Not a teacher...more like a zookeeper.

So in last night's post that I had to publish tonight, we've established that I'm not a kid person and that, in general, any kid story you might tell me that you think is cute or funny or whatever...I'm going to think is lame. In a way, it isn't so much kids that bug me but the adults who interpret the kids actions or condone them that really gets on my nerves.

And therein lies the kicker: I would like kids if I liked their parents. But when the kids are the offspring of stupidity incarnate and act like even more immature versions of their parents, I'm driven to the brink. And it's anything but funny or cute.

There are a few kids that I don't mind hearing stories about:
-My own, but I'm biased because I am usually the one telling the stories
-My older sister's Sherry's kids
-My bestest friend Audrey's daughter
-My old supervisor's grandson

And that's about it. I would like to hear more stories about my older sister Denise's kids but at this time that isn't feasible.

And I don't like Supernanny. Sure, she's freakin' perfect and the kids will listen to her marginally while she's there. Ever notice that there is never a follow-up a year later with any of these families to showcase how their life has changed for the positive since the Supernanny experience?

Shows like Supernanny and Nanny 911 always show the overwhelmed, often irritable parents and their fruitless attempts at discipline by spanking, yelling, etc while the "Nanny" looks at the camera in disgust. What we need, folks, what-we-the parents-that-are-overwhelmed-and-at-our-breaking-point-need most is a Nanny for *us.* Not someone who is going to come in and cluck her tongue in disapproval. Most of all, we need good prescription sedatives. But alas, that's a another post.

I'm obviously on a PMS tirade right now. I'm trying to insert humor. But for years now I've watched the commercials that show the parents having tea parties with their kids, or the mom playing dress-up with her kids, etc. And the thing is, they look THRILLED to death to be doing it. I've had to reconcile a lot a guilt over the fact that I would rather sever my own limb, in a desert, alone, with a spork- than play dress-up or tea party with my kids. I've tried playing with them and they've asked me to leave because my monster truck isn't supposed to fire back witty retorts at their monster truck. Or my Barbie was too sarcastic.

I still do stuff with them, mostly under the clever guise of chores. But I can't hang in the Mattel/Sega/Tonka club.

And that leads me to the next subject: Disneyland. That is the least happiest place in the world. The only thing about Disneyland that I actually enjoyed was watching Dylan, then 1-year-old, ohh and coo over the night parade and fireworks. But we can do that at home with some gun powder. It was in Disneyland that I learned how many circuits I had in my brain and at what rapid speed they can blow. I'm surprised I wasn't wheeled out of that place, drooling on myself and rocking back and forth.

Left to my own devices, the happiest place on earth for me is the left corner of my couch with me firmly planted on it, coffee within arm's reach and good book in hand.

The only problem? My children view me on the leftside of the couch like I view Disneyland: They don't want to go there, they want it over with as soon as possible, and they will go nuts if I persist.

Power Out

It is 11:11 p.m. at night. I have waited patiently for the power to be restored for nearly two hours now. I am not a happy camper. I was knee-deep in the show, “Sixteen Kids and Moving” on TLC about Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar when the power cut-out abruptly. I was disappointed. Because I do so love Jim Bob and Michelle. If anyone should have 16 kids it’s these folks. I am so sick of the trash-talking I’ve heard about them. Everyone wants to talk about how they are crazy or too religious. I say, “Who the eff cares?” They have this big-family stuff down to an art form and those of us who only have a ¼ of the kids they do (me), can learn a lot from them. And that’s just what Phil-Richard and Jen-Dawn (us) were trying to do. But PG&E screwed our gig all up.

The thing I love best about Michelle is that she is real. She’s Christian but not preachy. She never makes a mention (that I’ve heard) about why the girls only wear dresses and skirts. I just noticed that tonight and wouldn’t have if not for an informative viewing of Wife Swap in which the conservative Christian parents wouldn’t let their daughters wear pants and made sure all of America (or those who were watching) knew why.

Michelle is a real kid-oriented type of person (well, duh, she has 16 of them). I always wanted to be a kid-oriented person. But frankly, most days I am not even sure I like my own kids, and I sure as shit am not interested in anyone else’s. I’m sorry. I’m more of a cat-dog-koala bear-alpaca-monkey person. But little kids do annoying shit and then their adults say, “Oh isn’t that cute?” Well, now that you ask, NO it isn’t cute. Being a shithead isn’t cute. Being a brat is 180 from cute. Which is why my children have a huge burden to carry.

Skyler, who has the good taste to follow in the steps of mom’s dry wit, is honestly critiqued if his joke is lame. I will tell him, “Um, that wasn’t as funny as you thought. Try again.” And damn if that boy can’t reduce me to tears of laughter on his next try.

So really, the only kids I want to know anything about are my own. And I kinda have to listen to that crap. It’s, like, a job requirement.

Wake-up call...

Wow. I so need to pull my head out of my ass. In fact, I AM pulling my head out of my ass. It never fails, Dad Gone Mad makes me want to be a better blogger. I have like, 18 months worth of reading to do to catch up, but that's a good thing.

I have to mention that Kaiser, to whom I owe many happy days spent high on prescription drugs, gave me three pills yesterday as a refill for one of my other miracle pills.* Three. That's all they had. I thought the pharmacy clerk/chick with the register was screwing with me. Like I was getting prescription punk'd. But no, she was all, "Uh, we only had three, so you'll have to come back on Thursday for the other....ummm....ohhhhhh, 147 pills." Ya think? Good Lord, it's good I keep a stockpile at home or I would fallen into a Jenny-heap on the floor. And seriously, I mean, sigh, three? I mean, they owe me 150 pills. 150. One-fifty. One-fiddy. And I have three. Eins, zwei, drei. Do I have to even say that they should have like, held the three they had and just given me the 150 in full on Thursday? Sorta stupid huh? They totally should comp me some Vicodin for being so patient. Like awesome prescription drug rewards for good behavior. I totally get why us laypeople are referred to as "Patients" now.

*Miracle Pill-Any pill that alters my mind from it's normally shinky** state and puts me back into my rightful place as happy-go-lucky driver of my life.

**Shinky-Refer to A Handbook for Constructive Living by David K. Reynolds, Ph.D, pg. 6

Addictions, Update, Life, Et Al.

I am not ashamed to admit that my most recent addiction is Eve Magazine. What I love most? The free stuff. The magazine is good, but the adverts are of course, all for British companies and stuff. Good magazine, but their free crap is probably what keeps me coming back. I got a Billy Bag I've been using as my to-and-from work tote awhile ago. And this month I got a Principles tote bag which is too cute.

Onto other news, I am pretty sure that I am completely looped. I've said it a few times today, but again, because I am clearly losing my mind, I am repeating myself:

I think I'm approximately one step behind those women who runaway and drop off the face of the planet.

You know the type...the women who stop their car on some rural road and start walking and are never found again. Or they are found but are now part of the reservation unto which they stumbled.

Yeah, I'm, like, one crisis away from being that type of woman. The thing is, there's no rural Indian Reservations close to me. I mean, I could go to the Casino Reservations, but how is that running away?

In all seriousness, I do think a weekend getaway is strongly in order. I really...really...really need to getaway from all of this drama. My inner urge, my instinct right now is to drop off the radar. To just go away. To think about what I've done, why, and the now-whats and to see if this type of living...this automatic stuff of everyday life needs some tweaking. I know the answer to that, it does need tweaking, I just need to figure out exactly how and to what extent.

But otherwise I will be just another busy figure....get up, get coffee, go to work, come home, have coffee, go to sleep. The monotomy is driving me insane! And yet, on the other end of the spectrum I have drama thrown in at each stopping point, that is, at home and at work. And I'm getting to that point where I am feeling like, "Man...I don't know if I like you people anymore." And that is probably a normal enough emotion...but to feel it at both home and at work, that's some strong stuff right there.

The song for the past few days is: Rearranged by Limp Bizkit.

Weak and starving for mercy....

Yeah, so I bit my title from the Sarah McLachlan song I included as a link in the post before this one.

Another line that keeps coming to mind today is: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't really after you.

Okay, now, before you think I am fully immersing myself into the land of delusion, let me state that after receiving hang-up calls earlier this week, my driveway was egg'd last night. So I'm investing in a night watch dog. A mean one. That lives in my front yard and will attack at the sight of any mean, unsavory types.

And really, once again, it brings to mind a song, as usual: Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit.

And you know what....that broken egg in my driveway...it's kinda nice, like modern art.

This time next year....

I'm hanging out in bed all month long. It is not a good month

for me professionally. Well, not exactly, I did get my job two

years ago in July. But last July? Not so good. This July? Not

much better. I don't know what my deal is with boundaries. I

think they should come with warning lights and a siren so as

you near one you know immediately and can back off. I guess

the warning is my gut instinct, but at any rate, I ignored it

and thusly, find myself proclaiming just how stupid I am once

again.


In fact, as with most times during my life, I have a song that

fits this mood near perfectly. The stong is "Stupid" by Sarah McLachlan. It was on repeat play on the way home from work

today, as was "My Immortal" by Evanescence. I was depressed.

I still am. And if you'd like to be depressed too, or are just

curious, feel free to click the links to read the lyrics.


But I'll pop out the other end. I always do. My Dad likens me

to that Rubbertree Plant song. I think it has something to do

with ants. I don't know if this is the right version or if this

one is. Dad....um, if you are out there in cyberland can you

confirm this for me?


The thing is, I don't know if I'll pop out the other end and still

be in the same place I am now. I may find that through the

process, it will lead me somewhere else. And that, although

it might be very well what I need, sends a bit of anxiety

through me.


I half-jokingly, half-quite seriously said recently that I am

going to go find Jesus. It isn't that I'm going to go run off to

the convent and become a nun (ummmm....you do know

what "nun" really stands for right? No? Well it sounds a lot

like, "NONE" and that is NONE FUN for me) or that I am going

to sign up for the 700 club, because I'm pretty sure one won't

find Jesus with conservative Christians. Shocking? No.


I think I need to find Jesus my own little way. A lot of sitting

on a rock starring at the ocean (Mom, I so get this now. I'm

sorry I was such a whiny bitch to you on all those trips to

Monterey when all you wanted to do was stare at the ocean

and all I wanted to do was, like, duh, SHOP!). A lot of

writing, of which I've neglected. Perhaps I'll go visit my kin

outta state (Sherry, count this as your advance warning and

Denise, you gotta a spare bedroom right?).


I'm going to remember how dark and dreary and heartbroken I

was last night over my naivete and stupidity and that I cried

out for help (don't worry, I cried out mentally, otherwise I

would have gotten help, just of the medicated

variety....damn....why didn't I cry out loud? Totally missed

the boat on that one....) and eventually through all my heart

thrashing I came to a place of utter calmness. I would have

liked an angel. Preferably dressed in shades of calming green

and a little glittery. But there was no angel. Jesus didn't sit

at the foot of my bed. I don't blame him, I don't.


The calmness segued into sleep. And when I awoke, I didn't

have Jesus sitting on my bed but I had my father standing in

the doorway asking me if I was planning on going to work. I

got ready. I felt the heaviness in my heart. And then Dad

said, "Is today the day?" And I said, "Yup, today's the day I

meet my maker."


And then he coached me calmly....act this way, say it this

way, don't say this, don't say too much, make sure there are

two people there so there is one as a witness, keep calm,

don't offer too much, try to keep your answers to "yes" or

"no." I stopped doing everything....stopped gathering the

work stuff, the cellphones and like in a trance said, "Yes" and

"Okay" to everything he was saying.


At one point I said, "Wow....I asked for help from Jesus. I

asked for help from God. I was a bit sad that an angel didn't

appear speaking calm words to me. But I still felt calm, and

then I fell asleep. And I woke up to what I had been praying

for. It's like, Jesus is answering my prayer through you." And

in his calm demeanor he said, "Maybe that's why He told me

to talk to you."


Now, groan if you must. I don't expect anyone to understand

this. And people misunderstanding the above will not

diminish it in anyway. I was in a dark, dark place last night. I

think it is one step before you decide that razors and pills are

your bestest friends and you are going to go on a special

outing with both of them. That bad.


And whereas the event that I went through was still painful

and shameful, I am still breathing. Yes, I am still breathing,

and a little deeper at that. It is over. It is done with.


Now comes the slow rebuilding, one day at a time. The

introspection onto what causes what in me. Why I do the

things I do. A lot of writing. I know the reasons why. It isn't

about knowing the reasons anymore. It's about healing the

reasons.


And I'm going to find Jesus. And I am going to be glad. And I'm

going to feel so blessed, so grateful.


And I'm going to find a way to mend the outgoing, blabbering,

sassy, witty, bold me with the calm, slow to act and slow to

speak, thinking, caring and loving me. The second side that

most people don't see because I found ways to protect my

sensitivity with sarcasm and humor. I'll find a way to mend

both sides.


Really, I'm just a torn quilt right now. All my patches coming

apart, some divided. But it's nothing that a steady hand

holding a needle and thread can't heal with a little time and

patience.


And most of all, I'm going to remember that God oftens acts

through people. And perhaps, just maybe, my calling is to be

one of those people God can work through to help others.

Well yes, I know this for sure. I need to help people who can't

help themselves, it has been a driving desire for a few years

now, since the time I needed people to help me because I

had reached my own limits of resourcefulness and life had me

up against a brick wall. And I swore that if ever I could help

people who were slammed against that brick wall of life, I

would.


Stay tuned......