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I will not ever again be a slave to the phone.

Kevin is, decidedly a slave to the phone.

We have instituted a new phone policy: Between the hours of 8pm and 9:30pm we will not answer the phone. Period. You will get a call back, WHEN we call you back, and the only guarantee of a call back is to leave police or fire sirens on our answering machine.

Also, as an addendum to this new rule, IF your call was answered prior to 8pm, beginning at 7:59pm, all responses will be limited to "I have to go now."

If you have problems with this policy, please feel free to call and speak to the complaints department between the hours of 8pm and 9:30pm.

First Day Bitch

First, I have to say that this morning was nice. I didn't cry (okay, a few tears, but no real sobbing or anything). And I spent a quiet morning just hanging out at home, and then off to lunch with the Toad, than back home, then out to pick up the last of my china (I have my teacups!), then off to pick up the Howler.

I went up to my mother's and the first words out of her mouth were "you better get going". Let me say that the first time the school calls me at work to tell me no one came for the Howler on my mother's watch, I'll sautee her ass with Purina SeasonAll and feed it to the cats.

I'll also tell you that if my mother thinks I don't know todays menu after having 3 freaking conversations with HER about it, AND after just hearing the Howler recite it, I may have to slap her more stupid than she's currently being.

Next, I have to say that if she EVER opens up the take home folder and mixes up papers again, I'll probably be arrested for assault and battery. I already know how this is going to go--my mother will REMOVE the papers that are supposed to be returned, fill them out wrong to "help" then forget to even tell me about dammed things, then tell everyone she can how irresponsible I am.

I have to add that her constant bitching at/about my step dad is at my limit. She begins as soon as he walks in the door. Then the Howler, of course, gets into a pisser of a mood and then my mother yells at everyone. Except the Toad (aka Precious Pup). It's disgusting, and if it doesn't end, my mother will find herself NOT watching the Howler after school, unless an absolute emergency.

Finally, I have to say, (and stop reading if you don't like my *french*) I don't give a flying fuck what the jackass down the street is doing/does/will do/claims he will not do with is Kindergarten daughter. The girls aren't in the same class, and that, my friends, is all I need to know.

Actually, I'm sick to death of listening to my mother yap on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on...INFINITY about this fuckwit. I don't know him, I've slapped eyes on the idiot ONCE and that was the back of his head, and I DO NOT CARE!

Yes, folks, I've discovered where my stress from this school year is going to come from--and it isn't the school, as previously feared.

Now, if you're leaving comments, please leave a dollar figure you're willing to put up for bail/my legal defense fund...because I'm seriously going to beat her more senseless than she already is.

Spiders

Okay, so the Howler is right on this one. They're creepy.

I don't scream, or jump around and holler, but they are, indeed, creepy. And after an encounter with one, I do have to wash my hands like 5 times, and I do feel like there's still one creeping around on me.

Spiders.
How Mother Nature says, "tickle tickle."

Irrational Rant Week

That's what this past week has been for me. Okay, okay, usually people refer to it as PMS, but I'm not just bitchy, I'm irrational.

And off we went to the ILs for a few days. (Although, I have to say that this is better than what's been happening the last three times we went....I get my period. Bleck. Even if it's "not bad", I still don't want to be staying at someone else's house then.)

I bit my tongue, a LOT. I deserve a cookie.

I love and respect my ILs, but I have to say that I have come to the conclusion that my FIL can be a trifle bit self-centered. Not selfish, mind you, because he worked hard (and still does) to provide for his family when Kevin was growing up, and he doesn't tantrum, or make totally unreasonable demands on others.

I bite my tongue usually, out of respect for him (and contrary to some people's ideas, this does not make me sheeple) I don't say most of what I think about some things. Why? Because he won't hear it. He simply will not be able to wrap his head around it.

He works hard to help out his kids with "projects"--SIL's addition on her house, different things at his MIL's house (which is now owned by his GD & her H "the kids"); helping Kevin with oil changes and whatnot on our vehicles when we're there. He also chops and hauls wood for friends and neighbors, has a fantastic garden that needs tilled, planted, weeded, harvested, and it's fruits canned; he is involved in his church, and is always ready, willing, and able to help a neighbor or friend work on their cars or tractors. He built the home they live in himself, buying what he needed when he had the cash; trading favors for the electrical work and masonry with friends and old co-workers; by using what he had kept over the years (most of which is still in remarkably good shape); and by just plain out-and-out hard work.

But I have to say that he's rather self-centered at times.

Examples: After the Howler was born, he was insistant that Kevin needed to get a 2nd job, rather than my continuing to work. Never mind that being a 100% SAHM mom isn't my idea of a good time for me, and that I would be a weirded out, stressed out, googly-eyed maniac at the end of the first six months. It took two years (2 freaking YEARS) for him to "get it" that I didn't work because "Kevin made me" or because Kevin was "lazy" or for any other reason than whether we *needed* the money or not, I would be miserable at home 24/7. No matter how much, how loudly, or how adamant Kevin or I were about this, the Old Man didn't hear it.

Consider the house he built: MIL had to insist (read: refuse to move in) if he didn't add a *proper* kitchen to the house. His plan was that the kitchen/dining area be all one room. Considering that the room he planned this for is crowded with the table, chairs and china cabinets that are in there, there's no way--and I mean emphatically NO WAY it would've held the kitchen also.

The bathroom/laundry room downstairs (it's a raised ranch) is nice--until I have to fit my larger-than-his ass through it, past the dryer, washer and shower to get to the toilet. I honestly think he measured the place, using his own 32" waist as the "norm" and built accordingly. The shower door doesn't even open the whole way. I swear, if I weighed 20 pounds more (and it was a bitch to use it when I was pregnant) I wouldn't be able to get in, or out, of the shower without pounds of butter or Crisco.

There's no room in that shower to bend over to pick up the soap. And, since I'm ranting about his showers, I'll also tell you that using the tub knob set for the shower/tub combo is assinine. It's beyond cheap. It's not like it's a top-of-the-line set that he got for pennies. It's a set that has to get *fixed* so the shower turns off at least once every two years. (I know this, because it usually breaks when we're there and Kevin fixes it.) The bathroom upstairs has a shower/bath combo, but in the 10+ years they've lived in that house, he's never done the caulking so you can use the shower.

Now, for the rest of the story: He got mad at his one daughter, and all but quit speaking to her because she went out of her way to help save a couple of dogs that were dumped off below their house. He basically called her "stupid." When he got over that, he all but quit speaking to his GD (the married one that lives in his MIL's old house) because she had a cat, that came with the house no less, that was clawing the furniture. (It had stopped clawing the furniture for a while after the old, ratty, cat-pee smelling furniture that was in the house when they bought it was removed.) He started clawing again over this past winter. The Old Man's solution was to put the cat outside. Keeping in mind that the cat hadn't been outside (except for the occasional vet visit) in it's entire life, he felt that this was more than fair. At least he wouldn't shoot it. Anyway, when The Kids decided to take the cat to the vet and have him declawed (they'd already done all they could to figure out what set him off again, and the vet ok'd the surgery), the Old Man was, in his own words, "Not very nice to her." When he told me about it, he was rather proud of himself over it.

I simply wanted to shake the snot out of him and yell, "It's none of your damned business if they're not asking you for money or going without over it! It's NONE OF YOUR DAMNED BUSINESS!" I think I got a jewel for my crown in heaven when I didn't actually do it.

Because HE didn't see it as acceptable, then no one else should either.

Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! I realize that he's old fashioned, and I respect the fact that he's 78 or something, but where in the name of all that is good in this world does he get the idea that HIS is the ONLY way for his daughters and granddaughters to do things? Especially if what they're doing isn't infringing on him in any way--not even by reputation.

He doesn't think I can run a small chainsaw. It's the same size as the one I run at work during the pre-Christmas season. He doesn't think I can load or unload the van, especially if it's the Howler's Peg Perego John Deere tractor. He doesn't think I can drive a nail, put in a screw, hang panelling or lay carpet or tile. Sure I don't enjoy doing most of that stuff, but I can do it.

Kevin has, on occasion, been caught ignoring what I have to say--and the only reason I could discover had to do with my having a uterus (I've tested this, and if I can get my stepdad to tell Kevin what I've been saying, he'll listen), and I slap at him until he straightens up.

I would've held a pillow over this man's head in his sleep long before we made it to 50+ years of marriage.

I think Kevin's Mom (if not his sisters) understand this about me. She understands that I'm really not being mean, I just have little tolerance for anyone who thinks their way for me to live my life is better than my way to live my life.

I know all this sounds petty, and I appreciate Kevin's family and the relationship I have with them, but I had to get it off my chest.

*aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I feel better now*

Did I Stutter?

Woman to Woman: Learning to Say NO

OOOPS! I'm early, because we've been on vacation and I was convinced it was this week! No wonder Mr. Linky wasn't available! lol.

As females, we are raised to be helpers--to make others happy. Even if it's against our basic natures; even if it means sacrificing ourselves on the altar of "greater good".

I have never been that great at that--the whole square peg-round hole bit. I never liked the feeling of being manipulated, and unfortuneately, most of the time, that's what others' would do to get me to do whatever it was. (According to my mother, though, I was just an idiot; but I can site many many times she did the guilt or manipulation thing to get me to do what she wanted). Even at it's best, I was miserable.

I am not a maternal person; nor do I find all things under 4' tall adorable. That does not mean, contrary to popular belief, that I am not a good mother--it simply means that I do not find motherhood to be the end-all be-all of my existance. But I digress.

Learning to say "no" to those people and things that I do not want or need to do or be involved in.

I remember a time, many years ago (ack! I can say "many years ago" with a straight face!) I would agree to do things I didn't want to do. And I would be desperately miserable--mean, nasty, and miserable. I don't remember the last time, though. Why? Because I figured out, after the traumatic year of '99-'00 that there are things I'm just not willing to sacrifice my sense of self for.

One of the biggest things in my life in which this was important was my wedding. I didn't want an huge blow-out. I wanted fewer than 30 people invited--I settled for fewer than 50. I wouldn't budge on it, no matter how much my mother tried to guilt and nag me into inviting cousins I wasn't that close with. Even when the one little troll jerk called me two weeks before the wedding and gave me hell for not inviting him. (He came anyway, and I did get mad enough to inform my mother that if the little fat *$@#* was in the hall afterwards for the reception, I would not be. Yes, at my own wedding, I would boycott the reception. He drove something like 6 hours to attend a 60 minute wedding service, take some pictures and hump my leg in the reception line. Ewww. I shredded all pictures of him afterwards.)

Needless to say, my mother tried, repeatedly, to convince me that this person was worth my time and energy. (He showed up, yet again uninvited, at a Memorial Day picnic during which he ate an exorbitant amount of food that left others who were invited NOT getting even a sniff of some offerings.) At that point, I decided that Dear Abby be damned, this was not a person I want or need in my life. I'll die never regretting saying "No" to this person and all that involves. And the greasy little troll will no longer give me full body hugs that leave me desperately wanting a shower in hot bleach with a scrub brush.

But I digress again.

I suppose it makes me a hardass to say "no" the way I can and do. Even to family. I don't have the self-sacrifice gene that seems to be a requirement for having a uterus. It always seems to shock people that I do have a uterus and I don't have to say "yes" to everything and anything that makes others think I am a "nice" person.

I think the two things, too often, go hand-in-hand. Never say "no" and you are a "nice" person. Basically, being easily manipulated, regardless of the personal cost, in an effort to be seen as "nice" or to be "liked." I'm not a nurturing caretaker kind of gal. I have identified and embraced the dark side--and I see no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed by that.

Give me respect and OP distance any day.

Ages ago, I suppose, I would be considered "unsexed" by my attitude. If it comes to that, they can have my uterus (and all the crap that goes with it) and I'll be happy, smiling and saying, "NO, but thanks for asking" as often as I need to.

*Please forgive my unadulterated siting of previous blogs. It seemed easier than boring you all to tears in repeating myself.

A *Green* Card

Today's Woman to Woman topic reminded me of something else about my grandma.

I do have to 'fess up first--my mother's immediate family is rather, uhm, interesting. My aunt plans her days around the horse racing schedule--not because she owns a horse, and not because she's betting on someone else's horse: she just likes the races, and with the wonders of modern technology, she can watch horse racing on cable all day, every day. (side note: I know the cable thing because the Howler turns it on and rides her bouncing horse in these same races.)

Now, back to our story: During the holidays, Kevin and I have taken over New Year's Day from my mother. It's nice for her--and nice for us. We volunteered for this gig, so it's fun. Anyway, last (this? lol) year, my aunt and grandmother came over and after dinner, had a lively conversation with my stepdad (He doesn't know how he ended up in this conversation which cracked me up too.)

The topic of the conversation? Illegal Aliens. While my grandmother is going off about George W. and how he, it seems, goes over to foreign countries, picks 'em up, and brings 'em back pesonally!--all using our tax dollars and all without ever once having the news media in on it!-- my aunt is going off about how "they" took her job away from her. The woman hasn't worked in 20 years! I kid you not! And she LEFT that job due to a *back injury*.

At this point, Kevin and I are washing pots and pans and cleaning up the kitchen, where this conversation is taking place. Thank God I had something to do. I was struggling to not shriek with laughter--all I can imagine, every time one of the two old bats says, "illegal aliens"--and they said it in every sentence either of them used--is little green men swooping into America from outerspace.

I'm having visions of little green men working at McDonald's in Texarkana: "Eeep dork blahzipting" (translation: do you want fries with that)

Close Encounters of the Toilet Kind: Richard Dreyfuss has funny experiences and drives his wife to distraction because of the weird looking maid the neighbors just hired.

Migrant workers loading up the saucer and movin' on to the next town.

I can't remember them all, but I keep choking back laughter--and Kevin kept poking me in the back. It helped.

At least now I understand why it's called a Green Card.

Bread USED to Cost a Nickel

Woman to Woman: Dealing with Aging Parents

I wasn't going to write for this one, but considering that my grandmother (and therefore, my mother) is, yet again, in one of her snits, I decided to write.

My grandmother is close to 90 years old.

She's also a bitter and angry woman--and paranoid to boot. If her phone rings, and it's a wrong number, it's "them bastards" harrassing her. There is a short list of who she normally blames, and much to my amusement, George W. is on it. Somehow, in her 90-year-0ld brain, W. doesn't have enough to do. He's actually sitting in the White House, thinking how funny it is to crank call old women along the East coast.

My grandmother, needless to say, is starting into the well known phase of aging called "slipping."

She'll spend hours telling you about people who are long gone--and the stories are not even close to being factual. They're generally a mishmash of several persons and stories that run into each other and while seeming to be coherent and lucid, aren't. If you ask questions--even for clarification, it'll only piss her off worse. And the language she uses! Little old ladies aren't supposed to talk that way!

Other days, she is in a rage about things that either never happened, didn't happen to her, or that happened 50 years ago: hence the title about a loaf of bread being a nickel. She spent about 6 weeks, last time the minimum wage was raised in our state, ranting about how bread used to cost a nickel and that bastard--our governor, Ed--has been on the take and that's why groceries cost what the do these days. (Yes, folks, Ed was a baby way back in the day, but even when he was in diapers, he was working on his political agenda of stealing from Social Security and robbing old ladies of their meds.)

She also doesn't take her meds the way she should, and she ended up in the hospital and nursing home for a brief stint because of it. Of course, she will take ALL the meds the doc has prescribed her--even if he told her to stop taking one because he was changing it due to side effects or newly announced research of dire consequences. But then, it balances out, I suppose, because she refused to take things that may actually help her feel better or keep her eyesight.

She's still lucid enough, often enough, that forcibly placing her in managed care would be impossible--and, in all honesty, my mother can't afford it. My mother's sister is the one who has access to her money--what she keeps in the bank, anyway. (We have a sneaking suspicion that if we truly cleaned her apartment--dismantling it--we would probably find hundreds, if not thousands of dollars hidden in pockets, boxes, old calendars, etc.)

In our state, the person signing you into the home is the person who is responsible for anything you can't pay and that the government (through Medicare and other programs) won't. It's expensive. Minimal care in a warehouse--even one rated "good"--isn't my idea of where anyone should be, even if she's a cranky old crab.

It's a no-win situation. She won't co operate if she can help it; her paranoia, and single-minded drive to be non-reality based (I believe that she CHOSE this several years ago--it's not just dementia, it's willful defiance in the face of reality) and her anger at the things in her life that didn't turn out the way she wanted them to, while keeping her going, are also making it harder and harder for her to live in this world and life.

The worst is, I see my mother going this same route--albeit in a slightly more manageable way (and bread will be a dollar by then).

Regardless of how hard the decision is, it takes a certain amount of self-awareness on the care-giver's part to know when too much is enough.

I don't look forward to my mother needing to make this decision regarding her mother--I'm sure it will be heart-wrenching and difficult. But in all honesty, the old woman is a cranky, irate, bitter thing who will certainly make it as traumatic for everyone else (and I do mean every one she comes into contact with) as it is for her. I also know that we will probably someday need to make this decision regarding my mother, and while I'm sure my brother and sister will do what they can, but I'm not looking forward to it.

I know that I do not have the soul-sacrificing gene that my mother has--my tolerance levels are lower. While my sense of humor and of the ridiculous are highly developed, I don't see me putting up the unexpected rampages and manipulative games my mother tolerates from her mother. I do not have the sense of duty that seems to require being put through hell every year or so with medical emergencies that could be avoided; I do not tolerate others' irrational rages being directed at me; I do not think that my blood pressure and stress levels should be elevated because someone else, who is for all intents and purposes in their right mind, has decided that whatever has upset her--today or 20 years ago--is my fault.

I doubt that my grandmother will go quietly, and I suspect that my mother won't either. It's why I hope and pray that I go up in a ball of spontaneous combustion well before the time comes for me. I simply don't have the patience or the nerve for it otherwise.