wanted so I passed.

However, when I visited my parents last week, I stopped in their animal shelter. Virginia has a far different approach to animal adoptions than Maryland. The staff were not only friendly, they allowed families to make their own decisions about which pets seemed right, offering insight, but not making snap value-judgments. The staff was able to offer what limited information they had on the animals. They did not require extensive background checks, and should a person choose an animal that day, they could also pay the adoption fee and take the animal home that day.

I went with my mother. She and I walked through the facility, and both agreed that dog #533, named Layla at that time (what a hideous monniker), and later to be known as Abby, was the only dog there that had a prayer of fitting in with my own brood. We took her into a visiting pen and tested her for soundness. Applying the personality profile that we used when breeding dogs, we tested her primary drives for flight, pack, prey, and fight instincts. In the artificial world of the shelter, she tests low on flight and fight instincts, highest on pack, and mid-level on prey. What that means to me when it comes to working with a potential member of the family is this: She is a dog unlikely to show shyness aggression. She does not have a high dominence drive, though she can stick up for herself. She showed interest in, but no real aggression toward cats, other small dogs, or cars, and she responded eagerly to a friendly voice, but not at a deep, aggressive voice. She gave me every indication for being trainable, and because of her solid body, easy manners, and, frankly, intelligent face with Shepherd eyes--I paid my fee and took her that day.

We stopped at my parents, where my mom's 13 year old scottie bitch immediately put Abby in her place. Abby is about a year old, and despite looming over Fiona, the older bitch would have none of her puppyish antics. Riley, my parents wire-haired terrior, is an abysmal nightmare of a dog, so I don't count his reaction at all. That animal is in serious need of an attitude adjustment anyway. Abby turns out to be an excellent companion in the car. She sits quietly in her spot and either watches out the window or naps. During the past week, I have discovered that she has a penchant for chasing squirrels and birds--a habit she is learning to break. She has no leash manners, but in seven days has learned a basic sit-stay, basic down-stay and how to walk on the leash without pulling. She's not a stupid dog. I figured she wouldn't be, but it was nice to see that confirmed.

Tomorrow, I'll blog a bit about the darker reason behind acquiring the pup at this time.

Thwarted Again or....How the Blades Ruined My Holiday

2009-05-25T19:54:00.005-04:00

*Note: Since two Blades clearly missed my sarcasm, let me make it clear. I know who we played yesterday...and I'm still pissed, so I won't type the name. Stupid Burnley....erm...well, you know what I mean.

Only United.

Only United.

Only United can do this to me and get away with it.

All right, let's take this from the top.

The Blades lost to Barnsley today, 1-0, losing, yet again, another playoff final. I watched the travesty, um...I mean match, in New York City's Nevada Smiths. There were many Barnsley supporters as well as a niceish group of Blades. And, before anyone starts griping about it, I KNOW the ref had it in for us...but...sadly, we still didn't come up to par on the day and we didn't deserve to win. The only way the Blades are going to be promoted, and on this copes and I agree, is to go straight up...no playoffs. Heartbreakers, the lot of them.

Sometimes, however, the journey is more important than the end destination. I am, in my resiliant way, holding onto that belief at present. It was, certainly, an interesting trip.

I haven't seen copes since sometime last year when he was in my neck of the woods to visit his sister--she has since moved to California, but lived quite close to me then. He stopped here for a party I was throwing. There had already been several trips to the keg by the time he arrived, so I had my hands full with other party problems that inevitably crop up and I really didn't have the chance to speak to him at any length. I would gauge the mood that night as...tense. But it was not in the least his fault.

Anyway, as long time readers already know the entire background of our relationship, I will try to sum it up quickly for you newbies. Copes, formerly called DW, and I dated for a number of years after I separated from my (now) ex-husband. Dating is the word that seems best applied although our relationship was intense, and deeply entangled...and we were connected. We loved each other, of that I am very sure, and...we probably did more than our fair share of hating each other, too. Our end came spectacularly....a real tsunami of a blow up...in Potes, Spain. Don't get me wrong...the small craft warnings had been there for a long time....but Potes sealed the deal. I buried myself for the rest of the trip in my computer and phone...and on nights when I am in humor to torture myself by reliving the most insulting, cruelest things anyone has ever said to me...I skip right over all the teenage girl bullshit and go straight for the: You fucking cunt! I can still hear him say it...just as if he was right here saying it now. Yeah. It hurt. A lot.

So, fast forward a couple of years to now.

Copes contacted me and invited me up to NYC to see the final. I was really hesitant at first, but, we have, since my party, maintained an elusive sort of contact by means of the odd text or two then a stretch of silence lasting months. I was hesitant, yes. But, I did want to see the final, and we got rid of TV here in favor of Netflix and Videogames...and he was offering a trip. So, I swallowed my misgivings and accepted....then bitched to my housemates all week about not wanting to go.

Still, readers will know that I *did* go...as evidenced by my mobile posts on the train yesterday. And now, I have returned...and with all that backstory given...this, dear readers, is what happened.

I arrived at Penn Station around Midnight last night. Copes met me there and we hopped a cab to his section of the city--the East Village. We stopped in at his local for a few before bed beers. I had three. Then it was off next door to his place. He lives on the sixth floor of a walk up--my knees weren't the happiest, especially after working a 12 hour stint at the hospital, but I managed to haul my fat ass up the stairs. He had set up his living room sofa bed and kindly offered me his bedroom. I took it. His apartment is a two room plus tiny kitchen and infinitesimal bathroom. It suits him and looks like a strip-down version of his place in Denmark. It's hot, though...but cozy. So, it was sleep and then up before 9am.

We walked through his neighborhood, had breakfast at a little cafe outside, then to the bar for the match which had, for us, a 10am kickoff. After the obligatory gutting, thank you VERY much Blades, we stopped at a theater and caught the new Star Trek movie. Then, we shopped the dollar books on the sidewalk sale outside the local bookshop (I found something for the train ride back). Then it was back to Penn Station to see if my ticket could be changed to an earlier train, because I have to work tomorrow and there's other work to be done. He kindly, again, paid the difference and I was leaving the city at 5:05 pm, and am now safely ensconced in my own, somewhat larger, home.

Yes, readers, that's the bare bones...the itinerary...the "what we did" portion of the blog. But, there are two readers of this blog whom are probably more interested in what my impressions of that time are...and now I will relate them. If you're bored, and not interested in what follows, feel free to stop reading and tune back in when the new dog arrives. Oh yeah, I said dog all right.

Anyway.

It amazes me still that I can pick him out of any crowd. For one thing, Copes does not walk. Rather, he has a long-legged gait that can be best described, I think as a loping-lumber. He seems perfectly natural and relaxed, and yet he can cover great distances without having to make much effort. Personally, I blame his disgustingly long legs. He's six feet tall, a bit over I think, actually, but most of it is leg. I'm not very much shorter than he is, but very little of that is leg, and I used to have to run to keep up with him. But here is the difference...I'm not his girlfriend anymore, so I don't HAVE to try and keep pace. I stroll along in my own time. I remember once, many years ago, he told me about splitting up with a girl because she couldn't keep up with him walking. I used to, therefore, make the effort to walk faster, but he's not totally unfair so during the years we were together, he had this habit of slowing a bit, and I would quick step just a bit faster and we mostly walked together using this trick. Now, though, I just told him that I'd had a long day on my feet and I was going to amble along. No apologies, no stress, and he slowed his steps accordingly to accommodate me. That's something a friend would do.

He looks much the same, too. I will, I think, always know his face. I'm intimately familiar with his scars and his weary expressions. He's older now, of course, as am I, but his face is much the same. The set of his shoulders--the same. The same hooded eyes, with their changeable blue-ness, and the same mouth and fingers. There is a comfortable feeling, I think, when you greet someone you haven't seen in so long and the resemble...themselves. Unfortunately, however, with Copes I am always waiting for the other shoe to fall. Call it being Gunshy, if you will, but in the middle of a quiet and friendly conversation with him, I will, suddenly, tense up and expect the onslaught of insults. Surprisingly, though, on this short visit, there were none.

We have grown up, it seems.

I told him, before I left, that I was sorry for something that I hadn't identified at the time, but with the benefit of hindsight now see very clearly: when my marriage ended, I thought I was at the point of separation, totally fine with everything. I wasn't. He bore the brunt of a lot of the anger and frustration in me that had built up over the long length of my rotten marriage. I am sorry for it now, very sorry...and I was so glad to have the chance to apologize to him. I was surprised, too, when he told me that he has always considered me to be very smart and that he had learned much from me, during the course of our tempestuous partnership.

He is dating (well, at the beginning of dating might be more accurate) a girl. i told him that he should date her if she makes him happy...and if she makes him happy, then I am happy for him...what shocked me was that I really meant it. I have no desire, it seems, to see him die...cold, alone...wracked with bitterness and regret...and preferably in a pool of his own vomit with a large, waffle-soled work boot rammed, inexplicably, up his ass. Although, that is pretty much what I wanted when we left Spain the last time. No...I actively desire him to be happy. And it's a nice feeling

I have learned another lesson as well...this one about myself. I am unable, at least until alzheimers sets in, to forget. I am good at the forgiveness part...but really suck at the forgetting part. I have long-since forgiven Copes for any hurt he has caused me, any damage. Neither of us walked away from that relationship unscathed. I gave as good as I got, too. There is no question of that. But, I suppose one reader may wonder whether seeing him again elicited any of the old feelings that were once so strong. To answer....of course it did. I remembered everything very vividly. That does NOT mean, however, that I would ever seek to re-establish a romantic relationship with him. I cannot do that. And my memory is probably the biggest obstacle there. I cannot forget what he sounds like when he's angry and I know my habits and ways irritate him deeply. He loved me, I know that. Some part of him, I hope, remembers that as fondly as I do. Still, one of the strongest images I have of him is, of course, the "You Fucking Cunt," episiode...and that is the sort of hurt that lasts.

So, to put a cap on it...do either of us want to return to the past? Nope. Do either of us want a new stab at romance...with each other? Nope. But...are we making very small, tentative steps toward friendship? Maybe. A definite maybe. For my part, I really hope so. I find now that all the past is swept away, and my life has changed, fundamentally and in so many positive ways for which he is in large part responsible, that I liked the person I spent the day with today. He seems a nice fellow, generous and good hearted, even in the face of a terrible result...thank you very fucking much, Barnsley.

Thank you for your hospitality, Copes. It was a crap result, today...but it was nice to be grumpy about it with a friend.

Everything that you want

2009-05-24T22:49:00.006-04:00

Sitting on the train, halfway to New York, in wine-stained jeans...

I am thinking of train journeys past.

The first train ride to penzance, full of hope...and three arguments.

The steam train to Devon, and the Jamaica Inn. Mud-ruined jeans that time.

The train from Sheffield to London...and my wallet found.

I travel alone now, and prefer it... but...it wouldn't be a trip to see this one without a travel debacle and a clothing mishap.

It's how I know the world is still turning.

Playoff Final

2009-05-24T17:32:00.001-04:00

Well.

I'm off to New York to watch the Blades tomorrow with Copes, a reader of this blog.

It will all end in tears. It always does.

Then again, that's probably what football is all about. Have a good holiday everyone.

Mo-Better-Blogging

2009-05-19T09:24:00.002-04:00

So I'm sitting in a stadium-styled classroom listening to a woman lecture for our NCLEX review class. So far today she's been yapping for 90 minutes. 89 of these minutes have been spent with her telling us her personal stories.

Kill me now.

Just don't call me...

2009-05-12T09:09:00.008-04:00

...Baby.

I was reading a post over at Thoughts of a Real Life Doorman centering on the irritating appellations that customers on-line to get into, or being ejected from, or trying to return to a nightclub slap onto the men and women working the doors. I came to this interesting little blog by way of one of my very favorite blogs: The Doorman's Blog.

While I am not, of course, a Doorman...in my line of work I often get tarred with various nicknames that piss me the fuck off. To put it politely. So, with such inspiration at hand, I decided to rant about it.

Working in a hospital, with all the power and prestige that being a student nurse, transitioning into the position of real nurse brings (which is none) commands some respect, right? Ha-Ha! Not so much. For the most part, patients in the hospital (now more correctly referred to as "clients" and my rant on customer service will have to wait for tomorrow), are very thrilled to have some assistance. Let's face it...they are there because they are sick. And if I'm taking care of them, they are very sick indeed. Consequently, I cut my patients a lot of slack when it comes to how they address me. I am, after all, trying to establish a rapport with them and set up a relationship wherein they trust me enough to listen to what I say not because I am a control-freak and want them to do as they are told, but because I want them to be able to care for themselves as much as possible so that returning home, for them, is a successful endeavor. (Nice run-on sentence right there, yep, Boy Howdy!)

And, I'm a professional...and an adult...so when I get the little names that drive me straight up the wall, I never show my irritation, but, irritate me they do...and here is my laundry list:

Angel, Hon, Babe, Sweetheart, Girl

Those particular five are the ones I hate the most even if there is some humor in them. I hate them because those five are reserved, in my mind, for my Man, Fella, Darling, Sugar...or whatever diminutive I choose to use for him at the moment. Angel always cracks me up because I can conceive of no one who looks less like one than myself.

Nurse Ratchit (it was Ratched, anyway), Sister, Ministering Molly

Now, I loved One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest as much as the next sadist, but if you're going to chuckle and call me Nurse Ratched (see above spelling note), and giggle as though you're the first raconteur to ever come up with the witticism...go to another hospital. As to Sister...well, I'm not a nun by a long shot. If indeed there is a God, and this particular God has it in mind that giving up your regular life to live in his service by cloistering yourself away from others, giving up sex and debauchery, and further, wants you to fly around thanks to the aerodynamics of a wacky wimpole...well, that God and I have issues. Now, nursing as a profession does come, historically, straight outta da convent, as it were, and it is a fascinating history, but that does not mean that I care for the title. I didn't earn it, and since I am a sibling, sister, to three specific men...none of whom would I care for in the hospital...I'm pretty damned sure we don't share a common parent. So, stop calling me that. Now...Ministering Molly, all that I can come up with for that one is a hearty...what the hell?!?!

Of course, there were some pretty funny ones, too.

There was the patient who, while I was re-seating, you should pardon the expression, the anal probe thermometer attached to his cooling blanket (the patient was febrile to say the least) suddenly busted out with:

"Nurse, in the Lord of the Rings Universe...what kind of orc would you be and why?"

"Uruk-Hai," I replied instantly. I finished pushing the probe into place and then started to reposition his nearly four hundred pound frame in the bed. "No contest."

"Yes, but why?" he asked, struggling to move his shoulders into alignment to help me out.

"It's a no-brainer. Uruk-Hai can move in daylight. They're bigger, faster, stronger than regular mountain orcs or those freaks from mordor. Besides, can you really see me as one of those little guys?"

He looked at me and nodded. "Yes, but the Uruks don't have cool homes, you know, like the mines of Moria."

"Oh, sure," I scoffed, as I reapplied his TEDS. "That's nice digs and all, but consider your downstairs neighbor, the Balrog. You really want him coming upstairs to complain about the bass when you and your little orc buddies are raving away?"

"You have a point." He held out his arms for me to inspect his saline locks. Then his animated features sort of collapsed in on themselves and he looked suddenly old and exhausted. "I'm a lot of trouble for you..."

"No way," I said, flashing my trademark grin. It's my one expression that my co-workers have decided they'd like to steal. Apparently, it's reassuring, forgiving, and just a little saucy. Who knew? I just thought I was smiling.

"You're just being nice. I know I'm not easy."

"No, you're a person. Your situation isn't easy because you're sick right now, but, you're getting better, and pretty soon, you'll be out of here. Besides, as an Uruk-Hai, I am genetically incapable of being nice."

He finally smiled again, and settled back in his pillows. I adjusted the mattress controls.

"Hey," he said quickly. "What's your favorite song if you're an Uruk?"

"Beast of Burden," I said, without missing a beat. "Servitude is for Mordor Rats."

For the rest of his stay, whenever he called for me, he would ask for "The Big Uruk."

Then, there was the patient who called me Delilah, because he was certain I'd stolen all his power. He was also a schizoaffective with a blown ulcer that had been left to fester in his room at the group home where he lived.

There was the older lesbian who called me Beautiful, but only when her partner was in the room...and that just to make the other woman slightly jealous. She should have picked someone else if she wanted to acheive that end.

All in all, though...if you are ever on my floor, and I'm taking care of you...the first thing I'll do is introduce myself and ask you what you would like to be called. Then I'll tell you my name. It's Jessica...and I answer to it all the time.

On the Weekends...

2009-05-09T14:35:00.002-04:00

Pitcured to the right is my daughter, Micro-germ 1, and the Manny. She is modeling her new "bed" which is actually, yes, a one person tent that has been kitted out with a camp mattress, other goodies for hiding and inspecting at night, and decorated with a particularly cool jolly roger.

She and the Manny are currently engaged in a battle to the death...Pokemon-style. Even though I am perfectly aware that the Manny looks far more like a thug than a childcare provider (and that really does work to my advantage), he is an out-and-open geek. He loves RPGs...really any sort of game, and he has kindly offered to nurture and train the girl...making of her a mini-onion and encouraging her desire for world domination in somewhat healthy, if geeky, ways. Tomorrow there is a Pokemon Card Game tournament at our local comic shop, and Micro-Germ 1 is in training. The Manny doesn't know it, but he really is a saint.

This next picture, of Micro-Germ 2 and Captain Ju-Ju, while taken after the first, is actually happening simultaneously. Sometimes, my son needs a lot of physical stimulation and sensory input. He also happens to be, genetically, 70% fish. These often come together, in the summer, in the form of outside pool or sprinkler time. If I were independently wealthy, and owned my home instead of renting, I would already have had a pool put in. The love of water is something Micro-germ 2 and I share. It is a link that we always have, and when I'm feeling particularly blue, or out of sorts, or wondering what it is, exactly, that he and I can use as a common link, I remember the water.

Yesterday was arduous, certainly, considering that our appointment at Kennedy Krieger last from 2pm until 4:30, but we all got through it, and we will have, additionally, new testing and consults from three other groups within the system. These interventions are intended to address his self-mutilation issues, his dietary issues, his behavioral issues, and the like. Monday, I will need to take him to the lab for a blood draw, so I am trying to give them both the best weekend that I can. Trips to the lab are never fun.

This has been one of the better weekends we've had in a while. Later, I will light the charcoal and we will grill hamburgers and sausages, and the kids will run around in the grass clutching and consuming chunks of watermelon and leaving the rinds in the grass to attract a horde of ants and other vermin.

Autism or not, they are just children and for as long as it lasts...this is how I'd like things to be.

Autism at Play

2009-05-08T09:28:00.000-04:00

Although this picture is blurry, I think it still communicates the scene of what Autism can be like for us, in this family. What you see is Micro-germ 2 perched on the back of the Manny. The Manny is playing Call of Duty, and Micro-germ 2 is lending his support to the process.

Many days are not like this, of course, and it is also true that this photograph is a frozen moment in time. Directly after this picture was taken, Micro-germ 2 demanded a long session of "pick-me-up-flip-me-and-drop-me-on-the-sofa." It's one of his favorite games.

I add this picture, though, with the hopes that readers will take away one very simple fact...sometimes one eight-year old boy with autism looks just like any eight-year old kid. The media makes much of this, and today I will be picking the boy up from school and taking him to Kennedy Krieger for his yearly check in with the developmental pediatrician. I never enjoy this visit, because, frankly, it's a full day wherein we discuss his limitations, the things he CANNOT do, and those tasks he should be accomplishing independently but presently isn't accomplishing at all. It's a disheartening day for me.

However, pictures like this one are what I carry in my mind. Not, of course, in a vain attempt to prove to myself that my son does not have autism. He does. He also has blue eyes, brute strength and the world's greatest giggle. That's just the point. Autism is a part of him and a part of our family, but it does not define what is essential in our lives. The unique qualities that make my son an individual...the character he is developing, his reactions to the world around him--his thoughts and ideas, which while not verbally expressed, are those things that define who he is far better than just the label of a diagnosis.

Micro-germ 2 has autism. The Manny has ADHD. Captain Ju-Ju has a creaking hip. Colin-from-the-block is dyslexic. Micro-germ 1 has an unhealthy attachment to pokemon and bakugan. I have...more issues than can be covered in one blog post.

And none of these things are any more than one small aspect of who we actually are as individuals, and how we are collectively as a family.

Take another look at my boys. You simply have to love them.

Another Ending

2009-05-06T10:59:00.002-04:00

I have this song stuck in my head this morning...rather a theme song, in fact, though I'm not altogether sure why. It's clashing with the Bob Marley on my Ipod, though, and that's been annoying.

I have some news and updates since I last posted...a month ago!

First, I'm nearly done with my nursing program. It's somewhat bittersweet. There is something appealing about being a perennial child, and living within the undergraduate college system has a way infantalizing a person. I take my final exam in Psych a week from tomorrow and that will leave only one class left before I'm degreed...and off to work, then further school. hopefully.

On Monday, Micro-germ 2 celebrated his 8th birthday. To celebrate the occasion, I made him a "gross-cake"...a rounded dome of a cake decorated like an eyeball and, thanks to dyed batter, bleeding red when it was cut. He loved it.

Apart from a run-in with the law, recently, it would seem that my one particular reader resident in Hungary remains, barely, afloat. And apart from having a rotten cold, and no it isn't really swine flu, things seem well enough here.

Now, if only the blades had won at palace...

Anyway...enjoy the ICP.

From beginning to end...

2009-04-06T20:17:00.002-04:00

Ah...Home.

Let's recap, shall we?

My alarm sounds at 5:30 in the morning--a horrible rooster crow guaranteed to wake the dead. By 6:30 am, I am showered, dressed, and slinging down tea. By 6:45, I am in my car and heading toward the hospital. By 7:15am, I am on the tiny transport bus that shuttles hospital employees from satellite parking to the main hospital entrance. At 7:30am, I am walking away from the coffee bar, and trudging up the four flights of stairs to my unit. I chat for a few moments as I stow my gear, then at 7:45am, I "badge in" by swiping my employee ID across the sensor on the time clock, and I am officially at work.

Because today is Monday, the 6th, I spend the day in a mandatory orientation meeting.

At 4:30 pm, I am back on the shuttle bus and shortly thereafter am delivered to my car. By 5:00pm, I am in the grocery store, picking up the necessaries for tonight's supper, and the rest of the impulse purchases. At 6:30pm, I park in front of my house and go inside.

I have missed, of course, Micro-germ 2's first utterance of a complete sentence: "Zizzy, I boy eat." For eight years, I have been waiting to hear my son utter something comprehensible, and while I have always known his affection for Captain Ju-Ju (Lizzy), but that he should come in and request breakfast long after I'm already at work is cause for celebration.

I have missed, too, Micro-germ 1's departure to my parent's house. I missed the storm, the interesting lightning show, and the tree in the backyard losing most of its limbs.

But, I was working.

Although, had I not returned to school and gone into nursing, I would also have missed today's strange confluence in the grocery store. It seems like a long time now since I walked into my first clinical rotation. I remember, though, my first patient. He was very sick when I met him and had been hospitalized for general weakness which was later diagnosed as MS. I was nervous--it had been a long time since I had been in a patient room, but he had a lovely sense of humor, we got along well, and he sort of walked me through the motions of being a nurse. I don't think it's unusual.

So, today, walking past the meat counter, I noticed a man. I was sure I had seen him before, but it was out of context. He smiled at me, and the spark hit--I knew him. My patient.

We talked for a few minutes, and he mentioned he was in my neck of the woods to spend Easter with his Son and grandchildren. It was lovely to see him looking so well.

As I was turning down the aisle for sodas, I heard his son say, "Was that the nurse you told me about...the pretty one?"

"Yep," my former patient replied. "You really should have married someone like her--someone with half a brain and a sense of humor."

"Ahhh, Dad..."

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I was embarrassed enough as it was.

And now, I'm home, watching a bad movie with my sick Manny and his Girlfriend. My son is asleep, my daughter is in Virginia, and Colin-from-the-block is out for the evening. I know I owe you a letter, Kanizsablade, but we both know when this movie is over, I'm just going to bed.

Because, I have to get up at 5:30 in the morning...and go to work.

Peggy Lee - ♫ Is That All There Is ♫

2009-03-30T01:06:00.001-04:00

...Seems appropriate...

Meow Mix

2009-03-29T13:23:00.003-04:00

This is Jack. Captain Ju-Ju calls him "Fathead Stubbylegs." It is, sadly, quite true. You see, about a year ago now, before her foray into crime, Micro-germ 1 was doing very well and asked for a cat. I think she knew that a dog was completely out of the question, considering our rental situation, but I was able to slide a cat past the landlord, and remember, we have snakes. So, I dutifully went out and using my powers as house dictator, procurred the necessary feline acoutrements before heading to our local humane society to apply for a cat companion.

You see, here, in this county, you have to be approved by a council of thoughtful do-gooders before you can be entrusted with the care of one of the cats on offer. You know, because there is really a demand for scrub, unwanted stray cats therefore it behooves the humane society people to grill prospective owners like accused rapists, and charge them $75.00-$150.00 for the privilege of providing a home for an unwanted animal. Makes sense, right?

But, I digress.

The young man at Petco, Phil, asked my intentions. I was piling items onto the counter--items that made it quite obvious I was about to embark on the roller coaster ride of Cat Ownership. "I intend to go to the local shelter, write a huge check, and await the home visit by a member of the staff in hopes that I, too, in about two weeks, will be graced with the presence of some unwanted feline."

"Indeed?" Phil remarked, his face cheerful now. "I wonder why you would go to that trouble, when we have a bank of cages directly to your left, wherein a very kind woman has several prospective cat companions available for adoption for a much more reasonable fee, and if you were to use your cell phone and contact her, she will be here directly to assist you."

"Right now?" I asked, incredulous.

"Right this very moment," Phil affirmed.

"But will there be an orange cat?" I asked, somewhat hopeful now. "I really do prefer an orange cat, you see."

"There are two who might do, as it happens, over there just now."

So, I took a moment and perused the cats. I saw Jack first, and was immediately drawn to his somewhat dismissive face and haggard mew. He reminded me very much of the cat I had as a child, so, I chose him. Phil, who was by this time standing at my shoulder, quickly pointed out that Henry (the white and cinnamon-coloured cat pictured in the second photo) would be very lonely without Jack and wouldn't it be best to have a buddy for Jack anyway? I decided that if the woman would knock the price of one of the cats down, then I would take them both. I believe in buying in bulk, after all.

In short, I phoned the woman. She arrived. She is English, so I understood her well. She only charged me for the one cat, because the minimal fee she asks really is used just for dusting them up and Henry had already cost her $900.00 in vet fees because he believes he is indestructo-cat and decided he could totally take on an SUV. He came away with a rebuilt lower jaw and broken fangs on the right side. She thought, despite his very affectionate disposition, that he would never be adopted.

And that, readers, is the story of how Jack and Henry arrived. But, savvy readers will already have counted that there are four cats depicted here--some less savvy readers might mistake Wolf for Lucy, or Lucy for Wolf, and might have been fooled into thinking that there are only three cats. If that happened to you, apologies. However, we do have four. The two tabby cats, Lucy (who is pictured, curled up on Micro-germ1's bed with Henry) and Wolf (on the puffy, white feather comforter on my bed) were...unplanned additions. BF Drew and I were at Petco buying food for our respective pets. He noticed three kittens in the bank of cages belonging to Small Miracles Cat Rescue. One was black with very dark tabby markings and blue eyes--Gwendal. "Patter" and "Wolf", who looked like twins but were unrelated by blood (Gwendal and Wolf are littermates), were there also.

Now, the picture at the top of my blog, the cast of Kyou Kara Maou, one of my favorite Animes, comes into play here. Gwendal, my favorite character, is that tall man in the dark green coat. Wolfram, is the very pretty blonde boy--and in the anime they are brothers. BF Drew and I, therefore, had an argument as to who got to take the boys. Finally, because he's my best friend, I let him take Gwendal. I called Moira, she came, and we took the cats.

I immediately changed "Patter" to Lucy. I don't know why, exactly, except that in the store, Lucy suited her better. It turns out, she has never grown very much and still weighs less than 8 pounds. She is also pure evil. We call her "Lucifer." Except Captain Ju-Ju refers to her more informally--"Satan." Consequently, she has become my favorite and can often be seen curled up between my calves when I'm posted in my recliner.

And that, Kanizsablade, is the story of how we ended up with four very distinctive cats...for less money, I should mention, than one would have been at the shelter, and these cats, too, were merely unwanted cast-offs, or abusees, who needed a home and clearly found a sucker in me.

Cultural Diversity

2009-03-28T21:40:00.003-04:00

Please note the accompanying photograph. This is Micro-germ 1 and Colin-from-the-block in the process of taking down Colin's hair. As readers and friends know, Colin has been a loyal member of my small band for some time now, and he has earned a measure of my kids' trust.

Considering the recent call I received from Micro-germ 1's school, wherein the teacher told me should thought my girl was obsessed with death because her current drawings of "her family" include a shadowy black figure--a figure clearly labeled, "Colin"--I remain, however, unsurprised by the absolute lack of cultural competency in the public schools. It was completely a surprise to my daughter's art teacher when she learned that, yes, there is actually someone from a different ethnic background than our own living in our house. My initial thought on this is..."Lady, did you ever live in an apartment complex, or a dorm...or ANYWHERE you might have seen varied shades of skin?"

So, because today is Saturday, and rather a lazy day at our house when I don't have to work, Micro-Germ 1 and Colin worked on his hair. He headed out a few hours after we took this photo to have it done. I'm not sure if he will have box braids, rows, a fade, or a blow out when he gets back. We voted, unanimously, for a Mod Squad sort of 'do, but, we'll just have to see.

Today, also, was a shower-optional day. This means that only our regular neatniks--Micro-germ 2 and Captain Ju-Ju had luxurious baths. The rest of us slobbed around for the rest of the day and I watched all movies I promised I would for my current class, and I read.

I also had a call from The Earnest Resident who really, really needs to get out more. Last night, he made the mistake of offering me an ill-planned and undesired marriage proposal. As I texted one reader, "The World is FKN Nuts." And it's true. Today, though, he had thought better of the idea, so he phoned to tell me that while he was perfectly serious about his proposal, he could see where I would have been somewhat caught by surprise and even put off. I thought that was an astute observation on his part, perhaps even based on the plain evidence that I am 1. not quite old enough to be his mother, but he's definitely young enough to be my parents' vacation mistake when I was in my late teens, and 2. I don't date him and I barely know him.

These small amusements, while irritating, do cause interesting things to happen. Sometimes Captain Ju-Ju looks at me and wonders aloud..."Do I need to go and collect Kanizsablade for you?"

Which brings me to my next point...

This is the most curious, perhaps weirdest thing that has changed since I opened my house to the tribe. It is weird to walk into the house and have people ask me how I feel...if I had a good day...am I hungry...would I like dinner or tea. So, weird. I suppose, perhaps, that it's been too long since I've lived in a functional family situation. Maybe this is what it's supposed to be like?

Everything Old is New Again

2009-03-26T17:36:00.003-04:00

Well, I suppose I might write, with some truth, "I'm back."

As my two readers will see, on the right hand side I've begun to add back the links of old--pathways to those places I frequented when I was a better known blogger. Before discovery, before illness, even before nursing school.

I feel fairly confident that I will be able to avoid the perusal of a certain former-reader, at least for as long as it takes for me to become comfortable with the idea that he will probably, sooner or later, find me again. So, I will continue to add to the links as I have time, and I will continue to write.

I miss that...the writing. I miss the calm, logical order of the novel and story. I miss the beginning and the final end--when I knew that I'd completed the project. I don't feel the same sense of completion now, and perhaps this is what lead me to nursing as opposed to my former foray into medicine--the idea that everything is a process. A person, after all, enters the health care system on some point of the health/wellness continuum and can jump on and off at different times--rather like a Medicine Metro. It is, always, an adventure.

And now...a message from the Kingdom of Micro-germ 2. He has decided that he loves, craves, and must have at least twice weekly--my homemade corned beef. It is the first new food that my son has tried in three years. On top of that, he is learning the art of the no-thank-you-bite. This, in and of itself, is a miracle.

That's what I've finally come to understand about Autism. Any one of us with children, or siblings, or spouses....you get my meaning...whom are autistic have adventures every day. So, for me, some adventures are akin to find the treasure of the Sierra Madre...like himself gorging on corned beef that I made myself. Other days...it's like finding a terrifying creature waiting for you in the back garden--like when Micro-germ 2 gets so upset he bites his arms and wrists until they bleed.

In some cases, social services, family supports and strong marriages help to defray the stress and people cope. In cases like mine, social services loses your information, consistently, every year for 5 years, your marriage (which was never anything to be proud of or write home about) finally fails and the divorce comes through, but your family support remains strong...and you cope. Sometimes, it means having people live in your house--for the sole purpose of keeping the family together and reasonably clean--people you never thought you'd ever meet, from backgrounds far different than your own.

It's strange. I'm 38...and, honestly, I had no idea--never even had an inkling--that I could end up in a situation like I have. And had I been able to conceive it, I would have been certain that I would have broken down by now.

Oddly enough...my little ragtag band works together with some very mature, healthy coping skills and mechanisms. It is strange. No more than that. Just strange how things can work out.

Ten Years and Counting

2009-03-24T21:35:00.002-04:00

So, today is Micro-germ 1's birthday. She is ten.

Ten years ago, in my twenties, the world was still mine to master and I was thrilled to be having a baby. Ten years later, despite her recent forays into the seamy underbelly of the crime-world, I am still thrilled to have her. She might not be everyone's idea of the perfect kid, but she's my kid and I wouldn't trade her.

And, for the first time ever, I missed her special day because I was working. I now have a better understanding of why working mothers are so hard on themselves. When I walked in the house tonight, after answering the basic questions and getting the report from the Manny, I went and woke my daughter so I could have a hug and remind her that even though I'm not always here...I'm never too busy to spend a few minutes with her. It's important. For us both.

She had a good day, she reports and since she received the dress she wanted in yesterday's post (thank you Nana and Grandad) she felt like a princess. It was a small, but important thing for a kid whose been getting her mail in the doghouse recently. I hear, also, that the Manny and Captain Ju-Ju made her the dinner she wanted and there was cake and ice cream. I missed that part, of course, but there is always the weekend. We will have another small celebration then.

And where was I...?

I was at the large, inner-city hospital on the locked unit.

It smelled of urine.

I was expecting that.

What I wasn't expecting was my visceral reaction to the patients (whom we now call clients), neither was I expecting the dark, cheerless lighting.

You see, many of the clients on this unit--an acute care unit for clients who have mental health issues and many of whom also have dual diagnoses (the added challenge of some form of substance abuse)--are depressed. Severely depressed. Consequently, acute care units for clients with these problems tend to be as cheerful as possible without being overly pretentious. This unit, however, is painted white and a rather ugly shade of institutional green. Of course, ever door leading off the unit is locked, as are the bathrooms, the shatterproof windows, and the nurse's station which looks more like a prison guard house than a place where patient care is managed and discussed.

The unit was full, and it was fairly simple to pick out the clients currently on suicide watch. I was slightly amused, though I didn't show it, when one of my fellow students blushed sweetly when she thought she was the object of a young, handsome doctor's flirtation...I was amused because the man she thought was a young, handsome doctor was clearly a patient with manipulation skills far surpassing any current member of congress.

We didn't do much more than orient ourselves to the unit tonight. Next week, I have my home health rotation, so I won't be back at the hospital until the week following. But, what was immediately evident and what makes me, as a student, very happy is that this is clearly a unit with clients who have real problems and whose care is challenging. I'm looking forward to it.

Oh...and about those stray bullets, copes...

I was parked very near to the Mount Royal area, in fact, right next to the projects on Preston Street. I wasn't shot, but there had been a stabbing there earlier in the evening. The police were cleaning up when I got back to my car tonight.

And...for the other reader of this blog. Check your mail. I believe you may be surprised that I remember your address after all.

I have a test tomorrow, so, I'll update as soon as I can.

What's the difference between a psych nurse and a psych patient....?

2009-03-23T23:16:00.002-04:00

...The Nurse is the One with the Keys.

Yeah, so...Psych started, formally, today.

I have already noted some key differences between psych nursing and med/surg nursing.

First, apparently it is not just unethical to have sex with your patients as a psych nurse but it also does something called "crossing boundaries." Who knew? Hell, I just thought is was a gross breach of the health care provider-patient relationship that had far-reaching implications for the long-term health of the patient and represented an abuse of power on the part of the practitioner. But...I had no idea it was as serious as crossing a boundary!

Second, it seems that establishing a rapport with a psych patient is best achieved through the implementation of a practice called, "therapeutic communication." It would seem that this entire time, for the length of my studies, in fact, that I have been building rapport through establishing trust, focusing on the patient's needs rather than my own, demonstrating empathy and attentive listening skills, and focusing my communications with patients on their emotional needs as well as their disease processes. Hmph. If I'd known about this Therapeutic Communication Business I wouldn't have had to work so hard before!

And...apparently it is not uncommon for psych patients to try and manipulate their health care providers. I find such an idea shocking! I mean, on the acute surgical units, I've never had a client that exhibited drug-seeking behavior because they were habitual users outside of the hospital and the scant amount of morphine the doctor ordered for them wasn't enough to control pain. I've never, of course, been offered a gift by a shy patient with very low self-esteem who was seeking my approval and looking to buy my good opinion and future favors with a small, or large, token of that patient's affection. It is inconceivable that a client from the surgical unit would ever try and elicit personal information from me, suddenly turn on me with aggression because their moods were...changeable...to put it nicely. In fact, the very thought of these things nearly made me faint!

And...of course, I'm being perfectly facetious.

Tonight's lecture was very interesting and informative, and I suppose I write this to demonstrate that it is clear that much of what we will be learning in this class applies to every patient, not just those on the locked ward.

I have, in truth, a great respect for those practitioners who work with clients with acute and long-term mental disorders that can range from depression through to violent, paranoid schizophrenia and everything in between. It takes a tremendous amount of discipline and stamina to work with these patients and care for them appropriately. For my clinical experience, I was offered the opportunity to switch places with one of the students who is usually in the evening group. I jumped at the chance because this particular group is going to be at a large, inner city facility in Baltimore that has an acute psychiatric unit that provides care to a predominately disenfranchised population with limited access to medical care and some very real problems.

Anyone who knows me is probably aware that I would choose this experience over the more sanguine problems found on the country-club wards where patients' concerns turn mainly toward which luxury sedan to buy this year.

So, my first clinical for this class is tomorrow night. I'll be sure to report how it goes.

Post Medical/Surgical Apocalypse

2009-03-22T09:35:00.003-04:00

Don't ask me about the title...I don't really know what it means, either.

However, I am back from having to take an extended break from writing/blogging/living in order to study hard enough to pass Med/Surg III in nursing school.

To be honest, it was not the material that was terribly difficult. After all, Acute Kidney Failure, Chronic Kidney Disease, Cardiac Anomalies, Disorders and Diseases, HIV, Liver Disorders, Respiratory disorders and Cancer is not much to cover over seven weeks...right? Probably not.

The pathophysiology was very interesting and I enjoyed the material, but to be brutally honest, we had a substandard professor and no real cohesive sense of how the material was to be tested. In addition, this teacher was so poor with her skills that she often presented incorrect information that we, her students, corrected. As a consequence, we ended up teaching ourselves the material.

A scary prospect.

I'd like to say that things at home have been great, but they haven't. My girl, Micro-germ 1 has embarked on a small crime spree at school. This has required that I know put on another hat--a policeman's cap, in fact, in order to prevent this tiny terror from widening her criminal scope to include other towns. I would like to, in short, prevent this crime wave before it truly begins.

Micro-germ 2 teeters back and forth between jubilation and self-mutilation. He's enjoying biting his forearms until he bleeds, you see. We're not sure why that is...but it is, and as such it requires more trips back and forth to the doctor.

Also, I have taken a job at St. Agony. Even though there is a perilous nursing shortage, the current economy makes getting a job a little iffy, so instead of waiting until graduation to search for a job, I've taken a student position at a hospital that I hate so that I can be assured of a job later. Any foot in the door, after all.

Let's see...what else? Oh, yes. I've been ill again. Nothing major this time, but it has required some treatment and the energy it takes to present a good front to professors when you are, yourself, under the weather is enormous. I've succeeded, though and another class is shut away.

So, Simon...I know that I owe you quite a long mail, and I will try to get around to it this week. Of course, there is the fact that I'm still in Trends class, and my Psych class starts tomorrow, so I will do the best I can...really. I just hope you're feeling better now.

And one more thing...Micro-germ 1 celebrates her 10th birthday Tuesday. Let's hope she does so from her home and not from behind bars.

An incoherent post, I know, but I shall strive to do better now.

Left 4 Dead

2009-02-18T06:38:00.002-05:00

Now that I can count my readers on one hand with fingers left over...I wonder if any of you have ever played Left 4 Dead on either the PC or Xbox 360...?

Let me rewind and start from the beginning...

You see, I was never going to be one of those parents/people who have a house-full of video games. I carefully avoided the handhelds when the kids were very young and constantly carped on the fact that computers are tools, not toys.

Then I went back to college...

When I first met BF Drew, I happened to have a PS2, but that was an accidental thing, really. A friend needed a little cash, on that particular day I happened to have some, and I'd already played this game called...Katamari. And I loved it. So, back to the story...when BF Drew got his Wii, I felt I must have one, too. I loved playing, and I thought it would be fun with the kids, especially now since Micro-germ 1 is an established reader, and it is unlikely that Micro-germ 2 ever will be. So, one flat screen TV, Wii, Charging Station, extra Wii-mote, and balance board later, I had a Wii and a PS2.

Then came...The Manny.

Because my childcare-provider lives with us, and therefore comes with all his own detritus, he brought is Xbox360 with him. We made a place for it, and for the most part, he is the gamer in the house. He is, in fact, so good with most games, that it is a distinct possibility that now he may become a professional gamer, possibly even a tester. It would suit his temperament, for certain, but, for now...he is still my Manny.

Anyway, upon its release date, the Manny acquired Left 4 Dead, the basic premise of which (in case you don't know) is simple: Four people have survived the initial infection which has left the world a morass of flesh-eating, violence driven zombies. These four intrepid souls must, therefore, escape from four different campaigns (No Mercy, Blood Harvest, Death Toll, and Dead Air). Each Campaign is divided into sections and the goal is to reach the safehouse with all your members alive in each sections. In the online version, you can play "Versus" which means you alternate with an opposing team between playing survivors or "special infected." The special infected, consisting of: Smokers (they can shoot out their tongues and drag you or hang you), Boomers (Great big fat kids who puke on you which draws the hoard of regular infected), Hunters (Hoodie-wearing, athletic zombies that get their kicks by jumping on survivors and clawing the shit out of them), and the Tank which, as the name implies, is just a big, ugly, massive zombie with a serious wedgie...because I can't think of anything else that could possibly give someone the attitude that this brute carries around.

I have watched countless hours of the Manny playing this game. He has made many online friends and one of his particular real-life friends from his point-of-origin also plays and is particularly skilled. Speaking for myself, however, I have never played until recently.

I am addicted!

I began on easy, of course, and progressed through each campaign until I am am now beginning to play on the advanced setting. Yesterday, I played versus online with strangers...not too pleased with that because they were really terribly, but our team won both matches and that was pretty awesome!

I think it's funny that in my almost-40 year-old state, I am learning to love and appreciate video games. However, if you're a grown up, and you don't mind sleeping with the light one, I really recommend this game. There's a reason it won game of the year, and honestly...who doesn't want to kill a few zombies?

P.S. Kanizsablade...you owe me a mail.

I hate the Girl Scouts

2009-02-02T07:32:00.003-05:00

So, Micro-germ 1 is a girl scout. I am not thrilled by this.

When I was her age, my advantages were different and instead of hanging around catty girls and their equally catty, if not more so, mothers, I had a horse. I wish I could afford the same for the micro-germ. But, I can't and she wanted to join this troop and it's something her father approves of, because he was a boyscout and he seems to think such brown-shirt organizations are healthy.

So, apart from constantly filling out forms and combatting the general bitchy-ness of the members involved, they have now decided exactly HOW I should communicate with the children's father.

Arrogant Presumption.

Having outlined this plan, the details of which do not merit repetition, they emailed it to my ex-husband and myself.

Hubris.

Interestingly enough, it is the one point on which my ex and I currently agree--they're intrusive, judgmental, scurvy (well, perhaps not scurvy) busybodies and they labor under the current delusion that everyone has a say in everyone else's business.

One of the troop leaders--a woman who prides herself in her listening skills and purports to be some sort of counselor--for example, actually believes that her daughter is incapable of understanding sarcasm and that she has no ill-will toward any of the other girls. This, of course, is the same girl who cornered my child, told her that everyone in the troop hated her and that she should quit. As often happens with girls, my daughter and this other child are on again, off again friends now.

I think we all know that children can be cruel and the meanness of girls is a well-documented phenomena in this country at least. If I had my way, of course I would have my child tutored and nurtured far away from the public school arena. I don't have that option, of course, and there are some friends that she actually does like. So, as it happens, we will continue on with the girl scouts.

And I count the days until she comes home and tells me she'd far rather have a motorcycle.

At least that is a hobby with some redeeming qualities.

For my birthday I received..."A Fuck-Witted Englishman"

2009-01-22T06:23:00.002-05:00

Happy Birthday to me.

It's 6:30am here in the cold, dark moments left before the house stirs and people from the tallest to the smallest wake up and begin to make their presence felt. This, too, is the only time I can now truly claim for my own because, as anyone living in the midst of a gaggle of people knows, five people will soon be making demands (not unpleasant or onerous, but demands all the same) on my time and the house will explode into a bustle of noise and activity. It used to be that I was able, after the micro-germs went to school, to have most of the day to myself. I spent that time like any mother does--accomplishing the work of the house and my own work, then preparing for the eventual return of the small family. There were, however, peaceful moments. Moments of quiet. Moments...that are in the past and will not come again.

I'm not complaining. It's just the way our lives have changed.

I suppose, when I moved into this house coming on four years ago, that I was better able to financially support this much space and my children. Still, it was pretty tight, and even the addition of the englishman formerly known as DW and his financial contributions did not appreciably change that. Of course, our expectations were different then, and I suppose my own experiences are not very much different from the experiences that many people in this country have faced over the past four years. While DW was here, our lives were significantly less stable than they are now, because of the divergent desires of the two adults in the house more than anything else. (I believe he would probably say that it was due to my brand of crazy, but why quibble over the semantics? I'm talking about finances and child care, here.)

Regardless of what I might have been able to do in the past, times have, indeed, changed. While I am optimistic and delighted to have a new president in office whose vision for the country is, at least as he has outlined it, so very different from the narrow, hawkish, baseless leadership we've endured the past eight years--I am realist enough to know that for people like me--you know, those people who have to crane their necks and use binoculars to see the poverty line above their heads--very little will change. At least, not at first.

This is the first year, of my adult life, where, on my birthday, I have $0.21 in the bank, a scrap of gas in my car, a refrigerator very nearly bare, and the responsibility for more people than I've ever had in my life...and yet, I am the happiest I have ever been (Save for one small detail which ties back to the title of this post and I'll get to it in a minute).

Tomorrow, I have my final exam for my pediatrics rotation, and I think that will go all right. After I finish this blog entry, I'll return to studying for it. After that exam, however, I only have four more classes to endure before I can claim my nursing degree, sit the NCLEX, (and hopefully pass on the first try), and get a job. My being employed will cause a material change in our future prospects and not necessarily in a good way. While my ex-husband is legally on the hook for another year for alimony, which is non-modifiable, I am certain the first thing he will do once I am employed, is haul me to court to have his child support (an already laughable number) reduced. There's nothing I can do about that, and it's just the way he is. After all, he is currently in arrears on his alimony and child support, considering he has a different calendar from the rest of the world and thinks he "pre-paid" for a month on an agreement that hadn't even been drafted, signed, or notarized. When I have five minutes of free time, I'll address that issue as well.

Still, my being in school full time is a step forward for my little family and that is something to be appreciated. The addition of the Manny and Captain Ju-Ju to the household was certainly unexpected, but it illustrates that type of choice that many people in this country face at present, and hasn't been really thought appropriate probably since the Great Depression of the 1930s. In generations past, extended families were not as far-flung as they are now, and while movement both domestically and internationally is not at all a bad thing, it does represent a difference in how we raise our families. I am divorced, a finding very common in 2009 which was still rather unusual in, say, 1979. Divorce alters, significantly, the financial picture and stability of most families. It certainly did in my case. The first four years, what I like to think of as "The Bush Years" -- where my husband and I could come to no agreement, and he blocked every effort to finish the damn thing (possibly from an inability to see that the war he was waging was doing nothing more than devastate the non-combatants) and everything was in a hellish limbo--found our lives to be rather unstable. My work situation was not steady, my primary adult relationship was rocky, always, because even though that fellow and I loved each other, we were never able to find a peaceful existence together, and my kids had a stability of schedule, but I do think my own fears about what we would eventually face affected them.

Enter, therefore, school. My return to college.

Looking back now, I think I was somewhat crazy to try and go back to college with such sketchy plans, but at the time I also knew that enough was enough. The first year especially, when I was trying to get to class, shunt them around between daycare , school, and home, and try to find moments to study as well--that was the most unsettled we've ever been. My arrangements for childcare were haphazard at best and I wasn't comfortable with any of them.

Enter, therefore, the Manny.

I met the Manny at school, where he was just hanging around with a mutual friend. We were introduced. I liked his brash ways and abrasive personality. He also has a treasure trove of dead baby jokes which I find hilarious. We got to know each other socially, at first, and as the weeks and months passed, I learned more about him and discovered that he was in need of a change of situation. There are also some extenuating circumstances that make his employment a challenge. I hatched the plan in my brain one day while watching my best friend, Drew, (hereinafter called BF Drew), as he watched my son in a before and after-care capacity during summer school. Sometimes men, specifically men who are not hung up on gender roles, make damned fine caregivers. The more I thought of this, and the more I thought of the Manny, who was, by then, a friend, the more I thought that an exchange could be worked out that might benefit us both.

I proposed the idea: You come live with us, I'll feed and house you, and when you can't get your own insulin, I'll get it for you. In exchange, for the next year, you watch my children.

It is simple on the surface, but my son's profound developmental delays (He is autistic for those readers that don't know) and my daughter's impending puberty and understandably negative reaction to my divorce makes the "watch my children" portion of the exchange a challenge at best and a nightmare at worst.

However, the Manny is nothing if not brave in the face of the unknown. He is a shockingly frank individual without very much fear and an attitude of "I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I'm a pretty quick study, so, yeah, I got this."

Most importantly, my children responded very well to him.

He moved in over July of 2009. His girlfriend, Captain Ju-Ju has been with us coming on four months now, as well.

And the damndest thing has happened. My children have started to turn a very small corner. Micro-germ 1, my daughter, is nearly ten years old and for the past two years especially she has been sarcastic, bitter, and wholly miserable to live with. Last night marked the seventh night in a row that she went to her room and practiced her clarinet without prompting, snarling, or otherwise throwing a fit. I caught her smiling, three separate occasions, and she actually played with her brother all week. As for Micro-germ 2, he has found a companion of sorts and person with whom he likes to communicate in the form of Captain Ju-Ju, and he has enough confidence and belief in the Manny's stability that when he needs to melt down, he can do so without fear of caregiver reprisals. That's essential for him.

And the Manny...? I don't think he's ever really had this kind of situation before--not since he was at home with his own dad. But, he is doing well in school, getting certain aspects of his own life in order, he remains compliant with his diabetes management and is now learning to fit a social life into his work schedule.

And above all things, my children get home to the same people, every day. The schedule is the same...every day. The expectations, rules, and consequences are the same...every day. And, that, over all, has been the best change of our life. While Colin-from-the-block is with us now, that has only added to the sense of "sameness" since he was here all the time anyway.

And...I find myself presiding over an extremely unusual family of six. The same number I grew up with, and I have more respect for my parents (and questions about their collective sanity) than ever. It is daunting. I'm not bringing in any more money than I was before and yet I have three more people to shelter and feed. Regardless of what the pencil-pushers at social services believe, we are a family of six and we are poor. I, like millions, am without health insurance, and I am only thankful that my children still have insurance--one of the very few things their father made a token agreement to in our settlement.

So, if my health will hold out (and that has been questionable of late) and my brain doesn't explode (but nursing classes like to try that possibility), then our lives may take a lovely turn one day. But I know it all rests on my shoulders. Happily, they are pretty broad.

...which brings me back to my birthday and the fuck-witted Englishman.

I finally heard from himself in Hungary. Kanizsablade is alive and while not strictly well, for reasons that are not presently clear, he has at least contacted me. He also stated, in his mail, that his thoughts lay in an Easterly direction, which I thought a shame since I live to the West of him. You know, Hungary's location relative to the United States. He amended his error in a subsequent mail.

But, separation between people whom are not fans of separation is difficult and amongst my birthday gifts that have come today, second only to my chldren's present well-being, is the knowledge that my fuck-witted Englishman is alive and well.

So, cheers everyone...have a drink on me.

It's Martin Luther King's Birthday, the even of the Inauguration, and...

2009-01-19T07:48:00.003-05:00

...all I really want is a nice, hot shower.

I woke up this morning, pre-dawn, as is my habit, so that I could spend a few private moments basking in solitude before the house awakens and chaos reigns again.

The hot water was woefully inadequate to my needs.

I don't know whether or not the water heater is on the blink, or if the seemingly pressing need of my children and housemates to shower at any time during the day or night has simply over-taxed that poor appliance--but, here I sit...cold and damp.

I'll be 38 years old in two days.

I never thought, ten years ago, that I'd be where I am right now. I'm not complaining...but I'd really, really like enough fucking hot water to clean up appropriately.

Apparently, that's too much to ask.

Down with the Sickness

2009-01-17T19:31:00.002-05:00

I've been ill.

And it's all thanks to Colin-from-the-block.

He moved in last week and brought germs of unspecified origin with him. Next thing I know, I'm flat on my back with a cold that wants to upgrade itself to Ebola. Add to that the fact that I was also smack in the middle of my pediatric rotation (A class in Family Centered Nursing), and the sum is that I've barely been able to meet work and school obligations...certainly I've been unable to blog.

I am almost back to full strength, however, though I am still swimming through a ton of congestion. Yep, thanks Colin.

We've also been clearing out the house. I have accumulated a metric ton of crap over the past five years and it really is time to get rid of most of it. So, yesterday morning, while I was clearing out an old desk, I ran across two very interesting items. The first, was a paper napkin--the small square kind that Southwest Airlines grudgingly pass out with their drinks. There was writing on it--in my hand, and a reply written by a previous boyfriend. It was nothing much really, just a small love note. It in no way represented the turbulence of that relationship, but it did make me think of Marcus and smile for a bit.

Then, I found 55 Danish Kroner, in a small bag. I remember that as being the change left over from my first trip to Denmark to see the same ex-boyfriend mentioned above. Again, I was smiling, but my daughter--who is far more practical--looked up the conversion online and informed me that 55 DKK is nearly 10 USD. Consequently, she thought it would be a good idea to exchange the money and go to the store and buy more pokemon figures.

While I admire her quick decisions concerning the spending of what looks like free money, I think I will keep it. I have no need for 55DKK, of course, but I do like the way the coins look, and while I am no longer enamored of the man who originally brought me to Denmark, I do very much love my memories of the country itself.

Funny how the world changes, and relationships ebb and fade. To be honest though, I wouldn't mind a reason to have a few forints jingling around in my pocket. Maybe in the spring...

Until next time.

Hurray for the Underground

2009-01-03T09:50:00.002-05:00

In the beginning, I was fairly public about blogging. It was a way to keep in touch with friends of mine overseas and something in me, now, simply refuses to fall victim to myspace or facebook. I understand social networking sites, and their purpose. I just can't make myself do it. I like blogging. It is, of the open 'net arenas, the most private of the public bitching.

There was a time, certainly, when we all blogged. Simon has been deleted and defunct for some time on the net, although he is still very present in my life. Lampiao left blogging behind, too...and I miss the packet. Most of my favorite medical blogs disappeared years ago, and Greg Beck passed away, leaving a large hole in the blogosphere. Even though I no longer write "The Woman with One Red Shoe," I'm proud to still be on his link list. I never really thought I'd be struck with the whatever happened to's..., but it's here, and even as I type this, I find that I'm struggling to remember HTML tags. It's been so long, that I've forgotten them.

Still, screw facebook. I'm staying right here.

The New, New Year

2009-01-02T18:23:00.003-05:00

Oh. God.

So, I created this blog about a million years ago, and have been waiting for this year to begin posting to it. I don't mind that so much, but, it's already January 2, 2009, and I've not updated. This is probably because I have only just raised my head from my New Year's Hangover, which required phenergan and lots of TLC from my house mates. I'll be emailing out links to this blog within the next week, and for those of you "old timers" who used to be regular readers of "the Shoe," there have been changes to my household. So, without further ado--let me bring you up-to-date.

I still live on the East Coast of the United States, but since I've gone even further underground, the location isn't really important. I still have my two children, but now that my divorce is finally, really and truly final, I can now say for sure that I have primary custody of them. For purposes of this blog, they will be referred to as Micro-germ 1 and Micro-germ 2. They are brilliant, healthy and beautiful. In addition to my children there is "The Manny." He is my very thuggish-looking, pierced, tattooed, and often painted-up male nanny. No one messes with my kids--and if you could see him, you'd know why. In addition to the Manny there is "Captain Ju-Ju." She is the Manny's girlfriend, and she lives with us, too. Finally, in the human element there is, "Colin from the Block." He's our very good friend, and considering we turned my office into a room for him, it is simply to be accepted that he lives here, too. Pet-wise, we still have three snakes, four cats, and occasional mythical creatures that take up residence here. It's all good--so far, the imaginary creatures have only eaten my blue crocs.

I have come a long way since I simply hermited myself away and spewed out my musings for the general amusement of my friends. I am in my second year of Nursing school...graduation date, provided I pass everything, is this coming June. So, for old readers who trickle back and for new readers who may join in...welcome. Whether you are a germ, a pathogen, or another friend...you're all part of the infection, so enjoy.