Soul Doubt

Isn't It Bizarre How They Just Seem To KNOW When It's Not Deer Season?

2010-04-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

Not that I'm a bigtime Bambi enemy stalker, more like a grown woman with vague memories of sitting in blinds with my father and uncles as a child, shivering and smelly from all that magic crap they think will attract their backstrap on legs. Then, later (and beings as though I was usually the only sober one in the bunch), plus the fact that I was a stubborn, staunch, dyed in the wool tomboy- maybe from being the only girl in a family of eight kids? Yep, I was always awarded the joy of skinning, gutting and sectioning the dang carcass, under the not-so-sober gaze of my dad and company. I guess the first time it was grossly fascinating for about the first five minutes- until my hands were frozen and aching and several dozen scrubs with soap away from cleanliness...
But I digress.
You know the saying, "I'm a lover, not a fighter?" Well, truth be told I'm a rambler AND a writer. To the impatient, a bad combo.

Eh? What's that? The point of this little post?

Wellll.... I think this white-tailed chunk of venison would've gotten exactly what he deserved had he gotten permanently stuck while on his little joyride.

I mean, c'mon, is your average ungulate really that spunky, even out in the boonies on a homemade rope swing? This deer was nuts! And maybe a bit anthropomorphous, to boot.
Besides, spunky spontaneous swing-riding is one thing- in fact, IMHumbleO, an admirable and perhaps cool trait for those statistical 70-some percent of humans per capita in our fine state who are either chunkybutts or those of us simply (yawn) staid, sedentary humans who sit on their somewhat skinnier butts and post endless nonsense on flatscreened communication devices ALL freakin day to emulate ... but last I checked, one's swing-sitting rear end (even if it happens to be cervid) belongs on the plank seat- not the antlers entangled hopelessly and the rest of the panicked Papa Deer just a'swangin' in the breeze...

I do wonder what eventually happened after this vid was shot- do you s'pose there was another shot shortly thereafter, one a tad more harmful to the deer than the embarrassment of being filmed?

2009-12-24T08:27:00.000-08:00

Have you ever seen one of those cheesy commercials that say, "Depression Hurts. Where do you want to go? Nowhere. Who do you want to see? No one. What do you want to do? Nothing"

And then it goes on to say that not only does depression hurt you, but everyone around you. Or shoot, I don't know, maybe I'm mixing up a couple of the different anti-depressant commercials up and combining them to fit my own perceptions.

All I know is that for the last SIX MONTHS at least, I have been a shell of my former self. Of course I go through the motions, taking care of my son, keeping my house semi-clean (although nowhere near as spotless as I used to- I'm your typical Virgoan clean freak), making din-din for the hubby, perusing the paper and whatnot.... but mainly, my retreat from reality? My way of coping?

Books. Endless, uncountable books. I check out a dozen or so thousand-pagers from the library at a time, and actually wade through them all before the return date. In fact, I'm usually a week or two early. A novel a day is about my speed. And I don't even REALLY care what genre, although I have certain anti-preferences: no hardcore sci-fi, absolutely no romance or romantic suspense, rarely an actual western- although I do like Larry McMurtry just fine. No, for the aforementioned six months, I have lost myself in untold worlds of words, almost LIVING the books, pretending (yes, I know it's a bit childish) I'm either the hero or heroine, or perhaps at least another highly intelligent and interesting character, usually one who either dies for some noble cause or saves the day with grievous wounds to oneself...

It's sort of sick, really. Have I simply exchanged one addiction for another? Or is this a semi "safe" coping mechanism for utter hopelessness and emptiness? I honestly don't know, and I suppose it's a moot point anyway.

One thing I do know, is that these last few weeks have been far happier than ever. Maybe because school is right around the corner (I'm SO excited, I LOVE to learn), maybe because after I'm in class for ten days I'll be cut a check for a bit over four grand- not to blow all at once, mind you- that there's our living expenses for the next semester, and my duckets for a new notebook and printer. Maybe because we've begun to attend church again- welcomed back with open arms, of course- and I've laid off the books except at night when I can't sleep.

Buuut... here's the real test to see if the depression is gone for good, or just biding it's time to come back so bad that I freak out and off myself out of sheer frustration (joke- I've never actually been suicidal during this time, just miserable). See, I just found out my license is suspended in Maryland, where I haven't lived for 12 years, yet somehow through all the years of Idaho license renewals, court cases, getting pulled over and being released with a clean bill of vehicular and license health, having to get duplicate copies of my license at the DMV when my purse was stolen or when I got married, etc.- never ONCE did it come up as being suspended, in Maryland or any other state. Only Monday, when I went to reinstate it- Quick backstory: a few months ago I made a dumb choice of "forgetting" to pay a ticket, mainly cuz I was so broke, then the inevitable came in the mail: a suspension, replete with 165.00 fine, a 65.00 reinstatement fee, and then of course the cost of replacing my seized license. Did manage to take care of all that, actually, requesting from all my family members and husband the money to handle the whole deal.

So when, after just paying off all those fines and stuff over here, then not even being able to get my license which I was so excited over having back (lemme tell you, it's a bitch to see your car in the driveway and not be able to drive it) I was incensed, to say the least. I was SURE it was some sort of mistake, a glitch in the system. So, I called Maryland, argued with a seeming intentionally obtuse woman about the ticket, which was from May of '97- I said I paid it, she said I did not and with the interest accrued, it was now a hair over five hundred bucks to pay. Now I'm barely hanging on to my newfound optimism and non-depression, as I have a court date on the 6th for driving without privileges (yes, I was pulled over in the interim of not paying that dang fine before I wised up and quit driving). I was planning on showing up, smiling my fool head off and saying, yes, Your Honor, lookee here: proof of my paying that nasty fine, proof of my reinstatement, and here's my shiny new license. Now, however, I can't do that. No way in HELL am I gonna be able to come up with 520 bucks before the sixth. If only I could postpone my court date... if it were after the 21st, I'd be rolling in dough. Sort of. But another idea, popping into my head like magic, which I've contemplated obsessively ever since, is borrowing the money until I get MY dough, but unfortunately all my rich friends seem to be, well, nonexistent. Sigh.

So this is my other plan: Lemme bounce it off you few blog followers of SoulDoubt. What if I were to show up in court, say the same shiny happy things, show off all the docs proving my paying off the crap, and just omit the last part; saying maybe, Your Honor, I was just too broke to get an actual hard copy of a license... perhaps on the 21st when I get my money I will purchase one. Or on the 15th when my husband gets paid. (Maybe my pleading poverty might also cause him to go easy on whatever fine(s) he might be planning to inflict, I mean impart.)

Of course that would be dishonest, but what is that saying of the ends justifying the means? I just DO NOT WANT TO GO BACK TO JAIL!!!!! I've been too good for too long, I am just now shaking off this horrible awful lack of will to really live, and now this? I obsessively read the Kootenai County sentencings for DWS, DWP, etc. None of the offenders get off TOO lightly, usually a fat fine, and if not a couple days jail time (most likely because they were arrested at the time of the offense, unlike myself who was luckily only ticketed) they get Sheriff's Labor Program or some other community service. Plus license suspension for up to six months.

I was hoping to avoid the severe penalties by my glowing report of progress and humility at the knowledge of my wrongdoing- I mean, I've even been composing a short speech to read to the Judge. But now, I just don't know.... ideas? Epiphanies? I am begging for one, but any advice from one of you would be ever so welcome too.

My Face in My Plate- Happy Friggin' Thanksgiving.

2009-12-04T07:08:00.000-08:00

Well, me foine blob (as Marmitoasty might say), here we are again. I've sworn to stay regular I don't know how many times (and no, I'm not talking about my bathroom habits) but I just can't seem to check in here and scribble down any noteworthy thoughts but every month or two- sometimes three. And now that I'm going to be a (...drumroll....) college student again, I'm going to need to sharpen my writing skills, honing them to a fine point, have I any hopes to make the Dean's List and obtain any merit scholarships. And in the state of perpetual poverty our little family has recently sunk to, I'll be needing all the help I can get. Pell grants only go so far, and even if one of the many, many, MANY essays and other lottery-style scholarships I've applied to pan out, I'll still need a bit more butter for my bread. Or is it the other way around?

Sigh. I almost feel as though I'm at this massive anticlimactic crossroads, staring bleakly down one route, suspiciously down another, and longingly back behind me. Which is totally senseless- I have everything in the world to look forward to- I've just been screwing up ever so slightly as of late, which noticeably came to a head this Thanksgiving, and it's made me a bit hesitant of my abilities to carry on.

See, being in "recovery" is not like a sweet, green grassy plateau; no, rather it's a series of peaks and valleys, twists and turns, with brief respites of bliss here and there. And it's oh so easy to slip, no matter how many safeguards you think you've installed. I'm here to confess one of those slips. Maybe that'll get this nagging weight off my chest, this feeling of guilt slash shame slash defiance.

Because, see, I can rationalize it to the point where I say, "I didn't really slip- after all, those were prescribed medications!" But I know, and Lord knows everyone who witnessed the debacle knew, it was a full-blown relapse.

It all came about like this. I've been treated for depression and anxiety for most of this last year, plus been on a low dose of Methadone for just about forever. My doc is hesitant to take me off the Methadone before the depression gets stabilized, and I suppose I can see her point- if I'm in a danger zone of depression, I'd be more prone to doing something REALLY stupid. But anyway, after trying multiple SSRI's and SRNI's and tri-cyclic antidepressants-none of which did anything except deplete our bank account, this new one came out that my doc was really hot to trot on. Pristiq. Since I've only been on it a week now, I can't really tell you if it's the magic pill all the physicians are lauding it as, but what I can tell you is that there is one helluva interaction when taken at the same time as my regular dose of Methadone, plus a handful of Valium for nervousness. Oh boy.

See, the deal was to travel down to see the in-laws down in Boise- whom, by the way, I adore... in the seven or so years Tony and I have been together, we've never had any sort of problems. But, me being who I am, I want to be absolutely perfect- smooth-spoken, witty, urbane... you know. Plus, the perfect mother to the perfect two-year-old son. So out of my desire to be ultra-cool, calm and collected, I wolfed down a few Valium ten mg's along with the other two prescriptions. That's about the last thing I remember.

Apparently I slurred my words, trailed off in the middle of sentences, and staggered around like a drunken sailor. I literally had to be yelled at twice to pull my head up off my Thanksgiving dinner plate (that part, unfortunately, I remember). More company arrived- by that time I had been stuck in the corner of the sofa with a blanket over me- and they stared at me curiously, probably thinking I had just had too much to drink. All in all, it was a total humiliation that I wish I could just rewind time and undo.

It was so bad Tony's sister actually called my mother and my aunt and asked if this was an ongoing thing- worried, of course, about my ability to care for Jameson. They assured her it was not, that I was a fabulous mother, but there would definitely be a major intervention asap.

We all sat down Sunday morning and talked about the whole deal. I explained how surprised I was to have gotten to be in that bad of shape that easily- after all, back in the day I'd chug hydros by the dozen, snort oxy 40's or 80's, and pop a few Xanax just to make sure I'd really feel it. But of course my body's tolerance is way different now, and besides that, things became even a bit more clear after we hopped on drugs.com and used their interactions checker for those three meds- BIG exclamation points next to all. Warnings of hypotension, slowed breathing and bradicardia (slowed heartbeat?), and all kinds of other symptoms I fit to a tee.

So I called my doctor's office the next day, and after explaining the situation, was advised to toss my Valium out (which was practically a full bottle before the Thanksgiving trip- it was supposed to be only in cases of emergency panic attacks) and take my Pristiq right before bed, my Methadone first thing in the morning. I've followed those instructions, and things have been fine ever since. On that level, anyway.

That is besides the destruction of trust in my family. My husband. My in-laws. The strange sour blend of feelings I myself am experiencing every five minutes or so... I mean, talk about dwelling on something- I can't seem to get those expressions of mixed disgust and empathy on my in-laws' faces out of my mind. Or the utter silence in the car on the ride back up. Or the fact that my husband now decided he wants to handle our bank account, and I can handle our Quest card (yeah, we're that broke.), when for the last five years, it's always been my job to pay the bills and balance the checkbook. I can count on one hand the amount of times it's gotten overdrawn in the last couple years, but boy, Tony can not only remember how many times, but also remembers the dates, the amounts and the fact that it was "all my fault".

But, as it always does, life goes on. I still go to church. I have a cool older lady who's sort of my mentor there, and I bawled on her shoulder for awhile last Sunday. I've been so geared up about getting INTO school, that now that I'm in, with my classes picked out and my award letter getting modified to put me at fulltime, I have nothing to do now on that angle except wait. Tony and I will straighten out our differences and probably end up having fabulous makeup sex sometime this week. My family will always love me, and my in-laws at least say they do... and I'm pretty sure I believe them. Trust can and will be rebuilt. So, as I said, life goes on.

Plaigarism in Action

2009-11-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

I've been wrestling with an ethical dilemma lately, and after weighing out the pros and cons of confession in such a public venue, am opting to get this anvil off my chest and damn the consequences- after all, who am I kidding? It's not like the entire world reads this little corner of the blogosphere, after all. I'm sure unburdening my secret here will cause very few ripples on the pond of interlife.

So in summary: a dear friend, one of the few I've known and stayed in touch with since grade school days, is now attending a college which shall remain unnamed. She's been struggling of late, more so at the time of my helping her. This was mainly because she was in the last trimester of a difficult pregnancy... and of course, bearing the joys of trying to run a household consisting of three other children and an unemployed husband. They'd just moved, as well, to a tiny little shitsplat of a town forty-odd miles outside Spokane- far enough away from civilization that I actually feared for her and the baby come delivery time.

I suppose that's neither here nor there... not the gist of my problem, anyhow...and by the way, all went splendidly with the delivery of the child. The real reason I'm posting this is that I've been troubled these last few weeks by my acquiescence to her request that I assist her with some of her schoolwork. Translation: write a paper for her. This was weeks ago- I mean, she's now had her baby and is slowly but surely catching up at school- all on her own now, thank you-, plus I felt great at the time for saving her butt when she was already on academic probation, the assistance I rendered went over flawlessly with no one the wiser (according to her)... so why do I still feel so rotten?

Is the shameful little twinge I feel simply conscience? Or, when I ruthlessly examine my most recurring thoughts: is it because I know I'll be attending the same school myself come January and I'm afraid one of my teachers-to-be in that relatively small institution of learning might just be the one to whom my friend turned in an essay that was purportedly hers, but in reality was a creation of my own imaginings? Might said teacher even perhaps recognize the writing style? After all, I've read other pieces of my friend's writing- and not that she is illiterate, nor even untalented- but her style is far, far different from my own. A discerning teacher in a small class would surely pick such dissimilarities out with ease. In fact, I pleaded with my friend, in the email in which I attached the piece, to rewrite it- keeping the gist of it if she wanted, but in order to NOT get caught, revise some of the language and whatnot to more closely resemble her own writing. However, being as pressed as time as she was, I seriously doubt that she took my advice, and probably just forwarded the entire thing as is (as was?). So in my cynical, pessimistic mind, I have to think her teacher's eyebrows were at least raised a bit when my friend's essay was submitted, an essay quite dissimilar to her other works thus far.

Now I'm left with this sour taste in my mouth, be it guilt or fear of being caught, the end result is the same... and although I've resolved to never "help" in such a way again, I still have to wonder if my poor choice is going to have any other repercussions. And do you want to know the most ironic part of the whole deal? I am PROUD of that essay! I think it's one of the best pieces of writing I've done all year, maybe ever! I'm not sure how those four thousand words flowed out of me so effortlessly, turning out the most marvelous first draft I've ever written, but they did. Isn't that a bitch? Not being able to revel in- or publish- something one is itching to, all because of the deceit in the piece to begin with? Perhaps that's the justice fate (or God, this does seem His style) has meted out to me: suffer in silence while "her" essay wins some award, unable to claim credit, only the shame of dishonesty. Sigh.

Turning Over a New Leaf on that Old Worn-out Plant of my Life

2009-08-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

So, reading over my last couple posts as I usually do when I summon up the courage and/or inspiration to spew out some verbiage on this blog, I even got a bit choked up at all the depressive negativity oozing out of the stuff.

Yeah, it might've been decent writing- heart-wrenching at least. But jeez, how many people wanna read crap like that repeatedly? I can't even stand to write it anymore, which explains my latest hiatus from blogging here.

Lots been going on though. I'm slowly but surely disassociating myself so closely with my church; not sure if that's a good thing or not but it is what it is. It started with signing up for a study or two, then finding reasons not to show. We stopped going to our small group, giving the perfectly valid excuse that Tony's work didn't allow him to make the night in question. Of course, we could've found another group, I could've gone alone, but it was just too easy to just blow it off. Next was missing a Sunday service here and there; no biggie, just on days that we slept in or had other stuff going on... but now, let's see- I think it's been 3 weeks since I've even stepped foot in His Place, when I used to show up two or three days a week for one volunteer position, study group, service or another. Oh yeah, dropped Nursery Volunteer duty too. Ask me why? I have no idea. I just can't seem to summon the energy to show up at 8:30 in the morning to watch a roomful of toddlers, smile determinedly fixed on my face, when inside I'm wondering just what the hell I'm doing there when I'm having serious issues with my faith.

And that right there's the root of it. I've gone back and forth on this, especially on those nights when I can't quite fall asleep and so run conversations and doubts and fears and memories through my mind until I'm about to go mad. What it's coming down to, is after reading through my Bible several times over the last couple years, I have issues. Issues that my pastor (brilliant and well-meaning man that he is) cannot answer- just gives me that stock answer: take the leap of faith. Well, faith is what I'm lacking at this point. So until I have a recharge on my God batteries, I think I'm going to keep flaking on my church attendance, not answering calls from well-meaning members, and trying not to drown in my sour-tasting cynicism.

Okay- on to brighter topics. Didn't I just vow not to drone on and on regarding sad and despairing issues in life?

I'm in counseling. I'm on an antidepressant that actually seems to work (maybe- maybe I'm just so sick of trying different ones that I've settled for an older, cheaper pill that I can pretend is making a difference so I don't have to keep spending fifty to seventy-five bucks every time my shrink suggests a new one. Of course I'm too broke to be insured, so all this guinea-pigging is costing a pretty penny. Some of the new ones are flat out ridiculous, and then when they don't do a damn thing 12 weeks later I'm out several hundred bucks- not even counting the doctor visits! But I've been on Trazodone for a couple of months now, and at least I have the wherewithal to get out of bed, get dressed for the day, care for my son and work. So maybe it's working, maybe not- maybe I've just plumbed an unknown inner resource I didn't know I had but am now utilizing for the better.

My job(s) suck. I clean high-end residents who seem to thrive on finding bizarre tasks for us peons to complete: "Dear, would you mind bleaching the grout on the patio this week? I seem to see a bit of browning... thanks, doll." Like that. Plus, scrubbing other people's toilets, no matter how rich they are or how massive their mansion is, is just flat-out disgusting. And for some reason, all these rich bastards seem to love to have multiple pets, many of which are poorly housebroken and behaved. Perhaps if I did a poll, the numbers would support my theory, but I swear the richer the homeowner, the lousier the pet(s).

But, it's money, which we sorely need these days- my doctor bills, Jameson's dental check-ups and well-baby visits/immunizations... all these things add up. And since Tony's killer-paying job he'd had for almost five years went out of business, he was forced to take a position at the warehouse the former company was supplied by, at almost half the pay. Sigh.

I do want to state that getting out of the house again and earning an income, however pitiful, is gratifying. Not only for my mental health, but as a woman in her 30's who has ALWAYS supported herself somehow or another (some of these ways we won't mention here!) the three months I laid around unemployed feeling sorry for myself were totally dreadful. So that's one thing high on my gratitude list- in today's economy, it's not so easy to find work, especially one that fits in with my schedule of free babysitting here and there from my parents and stepdaughter. I was lucky enough to respond first to an ad in the Nickel's Worth, then another on craigslist, and between the two I suppose I'm making a respectable contribution to our finances. Sure wish I could be using my brain instead of my brawn, though!

Which brings me to the best news of all: I'm officially enrolled in NIC for late-start Fall semester! And will be full time come Spring. I applied for my FAFSA on a whim, but once I was approved, I realized this was my chance to actually go back to college and complete my education- and end up with a freakin' CAREER instead of some grunt job!

Don't know if I've mentioned this in former posts, but when I was in prison, I worked in the Education Center helping female convicted felons get their GED's or at least make progress in more remedial areas. It was one of the most enriching, fulfilling vocations I've ever had- I absolutely thrived on it. From that point on, getting my BA in Education was my dream. Lately, I've considered Social Work as well, beings as though if anyone has the experience to speak with troubled youth/institutionalized individuals, etc.- that'd be me.

Lo and behold, after speaking with Financial Aid, I have nearly a full-ride Pell, with a pending academic scholarship as well. And it will be no problem to double major in Ed and Social Work. Cool, huh?

I'm excited about something (well, besides my son) for the first time in I can't remember how long. I have something to look forward to- I'm meeting my advisor next week to choose my first classes- many will be online- and I'm already dreaming about becoming Dean's List sweetheart, maybe getting more assistance because of my felony status (Vocational Rehab adores people like me wanting to make something of myself)... and you know, although I felt a twinge of guilt for taking advantage of all these programs at first? Now I feel like I'm merely taking a loan from Uncle Sam and whatever other foundations are out there: I will be giving something back once I have my degrees under my belt and am out there helping people- people who might have been like the former me or would end up like that me without hope, without help, without an education being taught by someone who speaks their language.

Warm and Free. But What About Us?

2009-05-19T00:27:00.000-07:00

After watching a former shadow of my grandmother fade faster and faster, as the hospital stays became more frequent and of longer length, she finally was granted her last wish- to be released from KMC and their endless pokings, proddings, inside lines and CT scans; catheters and brochoscopies... to be released. And not just from the hospital.

See, she was just too ill in too many areas, not the big C, no, but renal failure coupled with two strokes, neither of which she could quite recover from. Diabetes, extreme edema and dysphasia toward the end. And all she wanted was to go home. To die, yes, she knew that. But at least away from the bright lights and endless visits from the sharpest of the many-initialed specialists down to the lowliest of aides and housekeepers. All she wanted was us- her family. Around her, loving her, keeping her comfortable, kissing her wasted cheeks and trying our hardest not to cry around her.

So that's what we did. Thanks to a wonderful Hospice administrator, he pulled some strings and in one whirlwind of an afternoon, got her de-IV'ed, signed out of what she considered a neverending nightmare (no offense, KMC- of the many hours I spent there by her side, I considered everyone to be at the very least competent, and most very compassionate as well) and sent home. Equipment magically appeared in her living room- a special hospital bed to ease her pressure ulcers, nurses available 24-7 by merely picking up the phone, and just the right amount of comfort measures for her to still recognize us but not be in pain.

The nurses were awesome, the aides cheerful, the Social Service worker empathetic and obviously capable. I'm sure had Grandma had need for a longer relationship with them, we would have been just as grateful as we were for the short time they assisted.

She passed away yesterday morning, at 5:20 am. I was holding her hand at the time, as she was unable to speak by that point. She had been home almost two full days, and we had time to assemble a full platoon of her descendants, siblings and of course her husband. My mother, aunt and I took the night shift, all sprawled out on various couches and me on the recliner (being the youngest, and assumedly the most spry). As I was a medical tech in the military- although it seems like ages ago- my family seems to rely on me for most of the translation of medical jargon, opinions on sudden symptoms, etc. It was my mom who shook me awake a bit after 5, saying Grandma didn't seem to be breathing anymore, labored and raspy as it had been. I rubbed my eyes, stumbled over to Grandma's hospital bed, and spoke first quietly, trying to get a response, then louder, shaking her, even tried to get a response by the hand squeezing method we had worked out the night before. Nothing. Then I checked her pulse, which was weak, thready but existent. Not like mine, which was racing and causing my head to throb. I had Mom immediately call the emergency Hospice line, from whence a nurse was summoned, and laid my head on her chest, trying to feel the lift and fall of breath. I felt a couple breaths, then nothing. The pulse had ceased as well.

Funny, no, ironic I suppose would be a more fitting term, at that point everything for me got very calm. Whereas before the days and nights had been full of tears and emotionalism, this time I just felt myself grow numb. I knew she was gone, I knew what had to be done, so I just gave her hand a last squeeze and got to it. Woke up Grandpa. Told him his companion of over twenty years was gone. Called next door to my dearest, sweetest aunt; the daughter of this woman who'd just passed away, who was her caregiver, champion and even the toughie when she'd had to be. That was the most difficult call to make, because I knew she would take it the hardest. Mom and my other aunt were both crying softly, Grandpa W. more rackingly. Downstairs, my cousin and his wife stuttered up the stairs, knowing somehow already and leaning on one another for strength. Thankfully their toddler slept through it.

My auntie arrived, panicked- all I'd said is come now. She saw it in my eyes and simply collapsed. It was one of the most heartwrenching things I've ever seen. All of us gathered together in that little upstairs living room, red carpet matted with their elderly Husky's dog hair, dawn just creeping in... it was unreal. I'm crying now while writing this, but it's a cleansing sort of cry; at that point it just didn't feel quite real. Grandma was still so warm, dammit! She was pale, but I could feel sweat at her temples when I stroked back her hair. How could life, even a bare approximation of one, be so there at one moment and gone the next?

When the nurse arrived, she was only able to confirm what we already knew, which started a whole new round of sobbing and everyone talking above everyone else. I tried to distance myself from it, feeling too empty to participate. So what did I do? Made a pot of coffee. Peed. Brushed my teeth. Called my husband and told him the news. Mundane fucking things that just didn't seem fair in the face of such of an enormity of sorrow.

Once reentering the room, the nurse took me aside and quietly asked if I would help her clear the room for a moment and if I could assist her in repositioning and cleaning up the "body" (me thinking, this is my grandmother, you heartless bitch! Not a body!), but outwardly smiling slightly and agreeing, yes, that would be a good thing- don't think anyone else would be up to the task. And of course she would rather me wash her gently down and put fresh jammies on her than some stranger struggle with it alone.
So I herded the others out on the deck, most of them furiously smoking cigarettes and sucking down coffee between sobs at that point, and did what needed to be done. Afterward, I actually felt some of the numbness secede; Grandma looked so much more peaceful with her pretty blue-striped pajamas on, the angel pin I had bought her at the hospital pinned to the lapel- she could have been sleeping peacefully.

The nurse thanked me profusely, made what phone calls she had to make, collected the unused medication and left.

For some odd reason, I felt compelled to pull out my little pocket Bible and stand over her and read Psalm 139. It had always been one of my favorites, and for some reason just seemed to be the right thing to do, although in my own ears, the words were ringing hollowly. While I did so, everyone sort of filed back in and listened, then we all just stood in silence after I'd finished. I felt like a fraud, or at the very least an actor in a bad movie, and sort of slunk away to where my backpack and purse were shoved under the kitchen table. No one noticed as I headed out, but I just didn't feel like I could handle it another minute, the air was oppressive and I was maybe a little more out of my mind than I thought at the time.

Ironically (yet again) my husband and son were pulling up right as I was getting into my car. I hadn't asked him to come, in fact, expressly forbade his bringing Jameson. But perhaps by some sort of spousal telepathy, he showed up exactly at the right moment- just in time to escort me home, where I held my son and cried into his hair until he squirmed to get down, confused at his mommy's bizarre actions.

Tony tucked me into bed, where I blissfully, dreamlessly slept most the day away, waking ravenous and groggy around three-ish. Fortified by donut holes and coffee, I determinedly set upon acting as "normal" as possible, only failing when an errant thought would send me back into the memories of the unrealities of that morning.

Am I grieving correctly? Is there a way to do so? Scores of books and articles are available on the subject, pages of shrinks in phone books rubbing their sweaty palms together in breathless anticipation of my call.

I think it's cheaper and more suited to my warped personality to just spew it out here, on my aptly named little blog. And let time and experience take care of the rest. I've been touched by death often, but never like this, sober, with a loved one growing cold under my touch. I'm forcing myself to think of her in Heaven, warm and free.

I love you, Grandma. Goodbye.

Be Careful What You Pray For?

2009-05-13T11:02:00.000-07:00

PART ONE:

Looking at the date of my last post on here, I was stunned to realize it had been a solid three months since I'd even plopped one little nugget of wackiness or wisdom on here- a site I swore to myself I would use faithfully to purge my overactive brain of its most pressing and/or interesting (at least to me) thoughts, fears, doubts or plain ole pontifications. Shit, I've had New Year's resolutions that were more successful than this has been lately.

What a Grade-A flake I've turned into. Not only here, either, in just about every aspect of my life except taking care of my little boy. At least some vestige of motherly instinct has overridden this oppressive case of the blues which has turned my oh-so-blessed life to crap. Which brings to mind the age old chicken/egg question: did I stop posting due to my depression? Or did my ceasing of not only online activity, but everything else in my life remotely recreational- hiking trips, church group activities, visiting friends and relatives- lead to the depression? Hell, at one point I didn't answer my phone for three days, didn't leave the house for nine, and refused to even step foot in my office (A month ago I was put on a "leave of absence", which I fear is p.c. for gently being replaced by someone who can do the job I had- actually, most likely it's taken several people to replace me... before my 'breakdown', I was working sixty and seventy hour weeks, and since I was being paid salary, this was just considered part of the job- some months were easy, the last couple were absolute hell).

Come to think of it, that might've been one of the catalysts for the "I can't take it any more" mantra I finally muttered to her... trying to juggle a multitude of home office duties, run a household while my husband works out of town Monday thru Friday, and care for an extremely active and energetic two-year-old I suppose pushed me to the breaking point. I have this problem, see- whenever my boss would ask me if I could tackle yet another project on top of the myriad other duties I was working on, I found myself incapable of admitting that no, I could not. I'd tell her, "Boss, I thrive under pressure!" and grit my teeth, put Jameson to bed and burn the midnight oil til it was done. Finally, I started slipping, though- boxes for food expos and demos weren't making it on time, I was forgetting to check the phone and internet inquiries from confused Celiac groups, cookbooks were getting mailed to the wrong addresses... I was losing it. And cumulatively, it was enough to have my boss send over her husband to pick up all the files, Pitney-Bowes mailstation, cases and cases of product, and all the other miscellany that I'd acquired over the last almost two years of my Namaste Foods employment. Employment that, unfortunately, was on a 1099 basis so I can't even collect unemployment. Haven't talked to her since, either, although her husband hinted at the possibility of my resuming partial or full employment once my mental state was back to its former (relative) stability. Being a fairly perceptive sort, however, that little aside, with the accompanying obligatory shoulder pat, registered pretty high on my bullshit meter. Bottom line, I'd become more of a liability than an asset, and no matter how much we all liked each other as people, our working relationship was kaput. I still greatly admire my former boss- she's one hell of a lady and I will never forget her belief in me when I was fighting my case so publicly- belief strong enough in my intellect and ethic that she hired me straight after of the end of the whole mess. And I think overall, I proved her right- I just got overwhelmed there at the end. If you're reading this- sorry, D.

Moving on...
See, now, the thing is, although I have been going a bit nuts from an entire month of doing nothing except tend to my son, clean my house to an almost ridiculous state of sterility and organization, and other borderline OCD activities I won't bore you with by listing, I'm not so sure I WANT to go back to working from home. My son is extremely demanding of my time when I'm here- it was a challenge to fend him off while attending to my work duties. Couldn't just ignore the little guy for eight hours straight, so multi-tasking took on a whole new definition. Plus- and anyone whose ever worked on a self-created schedule can attest to- it takes some serious discipline some days to force oneself into a home office to slog through the day's duties, rather than say, read a good book or sleep in just because you know you CAN.
So, working from home I think was a good idea on paper- and was wonderful when my son was still a little thing that would gurgle happily on a blankie on the office floor while I worked- it's no longer feasible for me, even once my mental faculties are all relatively stable again.
'Cause they're not, you know. I still sleep waaaay too much- when Tonydaddy's home, and can look after the boy, I will sleep 15 or 16 hours at a stretch, no problem. And wake up grumpy because I want yet more. My eating habits suck: I cook meals for my family, but pick at my own plate, when I even bother making one for myself. Usually I just subsist on cinnamon sugared donut holes from Super 1, endless cups of coffee liberally doused with French Vanilla creamer, and when I start worrying about scurvy, I'll steam up an entire broccoli floret and salt and butter the heck out of it and eat that for a meal. Not exactly a stellar food pyramid, I know.
So. I've regurgitated my symptoms for the blogosphere to hopefully just absorb with equanimity, as I do NOT want your pity. God knows, I don't deserve it. If anything, pity my family for having to put up with this senseless form of entropy I've lapsed into... for NO FREAKING REASON!
Yes, I was working too hard. Okay, no more job. Depression gone? Hell no, worse than ever. Now, I mope around the house, read an average of nine crappy novels a week (I go for the 500 page plus ones- they're at least lengthier so I can escape reality a bit longer) and do my best to fake smiles for my son who shouldn't have to see his mommy like this.

PART TWO:

So, to touch on the relativity of the title of this post, I should explain the events of the last two weeks. If anyone recalls, there was another post from last year where I detailed my maternal grandmother's failing health: a couple of strokes, a fall which the resulting broken rib caused pneumonia, general weakness and malaise... to put it succinctly, she is a very, very sick woman.
Week before last, Saturday, she was so ill the ambulance rushed her to the hospital for a blood transfusion and some other life-saving measures due to her renal failure. Since at that point, her symptoms were about as stable as one could expect, they discharged her with the hopes that she would rally better at home, since her only statement (slurred, due to the post-stroke aphasia) she would make, repeatedly, was, "I want to go home. I want to go home."

This was a big mistake. She is also diabetic, normally non-insulin dependent, but her blood sugar began testing out in the 400's. At one point it was too high for the reader to give an answer: it simply flashed "HIGH- HIGH- HIGH". At that point, we again rushed her to the ER, where she was placed on multiple machines- respirators, cardiac monitors, an IV administering blood thinners, steroids to help her lung function, fluids to help her dehydration. An entire team of specialists was assembled, and even after a solid four days of working on her, when I cornered each one of them individually (I can be confrontational when it comes to those I love!) and asked them, "What is wrong with my grandmother and what are her chances of getting through this?" my only answers- with very little variation from each- was "Your grandmother is a very sick woman- we are basically at a loss as to what could be causing the multiple organ involvement and shutdown; of course, we are doing every test we can think of and treating each crisis as it arises, but there is no way we can answer whether she will get through this or not at this point."

Surprise, surprise. Doctorspeak for "we don't know what the hell is going on". Because of my recent unemployment and therefore having the most flexible schedule of the family, I've been spending the most time at the hospital; spending nights with her (man, those benches are uncomfortable!) and translating her slurred speech to the nurses and CNA's as needed. Basically, just being there for her- I think her greatest fear is being left alone to die; either at a hospital or at a "care center" (PC for nursing home these days). Yes, there are some good ones, but we as a family are determined to respect our loved ones wishes and just want to get her home to pass on in dignity, surrounded by those who love her. As skilled as the nurses, doctors and other caregivers in those facilities and hospitals may be, none of them love her like we do, therefore, none of them can or will go the extra mile to make her as comfortable and happy as possible during her journey to Heaven. And after some one-on-one time I had with her the other night, I do feel like she has accepted Jesus back into her heart and will be reunited with Him upon her passing. I was actually pretty worried about that- my Grandma has led one helluva hard-drinking, hard-living, well-traveled life, and fell away from her childhood Lutheran faith a looong time ago. So I hope the little bit of Scripture I read her and the conversation we had after has made the difference- if anything, I know it made ME feel way better.

I guess that's what Part Two of this blog post is really about- with my grandma being sick, I've felt better than I have in weeks. I know it's because I've been too busy dealing with her, organizing family shifts of who's staying when with her, translating the more confusing medical terms for the rest of the family, and all that... but is that really solving my depression? or just putting a Band-Aid on it, if you will?

I am under the care of a doctor- she's tried four different antidepressants on me to date and none of them have worked worth a damn. So the next step, besides counseling at Genesis as soon as this crisis with Grandma has passed, is an eval with a psychiatrist, who'll hopefully be able to rule out something more serious like manic depression or something of the like.

But what if that doesn't work either? Should I search out other people's problems to focus on rather than my own? Will that "solve" this super-funk I've slipped into? Or is it just a result of extended sobriety: actually all the way clean of chemicals that for most of my life have numbed all the negative feelings I've encountered.

Any comments or advice would be very welcome. Thanks for listening, blogosphere.

Corruption? Collusion? Just Plain Crap?

2008-11-23T12:14:00.000-08:00

The media *coughCd'APresscough* has remained mysteriously silent on something I find quite disturbing... Dave Williams, a probation officer who'd been with the department around 9 or 10 years, was fired after some sordid allegations by a gal named Wanda Arrington, one of the dozens of probationers under his supervision, happening, unfortunately for Dave, to be one of the female ones. In her complaint to the authorities, she claimed he called at late hours, asking questions about her boyfriend, her state of dress/undress, and other questions with sexual undertones.

Some of his actions she was complaining about were legit- P.O.'s are allowed to call whenever they darn well please- how else are they to know if you're keeping curfew rules? and are perfectly within their rights to ask about the probationer's company they're keeping. The other alleged questions, if true, are of course way out of line. Yet odd, as well, considering Ms. Arrington is not exactly filling society's mold of what's "attractive". It'd have to be a mighty big mold, if so. No offense against the many overweight women out there, but you'd think if a probation officer was taking a gigantic risk by "hitting on" one of his supervisees (is that a word?) he'd pick one of the young, sultry meth-induced big-eyed skinnies with which his caseload I'm sure abounded. Instead, according to Wanda, he picked instead: an older alcoholic with a mouth as big as the rest of her.

But hey, perhaps Dave's tastes now run that direction- who knows? His ex-wife was quite a looker, but after their extremely messy (and, unfortunately for him, public) breakup, perhaps he swore off pretty women forever.

So... the thing that really struck me as curious is that the Press never once bothered to inform the public in their articles denouncing Mr. Williams that the prosecution's star witness, Ms. Arrington, was incarcerated shortly after these charges against Officer Williams- by a different (presumably neutral) P.O.- for multiple infractions of her supervision: the probation violations will usually almost certainly land her back in prison. The other charge, "spitting on the sidewalk", I have no idea what the sentencing guidelines on that bad boy is. What conclusion I can draw from the fact that it's even listed on there as a charge is that she musta really ticked the arresting officer off for him to even charge her with such a petty offense. Drunk again? Or maybe she just had a bad taste in her mouth...

Wonder if some sort of deal is in the process of being cut...?

The only reason I found out about her current residence was by idly scanning the names on the jail roster one day while bored (one can learn some amazing facts about our Public Safety Building's overcrowded inmates' charges: we have an astounding amount of sex offenders, for one thing. (blech!) Disturbingly high for what it should be per capita.), and I came across the name Wanda Arrington, with a long list of charges below it. She'd been in there quite some time, it seemed.

What sort of witness is this? One with extremely valid ulterior motives, if you ask me. Shed doubt on the integrity of the probation officer and whatever he's accusing the woman of, and all of a sudden it holds much less water than it would coming from a lily-white source.

Unfortunately, what muddied the water further, was the fact that months/years? earlier, Mr. Williams had gone through some personal problems with his then wife, resulting on him being placed on paid leave for a time while the whole mess got straightened out. Stalking charges stemming from a messy breakup was what the gist of it seemed to be. How this affects his credibility on his professional life that much later I'm not sure. Supposedly he agreed to a plea-bargain which, after he completed a series of counseling sessions and passed a test deeming him fit for active duty again, it was all good and behind him. Ha. Those of us who've been involved with these types of things know they're NEVER behind us, not when something comes up that gives the opposing side opportunity to drag the dirty laundry out all over again!

Did Ms. Arrington know about this blot on her supervising officer's record? Perhaps while he was consoling her about her rocky relationship with her boyfriend, he looked to establish some form of rapport by confessing some past problems of his own? We'll never know.

So I said to myself, "Self, does the Press know about this? If so, did they intentionally omit it from their unflattering article about Dave Williams' inglorious departure from IDOC? or was it an innocent oversight?

Hmmm. I would like to think it was mere ignorance (not an uncommon trait in many of the Press' journalists) that was responsible for the omission of Wanda's current residence- plus why she's there- but at the same time, little ole Coeur d'Alene is not immune to the good old boy network that plays many a part in what gets published when and who gets blamed for what.

I just hope that Mr. Williams, a great guy who took his job very seriously from all accounts- and I did speak to many of his former and current (at that time) probationers before reaching the decision that I did- has no problem bouncing back from this grievous attack on his character and that black spot on his resume. Maybe law enforcement isn't an option for him anymore, but I am keeping my fingers crossed and including him in my prayers hoping that perfect job will come along and snap him up, so his talents and honest desire to help people will not go to waste.

Cut-n-Paste Kendra

2008-11-16T11:13:00.000-08:00

Here's some particularly juicy fodder for conspiracy theorists that on a whim I decided to ~~post~~ paste on my poor neglected blog. Since I'm not feeling particularly inspired to write anything original, unfortunately, yet I don't want the darn thing to wither up and blow away.
Anyhow, I came across this in cyberspace and thought that in light of all the "assassination" nonsense already being hyped up in the media for our new President-Elect, I'd post it.

Okay, this starts out as just a bit coincidental:

Abraham Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846.
John F. Kennedy was elected to Congress in 1946.
Abraham Lincoln was elected President in 1860.
John F. Kennedy was elected President in 1960.
Both were particularly concerned with civil rights.
Both wives lost their children while living in the White House.
Both Presidents were shot on a Friday.
Both Presidents were shot in the head.

Now a little weirder....

Lincoln's secretary was named Kennedy.
Kennedy's secretary was named Lincoln.
Both were assassinated by Southerners.
Both were succeeded by Southerners named Johnson.
Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Lincoln , was born in 1808.
Lyndon Johnson, who succeeded Kennedy, was born in 1908.
John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated Lincoln, was born in 1839.
Lee Harvey Oswald, who assassinated Kennedy, was born in 1939.
Both assassins were known by their three names.
Both names are composed of fifteen letters. (whatever)

Now, some irony:

Lincoln was shot at the theater named 'Ford.'
Kennedy was shot in a car called 'Lincoln' made by 'Ford.'
Lincoln was shot in a theater and his assassin ran and hid in a warehouse.
Kennedy was shot from a warehouse and his assassin ran and hid in a theater.
Booth and Oswald were assassinated before their trials.

And irony at its finest...

A week before Lincoln was shot, he was in Monroe, Maryland.
A week before Kennedy was shot, he was in Marilyn Monroe.

Funny, huh?

*****************************************************

So, although I am reduced to borrowing a method from Sholeh "Cut-n-Paste" Patrick at our city's nepotistic paper (she's the editor's wife), it's not as though there's nothing interesting going on in my life- in fact, it's the exact opposite: I'm so insanely busy with work, raising my son, coordinating Angel Tree Children's Ministry by Prison Fellowship at our church (a program that provides prisoners' children with Christmas presents), struggling to cut corners and save money for Christmas and Tony's birthday on Dec. 11th (which of course I always go all out for)... I feel like that lady in the Mirena commercial on TV, the one who doesn't have time to "finish a book, finish a sentence!"; or in my case, start OR finish a post on my blog.

Ah well, I see a New Year's resolution in the works... and perhaps reserving a half-hour or so every morning for writing would do wonders for my stress level? We'll see.

My First Ever- and Likely Last- Political Commentary here on SoulDoubt

2008-10-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, this about sums up how I feel about the clownish claptrap circulating via forums, blogs, mainstream media, all those silly ads... it's all a bunch of sound-bites (bytes?) that the thinking American- admittedly the minority- could give two shits and a damn about. Unfortunately, the other end of the spectrum are going to be brought around (if, in fact, they even bother to vote) by what their buddies/spouses/bosses think; by which candidate has the coolest hair, the most exciting scandal of which they're adroitly dodging (or even milking it for all it's worth), or by being black or having a female veep: who's ventured forth with the most daring break of stereotypicism (Firefox just underlined that in red, alerting me to it not being a word, but if it's not, it should be. I'm keeping it up there.)

I am so sick of hearing CHANGE...MAVERICK...MUSLIM...-GATE of any sort...MAIN STREET...EARMARKS... the list is neverending. Whether I hear it in McCain's stentorian timbres, Obama's thoughtfully rich alto, Palin's abrasive Fargo-esque whine, or Biden's I'm-about-to-lose-my-temper-but-am-modulating-my-tones-through-sheer-willpower rumble, I am so sick of all the pre-scripted, newspeak drivel (no, it's not Orwell's 1984, but I do sense similarities to Animal Farm). Scary? You betcha.

These days when the breath of rabid political commentators from both sides, reeking unabashedly of excremental fanaticism, begins to waft through the air, I take shallow, anti-gag reflex calming breaths, then attempt to make a low-key escape- preferably without being forced to give an opinion on the race. In other words, I use my short stature to my advantage and sneak out quickly, staying under the average bugged out yet beady eye level.

If cornered, my standard riposte: I am a felon, remember? Since my country has assumed that with committing of a crime in one's past there's all of a sudden an ~~inane~~ innate inability to choose one's nation's leaders, I refuse to involve myself intellectually or emotionally in this election: which, since my vote will most certainly NOT count- why bother getting embroiled in heated partisan squabbles? I witness them daily, not only on political forums and/or blogs, but in living rooms and church foyers. In line at the grocery store. At the bank. In fact, I think the only time I haven't heard a word (heated, openly critical, racist/sexist sometimes, or otherwise) about the upcoming election and its various candidates was when I took that last trip into Probation & Parole to get my discharge papers! Oh, the ignorant bliss of the great unwashed...

(And hey, being a former member of that stereotype, I feel fully justified in making such a derogatory comment- after all, for many months I rubbed shoulders with everyone from drug addicts to stockbrokers to child molesters, all reduced to zero status in that pit of lawbreaking humanity; but oh Lordy, LOTS of them could've benefited greatly from a bath and a set of clean clothes. Not to mention a few dozen IQ points... but I digress.)

Anyway, this is how I- and I would be willing to bet, were I a betting man (wait, I'm not a man. But that would screw up the whole cliche were I to substitute "woman" for "man", don't you think? The familiar ring would be gone. I'm leaving it as is. Feminazis, screw you.) Anyway, were I a betting man -doesn't that just sound like a sweet slice of Americana?- I would wager that MOST Americans condense the endless poli-babble they hear on Faux, on CNN, MSNBC, or even online from the various incarnations of news which is that easy to swallow pill for your comfort and convenience, of course... and this is what they hear:

Get the latest news satire and funny videos at 236.com.

Nothin' Else I Need to Do but Dance

2008-09-13T08:56:00.000-07:00

Got a phone call the other day. I'd been expecting it for a while, but it was still pure joy and relief which coursed through my veins when I realized what it was about.

"Hello?" says I.

"Kendra?" the female voice on the other end said, a voice which although not instantly familiar, rang a dim bell of recognition in my brain.

"Yeeess?"

"Kendra Martinez? Formerly known as Kendra Goodrick, but not anymore, because the Idaho Department of Correction is releasing her from supervised probation?" there was a singsong, smiling tone to the voice, and I finally recognized it as Tammy Douglas, who up to that point had been my probation officer.
"We got your discharge papers back from the judge, and I'm going to be leaving them at the front desk here for you to pick up, okay?"

I babbled something nonsensical with a relived laugh and got out a promise to be there shortly. I managed to thank her for this past year, for being such a nice lady. She responded in kind, saying something about how she wished all her caseloads were so easy. We laughed about her telling Kevin Kempf that no, he did not need to alert the media, my fifteen minutes of fame were long done, and thankfully so. Then I hung up the phone and let out a whoop, startling my son and probably the neighbors, as loud as it was.

Then I danced manically around the house, singing a song I made up on the spot- I can't quite remember it now, but there were lots of "Oh yeah"s and "Freedom!"s in it. I probably looked a bit like this:

Except, of course, I don't own any moon boots.

Another Year Bites The Dust

2008-09-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

On August 28th, I officially crept another year toward my fourth decade of existence. And boy, what a year it has been! Another stint of supervised probation (which was actually a breeze and will be over any day now, just waiting on paperwork); an awesome job that has allowed me to work from home while I raise my son, who, speaking of which, has grown into a delightful little boy (although I'm pretty sure he's only part human- the rest is either Tasmanian Devil or some bizarre alien life-form with boundless energy and enthusiasm for destruction); a year of huge spiritual growth and transformation for both myself and my husband; financial struggles, triumphs, and sacrifices- most notably, Tony quitting his well-paying job which he'd held for years because of the toll it was taking on our little family when he was out of town all week, every week- and many, many more landmark events and days of laughter and tears, those memorable moments which mark the passing of time.

My actual birthDAY was a fairly low-key event- I think I'm well past the stage where I'd demand a big to-do, with the requisite keg and fifty or sixty people which I just HAD to invite. Instead, I was simply awoken with a kiss and a "Happy birthday, sweetheart," then handed a cup of coffee and a squirming toddler in need of a diaper change. So after seeing my husband off to work, the little guy and I settled into our normal weekday routine:

Mom reads the paper while Son does his best to distract her with unceasing chatter in Toddlerese, as well as frequent pounces onto her lap in order to crumple and rip the pages of something which dares divert any attention away from him.
Mom eventually gives up, pops Son into highchair and tries to get more cereal IN him than ON him, a daunting but not impossible task, and highly entertaining to Son.
When finished, Son gets stripped, wiped down, and dressed in the first of a series of outfits which will by necessity get changed throughout the day when he splatters and soaks himself with a variety of substances.
Mom then manages to attract Son's attention with one of his singing, wiggling, flashing, battery-operated playthings, then sneakily pops the baby gate on the door of his room so she can get some work done.
This cycle, with a few variations, repeats throughout the day.

After all, Jameson didn't know the day was any different from any other. And I think his idea of a present is an extra-full diaper (with corn!). I did get a few phone calls and emails from co-workers, family and friends, wishing me well or asking me to stop by and pick up my gifts, since there was to be no formal get-together. So that afternoon I loaded up the boy and made the rounds of my grandma's, auntie's, and "BFF"'s, collecting goodies and cards at every stop. What a great family I have, really. What they lack in polish they make up for in love. Raw, unconditional love and acceptance- a gift in itself.

Tony came home late that afternoon bearing red roses and a sweetly mushy card- I think the punch line was something like, "I'll kiss you once for every year of your life- and pretend you're much older"- and he was determined to live up to its promise. The big sweetie. Then we were off to dinner at my mom's house, or, "the farm", as we affectionately call it, which was a smashing success. Yummy cornish game hens, decadent pudding cake with super creamy frosting (I can't stand that sugary fluffy stuff) and banana split ice cream. Along with more gifts, of course. One of them was another baby gate, one that I've been bitching about needing for weeks- Jameson for some reason adores the master bathroom, and although we've babyproofed it as much as possible, even installing a lock on the toilet lid and locks on all the cupboard doors, he now climbs into the bathtub, scales the ledge in the corner up to the counter, and wreaks havoc up there. I first discovered this new proclivity of his when I heard a sudden wail of pain from that side of the house; I rushed in there only to find Jameson standing in one of the sinks, both hands bracing himself against the mirror, with the hot water tap on full force... he was stuck, scalding his little feet and utterly perplexed as to how to escape. But the scary part was that after I rescued him, scolding him and comforting him simultaneously (anyone with young children masters this art), I took a closer look at the plethora of dangerous and/or potential mess-making items up there on the bathroom counter: Tony's razor and shaving cream, my jewelry box, lotions and potions and all kinds of accidents waiting to happen!
So yeah, I needed a baby gate wide enough to fit our doorless master bathroom. And was totally stoked to receive such a practical, thoughtful gift. Other cool stuff was of course my guitar (early present, but a lavish one to be sure), cash (one can never go wrong with the cold hard duckets), and a gift certificate for Music City, where I can prowl the aisles for guitar strings, picks, and maybe a practice amp. All in all, a fantastic haul. I mean, even our bank sent me a birthday card. So what if they do that for everybody- it sure made my day!

And at the end of the night, the boy was in his crib, dreaming about future adventures involving large quantities of mud, I'm sure- and his daddy and I got the chance to snuggle and discuss the life we have these days... how we have reason to celebrate- not just birthdays, but all those days that fall in between them.

A Bright Black Cherry Burst Quilt Spot in an Otherwise Dark Week

2008-07-24T08:32:00.000-07:00

If you're wondering what the heck that post title could possibly mean, I should first explain that the situation with my stepdaughter has NOT gotten better at all- if anything, it's deteriorating rapidly. Her drug use, cigarette smoking and whatever other vices she's dangerously indulging in, I've now found out have been permitted- if not necessarily condoned- by her father, my husband, of course without my knowledge. Behind my back, in fact. Apparently he's trying so hard to be her buddy, he's forgotten his role as her father. He's also seemingly forgotten that part of being in a marriage is presenting a united front, especially towards one's children. Dissension among the ranks should be behind closed doors, not after the stepmom finds out about crap that the other two have been lying about and hiding. To make it even worse, things have also come up missing around the house. I've been forced to put a password on my computer, purchase a small lockbox, and hide certain items I'm afraid may grow legs and hop into J's hot little hands. Can you sense some resentment here? I sure hope so; I think I can even feel it oozing off my fingertips onto the keys.

Anyway, we are (or at least I am) taking steps to rectify these completely unacceptable activities, attitudes, and atrocities taking place in the former sanctity of our home. There is an elder at our church who owns a Christian counseling service, Genesis Associates; I yanked the poor guy to the side after services last Sunday and poured the whole sorry story out on him; he was gracious enough to offer to start us out with a mediation session between just Tony and myself (communication at this point has almost entirely broken down, reduced to epithets and personal attacks on both sides), then possibly lead into a moderate number of sessions necessary to relieve some of the communication issues and animosity. We may even bring J into it at some point, if she lasts in our household that long, or is amenable to such bullshit (to use her terminology). We'll see.

I was at a family function last Saturday- the 50th wedding anniversary of some semi-distant relatives. It was fun, but the highlight of the event was a short little jam session with my uncle Gary, which made me realize just how sharply I miss playing guitar.. I didn't realize how rewarding making music can be when one's soul is aching- music is a wonderful conduit for all of life's ills and injustices. Case in point: the blues.

Musical talent runs in my family- my dad used to be quite well-known in the area back in the late 70's/early 80's. He- Zane Goodrick- played a combination of good ol' boy country, Southern rock, and classic rock (Stones; Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; John Prine- all faves as far as I can recall, along with hundreds upon hundreds of others). My pops was that breed of musician that was mainly in it for the song in it's entirety- something I inherited- he eschewed the fancy leads and exact chord changes for the basic feel of the song... one that everyone in the audience can recognize with joy, sing along to at the top of their lungs, and just generally enjoy as a package deal.

I learned from my dad at the age of around 12 or 13; didn't get serious til my late teens, but then really became devoted once I discovered the wonders of Jimi Hendrix. At first it discouraged me from continuing playing- I mean, why bother? The guy had already done all that was to be done, I could never even hope to wash his sandals, to borrow a line from J the B. But then I looked at the flip side, and decided that instead of him being my inspiration and someone to try to emulate, I would rather just idolize him while sticking to what I did best- just plain playing songs. Any songs. Songs off the radio (I can usually pick 'em up by ear and fake my way through), songs listeners request- like "Hotel California" or "House of the Rising Sun"- I must've played each of those about a billion times apiece! Or as of late, praise and worship songs which I've scavenged tabs and lyrics for off the internet; most of them are pretty simple.

But one major thing which has kept me from pursuing this avocation (besides the demands of my job, son, and other real life concerns), this something which used to be a ha-huge part of my life, is the fact that I've nothing but a beater little pawn shop acoustic, plastered with stickers and with action so miserable one's fingers are complaining after the first barre chord or two; not to mention tinny, twangy tone and zero resonation, it being a 3/4 size no-name dreadnought to begin with. Embarrassing to take out in public, a pain in the ass to play in private, and generally just a dust collector these last couple months- after seeing and savoring the feel of a quality guitar neck under my now uncalloused fingers I was determined to kick that p.o.s. to the curb and treat myself to a real instrument, one that I could play the heck out of anytime, anywhere, just for the sheer joy of it.

So we went directly from the party in the Spokane Valley to Pawn1 in Post Falls, and lo and behold: there was an absolutely breathtaking guitar on display there right in the place of honor. I knew enough about the make and model to be in utter awe -not to mention feeling serious trepidation about the price tag- an Ovation Celebrity acoustic/electric with all the bells and whistles (built in all-new OP20 preamp which features three eq bands and a Pre-Shape circuit for killer tonal flexibility, chromatic tuner that's easy to use and keeps perfectly in-tune even when using open or non-standard tunings), not to mention the gorgeous finish on the maple body face: black cherryburst quilt, high-gloss; the signature curved mid-depth Ovation back seemed form fitted for little ol' me, too. All this just HAD to be too good to be true! Or at least too expensive!

Well, wonders upon wonders, some idiot pawned this beauty and Pawn1 was silly enough to list it at the ridiculously low price of $350.00. Being fairly loyal purchasers of electronics and jewelry at their shop we don't pawn- just take advantage of other peoples' idiocy for practically giving away their stuff to loan sharks in respectable fronts of buildings... we were even able to talk 'em down to 300, case included. I swear when I walked out of that building my feet didn't even touch the ground. I was so elated, I couldn't wait to get better acquainted with my new sweetie.

Haven't named her yet- any suggestions would be much appreciated. Maybe I'll be like Phil or JB3ll3 and hold a contest- the prize could be one serenade of the winner's choice. Like I said, I can play or at least b.s. my way through just about anything, so be it old or new, country, classic rock, alternative, blues, oldies, Christian contemporary, very little punk/metal/grunge (mainly from their strange tunings and my lack of interest in the music itself. Mainly I play for the love of it, the love of expressing my feelings through song, be it joyous or sad, the love of seeing faces of those who are listening light up with recognition or love for the song. I love it when they sing along, or jump in with a guitar or other instrument of their own (Herb, why don't you break out that banjo and lets cut loose with some bluegrass? I know "Big Midnight Special"... but that's about it, unfortunately. You should school me, old guy! I love learning from more experienced players than I.) And Stickman, do you play? What about anyone else?

My Uncle Gary runs a homeless assistance center called Fresh Start on Coeur d'Alene Ave in C'dA, actual address 418 Coeur d’Alene Ave. He does wonderful things there, mainly helping the mentally ill and those with legal/criminal issues have a safe place to vent, find resources, shower, etc. He also holds jam sessions, any and all welcome, every Saturday morning from 10 to around noon. This week, for the first time, I'm going. And I'm going with pride in my new guitar, hopes that I will be able to release some stress from playing- it used to work, why wouldn't it now? and especially just spend some time with another family member who really cards about me and while I was stuck in the dope scene, I shut him and many others out of my life. It's time to start repairing those bridges, and I'm looking forward to this.

Let's see if the photos turn out (they won't do this marvelous instrument justice, but at least they can give you a general idea of this thing of beauty I am so in love with!

Here's another one, unfortunately the high gloss reflects the glare a bit too much.

What do you musicians (or nonmusicians for that matter think? Is this not the most beautiful hand crafted work of art expressly made for birthing beautous music?

One Guilt Trip, All Expenses Paid

2008-07-16T08:59:00.000-07:00

I've been mulling this over for days, wondering if I'm being selfish and petty, or merely looking out for our little family's best interests- and always end up right back where I started. Trying to discuss it with my husband is even more pointless: he's firmly convinced I'm being the former (selfish, heartless, petty, etc.) rather than the latter, and every time it gets brought up, a measured exchange of views quickly escalates into a full-blown fight.

And you know, I'm not even sure if this is appropriate blog fodder, hitting as close to home as it does; when the story involves personal details of people besides myself, I usually shy away from airing the laundry here. Be it dirty or sparkling Clorox white. But I've long ago gotten full clearance from Tonydaddy to share the goriest details of our lives in whichever forums I may choose, so I'm going to exercise that option now, in hopes that transcribing the situation may even help my thoughts fall into line a bit more clearly and eventually lead to some sort of resolution. That often does happen with me- I'm much more of a writer than a debater.

So here's the scoop. Tony and I have been together around 6 years, and in the beginning one of the reasons he became so enamored of me was because of the way his two daughters and I hit it off. Apparently, after his divorce, there had been quite the parade of women through his life, none of whom his girls were willing to share their daddy with. I was an exception, and to have finally found someone whom they liked, Tony was overjoyed to say the least.

The odd thing was that once we both went through the whole bloody process of end-stage drug addiction/sales, multiple arrests, drying out and cleaning up while incarcerated, managing to struggle our way through outpatient treatment, 12-step meetings, probation and the like- somehow Tony and I got closer, but the girls and my relationship became more and more strained.

Looking back, I think there were a few different factors involved. For one, changes having little or nothing to do with their father or I: J, the younger daughter, had evolved from a sweet little single-digit tomboy into a rebellious, sullen teenager. B, an awkward and shy adolescent to begin with, morphed into a dark, angst-ridden highschooler with multiple piercings and an attitude toward everybody. So it's not like I'm part of some exclusive club.

I think that they may have also blamed me in part, even if it were subconsciously, for the eventual downfall of their dad. See, when we first hooked up, we were living pretty high on the hog because of drug sales: lots of cool toys, cars and trucks with bumping stereo systems, a well-stocked garage in a home Tony still owned... and of course much of this ill-gotten wealth spilled over into J and B's lives as well. When they stayed with us, they were spoiled rotten. And every effort was made to shield them from the sordid realities of dealing huge quantities of dope. Oh, I'm sure they had an inkling- after all, we rarely slept; fed them but didn't eat much ourselves; dropped them off at Skate Plaza, Triple Play or the mall with wads of cash waaay too often, so we could "take care of grown-up business" and pick them up hours later.
So when the house of cards all came crashing down, it was Tony who got arrested first. I liquidated much of our "holdings" to bail him out on a $90,000 bond, only for him to be arrested again, on new charges, the next day. That's how demented our lives had become, and how well-acquainted the law had become with us. It was a relief, really, when the cycle repeated itself with me a few months later- I got arrested, bailed out, and was rearrested a few weeks later; both times with large quantities of drugs and paraphernalia.

So there we sat, in the crossbar hotel, probably within 50 yards of one another but of course unable to communicate except through collect phone calls to my mother, who would pass on messages, albeit reluctantly. She, at this point, was every bit as disgusted with us as everyone else in the straight world was- and NOBODY held any hope for Tony and I to stay together. After all, we were both facing long prison sentences, had basically lost everything (I had put everything in storage after the house was foreclosed on, but after being incarcerated myself, there was no one to make the payments), and it was common knowledge that toward the end we fought like banshees almost daily... so what future could a relationship possibly hold between two such idiots?

I'm sure the girls had picked up on much of this- after all, they're neither blind nor stupid; they knew Dad had been arrested for drug dealing and that Mom blamed his demise on Dad's trashy new girlfriend. And in their family, at that point, it was most certainly NOT fashionable to stick up for me, regardless of what buddies the girls and I had been before. As S.E. Hinton titled her book, That was Then, This is Now.

So for the next year or so, things were in limbo as Tony and I reaped the rewards of our short-lived drug-dealing career. What a career, really- sure, the short-term benefit package was alright; but the retirement package truly sucked. Somehow, we got through it and made a fresh start from scratch upon release. Not much of one, though- Tony was living at a halfway house, I in my mother's attic. Both of us were under the strictest supervision, something which Tony handled well but I chafed at, eventually exploding under the pressure and violating probation. I had managed to get a little apartment and a decent job, both of which I lost as I was sentenced to my full time in prison- four solid years before eligible for parole, a potential of fourteen total (in the lingo: four fixed, ten indeterminate). I was devastated, to say the least, but I also knew this was all of my own doing, and I think at that point the inner change began to take place... actually, I'm sure it did: I've been clean ever since.

Of course, I didn't bother telling anybody else this- why would they believe me? I'd just let a whole lot of people down with my relapse and recidivism- no one was gonna believe I had all of a sudden finally decided to take my recovery seriously! The exception to this was Tony. Amazingly enough, he believed me- he believed in me, too. And he stood by me. He visited. He wrote almost daily. He stayed faithful and kept me convinced I was worth staying faithful to. It was remarkable, how solid this guy was. And while the months dragged by for me, Tony meanwhile was reestablishing a relationship with his daughters, trying to salvage the wreck it had become. He was still living at the halfway house while saving up money, so the girls couldn't stay overnight or anything, but they did start spending a lot more time together. And at this point, neither one of them could understand why their dad was wasting his time and money on a loser jailbird like me who obviously couldn't stay off the dope. Whatever friendship they and I had once had was totally kaput, try as Tony may to play peacemaker.

A miracle occurred: Judge Mitchell signed off on a "Rule 35", a loophole granting me alternative sentencing. Instead of rotting away in a state hold, I was given another chance at the Idaho Retained Jurisdiction program: 120 days in a minimum security prison which was heavy on the treatment programs and transitioning for release. I aced the program, something fairly rare. People were starting to wonder if I maybe was serious. I no longer had to wonder about how successful I'd be upon release: I knew. Something had shifted inside of me, and from that point on I was determined to do whatever it took to stay clean and out of jail.

. . . . . . . .

Fast-forward a few years. After a huge scare from the Idaho Court of Appeals- no fault of mine, it was due to the Judge's procedural error- and a brief period of newsworthiness, I escaped fairly unscathed: a scant month of incarceration, this time fully supported by friends, family and the community at large; a happy ending and reunion with my now-husband and newborn son. Heady stuff, to be sure. The silver lining to the cloud?
1) A great job- Daphne Taylor, owner of Namaste Foods, hired me on salary to work from home doing promotional mailings and some light online duties for her company. I've since been promoted, gotten the hang of things in the allergen-free market, and adore being able to work from home while raising my son.
2) A great church- His Place, where Tony and I have grown closer by including God in our marriage and every other part of our lives.
3) This blog- as well as HBO, some online buddies and real-world relationships which all came about as a result of my notoriety.

So, all this and more has transpired over the last I don't know how long, but to travel back to the issue which inspired this post: J and B are now both somewhat troubled girls, J in particular, and their relationship with their mom is strained to the point where B is living in the Seattle area with a friend of the family (at 18 years of age, something she is entitled to do) and J, while still technically residing with her mom, is rebelling so viciously that if something isn't done, their relationship may be damaged to the point where the law is forced to step in. Yeah, it's that bad.

B lived with us for a short time last year, attending school in this district for maybe a semester, before deciding her uncle's house was much more fun- after all, we were out in the middle of nowhere, led staid, boring lives, and a kid brother wasn't as fun to live with as he was to visit. And heaven forbid she would be asked to do some chores around the house, maybe wash a dish or clean her room from time to time!
Bottom line was, it didn't work. There was a mild clash of personalities, and although there are no hard feelings now, I doubt she'll ask to stay here again.

J, on the other hand, has only had the joys of staying with Daddy and family over the weekends in the last couple years since we've lived here- which entails pizza, staying up all night on MySpace, movies, her friends staying over with her to keep her company, all that jazz. No reality check whatsoever. So of course, to her this seems like paradise compared with her mean old mom. Especially due to the fact that Tony is by no means a disciplinarian in any way, shape or form, and in pretty much everyone's opinion who knows her, J is in sore need of some discipline right now. And I concur, having been a 14 year old girl myself at one point- one very similar to J, as a matter of fact. I too was smoking pot and drinking at parties, cussing like a truck driver, and enamored of guys in leather jackets way too old for me. I can also relate to hating my mom at that stage in life, and sympathize with J's desire to escape her.

This is where the quandary comes in- on one hand, I want to help this child. She really is a sweet girl, despite the tough front and potty mouth. Her dad adores the ground she walks on, and is able to laugh off the school suspensions, drug use, and fighting. She shows a tender side to her little brother, and when asked to do the dishes or whatnot, only drags her feet I think for show. And again, the situation with her mom has just about reached the boiling point. I will feel extremely guilty if J ends up in juvie because I forbade her to move in with us.

Hell, I feel guilty already. Guilty for not just welcoming her with wide open arms, guilty for trying to talk this through with Tony, guilty for bringing up questions like: where is she going to sleep and keep all her stuff? we don't have a spare room. What if we go through all the trouble to get her in school and get her moved in, only to have her do what her sister did, change her mind a couple months down the road? Or worse, what if the problems escalate and next thing you know, we have the law knocking on our doors again? Are we really doing her any favors by bringing her into our home, when we both know full well Tony's not cut out to be a hard-ass? And don't even try to make me assume that role, that wouldn't even be fair.

But right now, J is staying with us. Sort of. I guess she's been dividing her time between here and her aunt's house- her and her cousin are really close: same age, same problems, etc., and of course it's much funner for her to be in town rather than out in the boonies where we live.
But things are still very much in limbo. Nothing has been promised, nothing has been laid out in the way of plans or rules or anything, and I think both her and Tony are halfway hoping things will just sort of fall into place without any big "talk" or any of that uncomfortable nonsense. And maybe they will, I don't know. Maybe the longer J sticks around, the more I'll warm to the idea of her living here with us. Maybe I'm just being unreasonable and cynical. Perhaps I should give her a chance, the way so many others have given me chances throughout the years. And even though at her age I personally was just getting started in my career of disappointing and breaking the hearts of those who cared for me, it could be that she is just going through a brief phase of it, one that could be cured if her and her dad would just give her a fresh start here at our house.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to give her this chance, but I'm not nearly as sure that all will work out for the best. And there lies the rub.

O Happy Day!

2008-06-25T15:05:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a long, rocky road, but I've gotten word that all my hard work has finally paid off. What am I referring to, might you ask? PROBATION!!!

I just got off the phone with my probation officer. She had submitted a request to my judge (The Honorable John T. Mitchell, for those who are interested) to waive my community service, and I've been waiting- with bated breath, to be sure- to hear back. See, the community service office had lost my records (see previous rant, I mean post), including the verification of 100 HOURS I had completed, and I was getting to the point where I was willing to do the entire damn thing over again to have it off my chest. I mean, I did all that months ago, slaving away for free at thrift stores and the Humane Society; nowadays, I don't keep track of my volunteering, but I would sure start if required.

I'm not even sure what happened- I remember turning in my card to the office at the courthouse and getting the little paper saying I was all done, turning it in to my P.O., and generally being relieved to have leaped another hurdle on the track of supervised probation. Then the whole mess with the Supreme Court overturning my judge's ruling came up, and I had much weightier matters on my mind.

When that was all cleared up, lo and behold, I was on probation again, and my new supervising officer was confused: why was there a record of my completing it in her files, but not in the courts'?

At her suggestion, I went down there, self-righteous and indignant, only to find that there were all new people at the courthouse- no one remembered me, and of course "computers never lie". Ha. Ever heard of operator error?

So then I was on a mission. It had been 18 months or so since I'd worked at the various places, but I made the rounds, asking the ladies who had signed my card back then to sign a paper saying they remembered me, or perhaps they still had records verifying my hours?

Struck out almost everywhere, but thank heavens for the Humane Society. They keep their records for four years, apparently to come to the rescue- not just to the poor kitties and puppies- but to reformed criminals such as myself! So I was able to Xerox verification of 36 of the lost 100 hours, which apparently was enough to convince my P.O. I wasn't full of B.S. (which, BTW, I wanted to do ASAP). And really, other than that, I didn't have a single blemish on my record anyhow, so she forwarded a request to the judge to waive the requirement, submitting the evidence- such as it was- that I had completed it and shouldn't be penalized for the community service office's error.

The great news, however, was that Judge Mitchell went even further- he recommended me for early discharge from probation. All I have to do is complete this year under supervision, which will be up in August. Then, apparently, he intends to sign off on my case completely. According to my probation officer, he thinks it's a waste of the taxpayers' money to continue to have me on their caseload. My sentiments exactly!

So... a scant two months under the thumb of the Man to go. The funny thing is, as I told my soon to be former P.O., it's almost anticlimactic at this point. I'm not rearing and chomping at the bit to be set free anymore- I don't do anything I'm trying to hide, you know? So really, it'll just be a relief to not have to shell out the fifty bucks a month they charge to "supervise" me (a process which entails my checking in every other month or so).

But, I suppose this is another milestone I was bound to hit, being on the path of the straight and narrow. I do find a sort of self-satisfied "weight off my shoulders" feeling, if I'm to be completely honest. And really, it's about damn time!

Coincidence? I Think Not...

2008-06-08T09:36:00.000-07:00

I've been a pretty erratic poster as of late, mainly because of the small, sticky tornado named Jameson- of whom being the mother of is an extremely demanding and exhausting, albeit exhilarating, full-time job in itself. I still have the responsibilities that my actual paying job entails, too- and let me tell you, just because I work from home does not mean there's any less to do! Between trying to print out FedEx labels, pack up boxes for events I've coordinated in far-off places and get them mailed in time- and feed, clothe, entertain, rescue, soothe, holler at, clean, chase, change, and finally! put to bed a one-year-old... it's a wonder I get anything else done.

There's been a few things I've been itching to blog about- like our Memorial Day trip to Atlanta, ID (yes, there's an Atlanta in Idaho- it's a tiny little rundown mining town tucked away in the mountains north of Boise) and maybe I'll eventually get around to doing that; after all, I took almost 400 pictures and laughed my butt off all four days, so there ought to be a decent story there. But of course on the rare occasion I have more than five minutes to myself, the only leisure activity I have any desire to pursue involves closing ones eyes to snatch a blessed bit of sleep.

But this little story I'm about to impart is good enough for me to make time to type it out, and is the kind of thing I'm sure will be passed around our family for years. It's also the sort of thing that makes me cherish my faith, a faith that in part because of events such as this, is growing stronger and more secure.

Yesterday morning, I got a frantic call from my aunt- her son and his wife have a small child, a girl who is about five months younger than my son. We look forward to the cousins playing with one another just as my cousin and I used to, and since my little one is hitting the milestones first, they frequently call and ask for advice.
Anyway, my aunt asked me to come over with some baby Tylenol and give my opinion on what could be wrong with little Zoe. My cousin was at work, and his wife (who is very young and inexperienced) was home alone with the baby. She was pretty panicky, saying Zoe had choked on something early that morning, and although not in respiratory distress, she still seemed not quite herself.

We all examined the baby, and I honestly didn't really think anything was all that wrong- sure, she was crying and sounded a little raspy, but that could've been nothing. And yes, the baby didn't want to eat, but that could've been because she just wasn't feeling good. So I tried to reassure Trisha, the young mom, that the best thing to do would be just wait it out and call the pediatrician if things got worse. I told her that I could certainly relate with feeling helpless about a sick baby, but since her symptoms weren't drastically bad, Trish should just try to stay calm and give Zoe lots of love.

Well, several hours later, Zoe started bleeding from the mouth and nose. Trisha raced down to the emergency room, and the hospital couldn't find anything wrong- they x-rayed her stomach and lungs, did an exam, and told the frantic parents that Zoe probably just gave herself a nosebleed from crying too hard.

I should say that at this point, the whole family- including myself- thought Trisha was blowing things out of proportion, and that maybe the child just had a really sore throat or was coming down with something. But still, at my Bible study that afternoon, I brought it up to the other ladies and we joined in a spur of the moment prayer for little Zoe. This was at 4:15 in the afternoon.

On the other side of town, Trisha and my cousin- Brad- had taken Zoe to their pediatrician, where she was given yet another x-ray and exam. They were being shown the door at 4:00, the doctor saying, "Sorry folks, but we just can't find anything wrong with your baby." At this point Trisha broke down into tears, begging the doctor to just please, please look again- there HAS to be something, she choked on something and hasn't been the same since! Reluctantly, the doctor agreed- probably to just make them happy.

So at a bit after four o'clock, Zoe was again strapped to the x-ray table, and this time the technician took films of her mouth and throat as well.
At 4:15, the doctor again met with the little family, and his demeanor was completely different. Because the latest set of x-rays showed evidence of a sharp metal object lodged in Zoe's throat, where it was partially obstructing her airway and probably causing the poor little girl a lot of pain. Zoe was immediately taken to KMC, where surgeons ended up removing a small piece of aluminum foil with a thin wire attached to it that had pierced her esophagus.

I visited them there in the hospital last night, and after apologizing for not taking them seriously enough earlier, told them I had joined in an impromptu prayer for Zoe with around a dozen other women at our church- at 4:15 pm. Stunned, Brad and Trisha stared at each other for a moment, then revealed that that was the exact time the doctor had found the metal piece... finally. We all broke down and cried, and although Brad and Trish are professed agnostics, this moved them to the point where I got a call from my cousin this morning- sharing the good news that Zoe had been discharged, along with a HUGE apology from the E.R.- and he asked me, a little hesitantly, if he and Trisha could join us this Sunday for church.

They could've just passed off the time thing as coincidence, or said something like, "Thanks for praying, it's great to have a Christian in the family," but instead, it seems like it was a catalyst in their becoming willing to investigate this faith thing a little closer. Brad said that he in particular had been quietly watching my own transformation over the last few years, privately envious of how happy I seemed these days, and that, along with the small miracle of yesterday afternoon, had made him call with the request to come to His Place with Tony and I. And Trisha had apparently done some "bargaining" with God during the crisis, and since in her eyes God certainly came through, she's determined to hold up her end of the deal.

All in all, I think the whole thing turned out wonderfully- and if my cousin and his wife end up believers because of it, that'll be the best part of all.

Finding Serenity in Chaos

2008-05-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

Once again, I find too much time has elapsed between posts... enough where I'm not even sure where to begin. In fact, at times I wonder if I should simply retire this humble little smorgasbord of thoughts and events and just stick to commenting on HBO. Lord knows I have enough in my life to keep busy- why complicate it with an online smattering of mundanity and miscellany?

I suppose the answer is that I feel driven to record at least some of what transpires in this chaotic jumble of joy and angst, be it once a month or every other day; whenever I feel the urge to type out my trauma or triumphs. I'd be willing to bet I'm not alone in this need- bloggers worldwide probably have similar motives.

This last month has been a mixture of why-me's and what-now's... starting with a theft which occurred at the Valley Mall while I was getting my son's one year photos taken. Laden down with the props (front-end loader, whirly-gig top, Horton the stuffed elephant), a massive diaper bag stuffed with several changes of clothes, Jameson himself strapped into his Jeep stroller, I opted to transfer some of the contents of my purse into a pocket of the diaper bag to lighten my load a bit. So in went my check card/ driver's license holder, keys, and cell phone. Thinking it would be all good as long as I locked up, I then stuffed my purse with its remaining contents under the seat, and headed on in to Penney's.
I returned after a wonderful hour of adorable shots (they do such a good job there) so I could stuff the crap back into the car and browse around with my son and sister while we waited for the photos to develop enough for us to pick out our faves. My first warning that something was amiss was when I noticed the door was unlocked, when I KNEW I had locked it. Next, I dug around under the seat and came up empty, when I KNEW I had stashed my purse there. Next, I noticed there was no ipod converter hooked up to my stereo, and the charger was gone as well. Funny enough, they left the book of cd's which was the entire Old and New Testament Bible collection. I almost wish they would've taken that, too- maybe they would've learned something about the selfish sin of thievery.

After realizing all this, I wasn't so much frantic as I was bummed out... I knew that nothing in the purse was irreplaceable, really. My checkbook was easily canceled out that afternoon, with my checkcard tied to the new account; my business cards can all be replaced. My lone credit card was maxed out anyhow, and a simple phone call solved that problem. The thing which I'm a bit worried about is the fact that my social security card was still in my purse- I had needed it for some forms earlier that week, and hadn't gotten around to putting it back in my files at home. But, like I was commenting on another forum, if whatever crackhead that stole my stuff wants to try to assume my identity, they're in for a big surprise: a criminal record, felony probation, and miserable credit that I'm just now in the long, slow process of repairing.

But I went through the obligatory process of alerting mall security; they said that there had been a rash of slim-jimming car break-ins as of late, and to not get my hopes up for the return of my purse. Or ipod and accessories, of course. Duh.

The upside of all this was how wonderful everyone I called to alert about the theft was... for instance, I had just purchased an area rug at St. Vinnie's, but hadn't gotten a chance to pick it up yet, since my husband's truck was over in Post Falls and I needed a babysitter before I could go pick it up and drive out to get the rug. I needed the claim ticket to do it with, though, and of course that was in my stolen purse. Once I explained the situation to the lady, she was super sympathetic and helpful to the point of even offering to have one of their guys deliver the darn thing, after the rough day I'd had. Now that's enough to restore one's faith in human kindness, don't you think? I didn't take her up on the offer, but it sure made me feel better.
I had also had a Bible study scheduled for that night, but by the time I was done with all the phone calls and other nonsense, I just dropped by the church and told the ladies I was just going to head home instead. They gave me a round of hugs and promised to pray for me, and that cheered me up immensely as well.

All this happened a couple days before Jameson's and my big trip over to the coast, and I was stressed enough about all the preparation for that, that I almost called the whole damn thing off before I realized I was working myself up a little too much, and needed to just give it over to God and calm the heck down. So I did, and after a good night's sleep, managed to get all our bags packed (you wouldn't believe how much STUFF a one-year-old needs just for a four-day trip!) and Tony settled in for a stretch at home alone (clean house, couple frozen meals for him to heat up- since we've been married he seems to have forgotten how to cook and clean).

Friday afternoon we loaded up the car- toys, clothes, carseat, portable highchair, stroller, car DVD player with his Praise Baby and Baby Einstein DVD's, and snacks for me and the mom, aunt and grandma- then hit the road. I mapquested it out to the ferry in Seattle, then the last leg of the trip to the Port Townsend island was only another hour or so; all in all it was only about 6 or 7 hours on the road. We had fun, though. Lots of stops, lots of pictures, a couple good meals... no rush, just good times with family. We made it to my aunt's house over there late in the evening, got a good night's rest, then packed our next two days with lots of trips to the ocean, a barter fair, some street performances downtown, even a ride on Uncle Frankie's Harley (a first for Jameson- he absolutely adored it). Then, a good breakfast and some tearful goodbyes, and what seemed like an endless drive home. We got back yesterday, and I think I'm still car-lagged. One of the best Mother's Days ever, though, I think- both for me, my mom, and my grandma (who is still recovering from her stroke, and thankfully handled the trip well, too).

More and more, I'm realizing that the best things in life are the memories we accumulate with our family and friends- especially when time flies by so quickly. You never know how long you'll have with someone you care about: their time- or yours!- could come before you know it, before you have a chance to say goodbye or to make peace, so sharing good times and cherishing every moment we have is paramount to just about anything else- be it material goods, careers, wasted time staring incessantly at either the idiot box or the computer... there's so much more to life, and why waste it on solitary activities when you could be sharing precious moments with our loved ones?

Why? Petty resentments, family feuds and spats, jealousy or envy of "the Jones's"- all these pale in comparison to the joys and fulfillment we can savor when we find it in ourselves to forgive those transgressions- both real and imagined- against us, and simply love those who love us as well- even if they don't quite know how to show it sometimes.

Think about it. Think about what's really important, and maybe try mending some bridges, if necessary. What do you have to lose? The chance to make some more precious memories, that's what- and those you'll never lose.

My Sweet Son Turned One...

2008-04-17T00:39:00.001-07:00

...And the party was a smashing success. To think I was afraid that my little guy would turn his nose up at his personal cake- no, instead, he dove right in, to the delight of all the assembled friends and family.

I was actually really touched at all those who came and showered Jameson with gifts, not to mention hugs and kisses. He truly is blessed with many, many people who care about him- not just Tony and I. I think sometimes we lose sight of that, since we sort of keep him to ourselves a lot. I mean, how much of a social butterfly can a one-year-old be, anyhow? Especially when he has to rely on a set of parents who aren't exactly party animals themselves these days to ferry him around.

He sure seemed to enjoy opening the presents, though:

And we played some silly games...

And then of course, the gratuitous cake scene:

All in all, it was fortunate that we had both immediate access to a bathtub and a pickup truck, in that order... one in which to scrub off the frosting, one to pack up the gifts in.

Now, I have an entire year to recover- before we do it all over again.

Another Lonely Night...(no offense, Son)

2008-04-02T19:27:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've become sharply aware of just how lonely it is, night after night, while my husband works graveyard.

The routine is fairly straightforward: I make dinner, we sit down and eat; making smalltalk, watching Jameson rub his baby food in his hair, up his nose, practically everywhere but his mouth- laughter breaks the tension a bit, and I get up to brew a pot of coffee.

Tony'll pick up the boy and wipe the worst of the mess off, then cart him off into the living room so I can pack up his lunch box without a small child weaving and worming his way between my legs, tripping or entangling me at every opportunity. It's actually getting hazardous to open the refrigerator door while our son is in the kitchen- Jameson will lunge into the opening, plunging his chubby little hands into whatever's close, or, barring that, will yank condiments off the shelves in a fit of glee.

But night after night, come 6:45 or so, I've managed to pack up my husband's "lunch" (to be consumed at 3:00 in the morning; can you believe he actually has me enclose a little baggie of jalepenos, too?) and restore order to my little kitchen, then we all snuggle up on the loveseat- aptly named- for a family hug, and to complete our evening ritual.

He'll say, "Well, babies, I'm off," and with his black coveralls donned, his work boots laced up, and his wool cap pulled down over his ears, he heads for the door. I tell him to please drive safe and not work too hard. He promises yes he will and no he won't. We exchange 'I love you's, and I stand in the doorway until his taillights disappear from view. Then I heave a sigh, say something silly to the child cocked on one hip, and withdraw into the dubious warmth of our home.

I don't know why, over time, this is getting more difficult to do- both sending him off for the night, when it's a job in Spokane or the surrounding area, or sending him off for the week when he's in Montana or elsewhere. Either way, it's so hard to be apart, night after night.

Lately we've talked about a change of careers for him- the mine has reopened in Kellogg, and Tony worked there years ago. He's fairly confident he could get back on, but there would be quite a few drawbacks as well.

As disruptive as this current job is to our little family, the pay is damn good. So is the company- the owner is a fair, generous man. He would give Tony different hours if he could, but working at night kinda goes with the job- commercial refrigeration for Safeways, they don't want you underfoot in their coolers and freezers throughout the rush of the day. One day, if Tony continues to get promoted, he may be able to just do service calls exclusively, which would mean 9-5, but that's so far off in the horizon it may as well be a dream to us.

Mining is hard, thankless work, a hot steamy pit in the ground full of rocky dirt and grimy men digging deeper and deeper. Fraught with danger, too, I think, although Tony tries to persuade me otherwise. He can't quite argue the fact that both his father and grandfather died either directly or indirectly from Sunshine Mine- his grandpa in the big fire, his dad after an injury led to hospitalization, then a fatal medication error. So of course the pattern could continue, at least in my morbid fantasies.

The Silver Valley is beautiful, sure, but is it where I want to live? raise my young son? I'm not sure. All our family is here, as well as friends, our church, everything we know and love. It's kinda scary to think about just packing up and starting over. We've done that several times before in our relationship (and for me, countless times throughout my troubled life) and I was actually looking forward to staying put and putting down some roots for a change. Sigh.

So we're talking about it. I'm worrying about it. Jameson, thank God, is blissfully oblivious to all of it. And I will-for now- continue to spend night after lonely night here, alone, waiting for my man to make it home safe so I can put him in the bed I've just arisen from.

Momentous Occasions

2008-03-21T12:07:00.000-07:00

After a month of mysterious silence, I'm returning to regale all of cyberspace with a deluge of pent-up creativity, lyric soliloquies dying to escape from my fingertips to the keyboard, tired of swimming in the dizzied soup between my ears, ready to burst forth in a swansong of sweet... something or other.

Scratch that. Let's go for more of a realistic tone, shall we?

As I type this, I can't help but gaze out my office window at the swirling mini-blizzard and then snicker at the calendar next to it... after a lull of semi-decent weather, the snow began to fall, and fall some more, on- irony or ironies- the first day of Spring.
Of course all of our winter paraphernalia was stowed away when we were fooled into submission by several sweetly sunny days of the faux-Spring. (Then Mother Nature said, "Psych!")
We use the abandoned chicken coop at the back of our yard as a storage shed (for sturdy items immune to residual gunk left behind by said chickens) and although I refuse to step foot in there (not knowing what I might step in), Tony trudged back there to fetch the snow shovel, ice melt, and what-not. He's pretty gung-ho about snow removal, something I suppose I should be grateful for, but at the moment I can't seem to summon up any emotion besides a sort of dull resentment towards the elements at large.

So... I've entitled this entry "Momentous Occasions", and believe it or not, the fact that my calendar claims Winter is now over was not what I am referring to.
Instead, I was thinking of a few other things that are happening in my little universe, things that once I sit back and count off on my fingers, seem faintly surprising.

One: Tony's and my wedding anniversary was yesterday. We've now been officially together for a scant year, although the unofficial length is more like six. I simply had one of those fits of old-fashionedness last March, and demanded that we tie the knot before our son was born. So we did.
Two: Speaking of our son, he was born ten days after that glorious event at the Hitching Post, so will be turning one year old April 10th. Unbelievable. Never has the expression "time flies" been so apt. I mean, looking back, it just seems like a blur of oohing and aahing over baby milestones- him rolling over, sprouting teeth, crawling, sitting up, graduating to juice and baby food, then walking- first with staggering hesitation and lots of falling down, then more confidently... now he's mimicking sounds and gestures (making him say, "ma-ma-ma-ma" is my personal favorite, of course) and I've had to install child safety latches and gates throughout the house to quell his insatiable curiosity. Amazing.
So of course we're planning a big to-do... well, I should say I'm planning one- Tony's never been much for social niceties like birthday parties. Although I think he'll make a point of at least coming to this one. To give him credit, he remembers the date (the guy remembered our anniversary, too- even brought home roses and a card!) and has mentioned buying Jameson a Tonka front-end loader to go with his dump truck for a birthday gift.
But back to the party- we'll be having it at my grandmother's house, as sort of a way to have all the family over to see her as well. She's had lots of health issues as of late- I've mentioned her several times on this blog- and they culminated with a major stroke about six weeks back. Now that she's home and had the benefits of time and therapy, her speech and gross motor skills have begun to return to normal, and when I brought up the idea of having Jameson's party at her house, she seemed more animated and excited than I'd seen her since the event, so that sealed it. Hell, the party'll be mainly for our benefit, anyhow (it's not like the little guy will really know what's going on, other than his having a cake to plunge his pudgy little hands into and make a massive mess with, then more toys and the boxes they came in to play with after) so having the whole family together at her house will be nice, I think.
But back to the list...
Three: I got a raise at work. My boss actually informed me of this a little over a month ago, but it only recently took effect, as I only get paid once a month. I'm on salary, and since I've begun to take on new responsibilities- with additional hours necessary to complete them- my boss asked me to estimate how much time I was putting in, and when I figured it to be around 30 hours a week, she gave me a $500 raise. Sweet, huh? I now make $1500 a month for doing a job that I love, from home, with my son trying to "help" at every opportunity (this usually involves attacking the keyboard, tugging on the mouse cord, and wadding up important papers).
It's been a bit more challenging than usual with the new duties, but I think I'm beginning to get a system down to be a little more efficient. I mean, I say I work 30 hours a week, but if I'm going to be completely honest, I spend a lot of that time dinking around online, or while I'm going to the post office to mail things for work, I take care of personal errands, too. The real blessing of the whole deal is how flexible it is- I can pace out a couple of hours worth of work throughout the whole day, taking breaks to change diapers, feed the boy and myself, do housework, etc. Or just spend the day being a wife and mom, put both the little guy and the big one to bed, then do what I gotta do for work, with the added benefit of some peace and quiet to do it in. Sure, I end up burning the midnight oil a bit when I do it that way, but after my son's first six months of life, I'm used to surviving on less sleep than the average human.
And last but not least, Four: Tony and I were made members of our church, His Place, in a short ceremony in which we stood up in front of the congregation with our pastor, then we were presented a little certificate and sat back down amid lots of clapping and cheers. I guess we're still sort of semi-celebrities, or maybe a better way of putting it would be 'well-known success stories'... everybody seems to know our shady past and our battle to overcome it. Which, after a lot of hard work and overcoming others' skepticism, we've managed to give the saga a happy ending of sorts. Sometimes I almost feel like God awarded us our son as a prize for turning our screwed-up lives around- for getting clean and going straight.
Not that he's the only good thing we've gotten out of the deal- the church membership is a good example of some of the other changes for the better. I can count on one hand the amount of times I went to church while Tony and I were still using and dealing and living outside the law- and one of the two times was a funeral. Now, we both go every week, have a growth group we attend fairly regularly as well, and have a whole new circle of friends and acquaintances from there, too. An actual social life! With people who want nothing more than our company! Wow. It's pretty sad when I look back and realize, out of the hundreds of people I knew and interacted with in my previous life, how shallow 99% of the relationships truly were. Most of them were merely based on what we could get out of each other- drugs, money, etc. No wonder I was so resentful and lonely feeling all the time, even surrounded by people, with my phone ringing off the hook.

I guess that concludes my little list of amazing, momentous events in my world of today. Perhaps not everyone reflects on their own lists of anniversaries of birth or wedlock, milestones of promotion or membership, and feels such pride and joy- but it's hard for me to take these things for granted when I've never had such reasons to celebrate before.

The Unseen Battle

2008-02-27T10:13:00.000-08:00

This was so powerful for me, I thought I'd share it here on Soul Doubt- Christians and non-Christians alike, you gotta admit: this is good stuff.

I'd go on and on in my usual manner, were I not recovering from a trip to the dentist yesterday. I got a filling and an extraction, and I don't know what it is- whether I have some weird reaction to the gas or anesthetic, or if I'm just so tensed up throughout the whole yucky process- but I always wake up the next morning feeling as though I just ran a major marathon the day before. I mean, every freakin' muscle in my body aches! Everywhere but the tooth! Or should I say, where the tooth used to be?

Plus, being in recovery, I turned down the pain medication and am opting for just ibuprofen and ice cream. So far, so good... I think I'll feel better if I take advantage of this semi-sunny day and bundle up the boy and go for a stroll. Stretch those muscles and garner some appreciation for my surroundings instead of staying cooped up in front of the computer all day, batting at little Jameson's chubby hands as they tug at the mouse cord (tail?).

Headless Chickens (of which I am one)

2008-02-18T02:07:00.000-08:00

At least at times this last week I have felt like one... running to and fro, frantically trying to get this or that together with never enough time, a memory which seems holier than the Pope's oldest pair of boxers (strangely enough, I seem to be able to vividly recall the most arcane details from kindergarten, junior high, and an insane amount of useless trivia- just not where I put the car keys or which bills remain unpaid this month as of yet), and most of all, I can't seem to keep that even, mellow keel going, which I've always prided myself on and others compliment me on quite frequently.
"How come you always seem to know the right things to say at the right time?" or, "Man, I wish I could stay as calm and collected as you always seem to be," they'll say.

I credit much of this from being lucky enough to spend most of my formative years being raised in Kihei, Maui, Hawaii; a dream come true for an 11-year-old with a troubled home life and who was about to become a ward of the state. Aunt Marcie and Uncle Larry stepped in and rescued me, whisking me off to what I was sure was paradise on Earth.
Well, my young envision wasn't far from the truth. It was more beautiful that my limited writing skills can convey on this humble blog, more breathtakingly majestic in every area: the sandy beaches (both white and black sand), the dormant volcano Mt. Haleakala, which as teenagers we'd drop acid and wander the ancient hollowed out dried lava tunnels, spooked but thrilled to be in the heart of a forbidden zone of exploration; the ocean... oh, Mother ocean. God, how I miss the salty warmth of turquoise caressing currents of what feels like a living entity, serene one moment but easily capable of tossing one about like a shred of kelp if she feels like it.

Maui was particularly unique in that it had a curious blend of locals (Hawaiians, Tongans, Samoans, Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, various other Polynesians- then us. The haoli's. Whites. Foreigners. Or, if you were lucky enough to pick up the accent, dress accordingly, and look down your nose disdainfully on the tourists and hopelessly mainland whites, you could be referred to as "Kama'aina". That was me. I'd always been chameleon-like, figuring out my spiel as I went, if necessary, so fitting in was never a problem. So not only was I buds with the bradduhs, but I made friends with all the second-generation New-Agers, hippies, and Euros, too. Like I said, quite a blend there on the island. But I loved it. I hung out at the beaches where only the bravest of the white surfers went, haoli friends in tow- hey, they're with me- was all that needed to be said. In return, the ritzy, "trustafarian" rich kids dragged me from party to party up in the multi-million dollar beach homes out in Lahaina and Hana, providing the designer drugs to go with the designer clothes and Daddy's Lexus rides. It was a blast, years of experience I wouldn't trade for the world, and sometimes miss so sharply it's almost a physical ache, a twinge of longing for the sea air, a bonfire shooting sparks high into a star-studded sky on a sandy beach with a bunch of dancing, drunken kids cavorting late into the night- high on not only grass and beer, but the sheer ecstasy of youth and fearlessness, knowing we could do anything we wanted at that moment in time. No one could stop us- baby, we were born to run...

But back to the present, before I drown in nostalgia. There's just been a hell of a lot going on, to be blunt about it. Doctor's and dentist's appointments, probation officer meetings (the latest just informed me she'd been promoted so to finish out my last several months I'd have to have another guy take over my case. I'm sure he's overjoyed to have me, as I'm about as low-risk and low-maintenance as they get- I turn in my monthly reports, he files 'em. Nuff said). My boss had a surprise birthday party, where we all showed up at her yoga class to start off the evening, then caravaned to a gorgeous home of a lady friend of hers who put on a gourmet five-course meal, probably the best I'd eaten in months. Of course I sat through it in yoga garb, not having had time to change, while all these elegant female professionals reclined gracefully in their Donna Karan and their Givenchy suits. Bitches. Nah, it was okay. If anything, it made me vow to keep a gracious self-assured smile on my face throughout the evening, while I keenly observed every mannerism, every nuance, every possible hint I could glean of how they got where they did. I too have plans, and one way or another, I will get there. Not just naked ambition for status, success, whatever. Just... satisfaction that I have attained the goals I've set for myself, that I've reached the gold ring, and found it all I'd wanted. It may not be the multi-million dollar beachfront home, or even the six-figure income. But I feel certain that it will be joy in what I do, joy in how I've raised my son, joy in how my relationship with my husband is, and joy in my faith. That's my goal. Not peace, not power, not Cheshire-cat satisfaction, but sheer joy in life. And in living. If, meanwhile, I'm going through a phase where my head seems to have detached itself and I resemble nothing more than a barnyard fowl circling frantically, so be it. This too shall pass. It always has before. In fact, come to think of it, it's usually the precursor to a time of extreme relief in all I've managed to overcome despite all the obstacles stubbornly obstructing my path. And I find my faith strengthened as well, knowing that there's no way I could've possibly pulled off all that without some help from you-know-Who.

Side note, before I call this a night and get to work (yes, I keep oddball hours- it's easier to do my online stuff while Jameson's crashed out and we don't have to fight for possession of the mouse cord)...
The Blogfest was fantastic. I was super self-conscious of wearing my t-shirt which Digger was so kind enough to design- because although I warned him I'm just a little slip of a gal, he still ordered it in a Ladies' small (which hung to my knees like jammies). So, I walked in trying to look all cute and well put-together, not like your typical ex-junkie, but a regular 30-something who, yes, looks more like a teenybopper, but the effect was ruined when I had to drape myself in a giant shirt just because my name was on it and I felt like no one would recognize me or want to talk to me otherwise, were I not wearing it. So please, if I looked ridiculous, try not to tease me mercilessly about it- my ego actually is somewhat fragile, believe it or not, and I will probably obsess about any comments made (in good humor or not) about how silly I looked with my pigtails and pajama top at the 'fest. Sorry, I'm insecure like that. Being just recently digging ourselves out above the poverty line, I can't exactly afford an overflowing closet of trendy duds, so I was wearing the cutest, classiest outfit I could conjure up on short notice, and it got covered up by the (super-well-intentioned and very much appreciated, just ill-fitting) shirt. Wah!

Enough. I have a whole 'nother year to clothe myself in gloriously colorful verbs, adjectives and nouns of nonsensical alliteration, so hopefully by the time next year rolls around, you'll completely forget about my gargantuan tee and instead remember my pixie-ish smile and ready compliments to all you online commentors who, I hope to presume, I can now call you my friends. Believe you me, I am now indeed yours, so in the spirit of blogidarity, let the feelings be mutual.

Over Ten Years of Meth Use

2008-02-18T02:02:00.001-08:00

What could've been me had I not changed my life and realized I was about to serve a life sentence on the installment plan.

Shoveling my Way Out of the Chasm

2008-02-06T19:32:00.000-08:00

After perusing my latest post, I fear I may have sounded a bit maudlin, perhaps even on the verge of an actual full-fledged funk. Not that it wasn't entirely true at the moment; I did indeed forsake clothing for jammies, wandered aimlessly for the better part of a week around our home, and got very little accomplished besides slogging through and endless swamp of negative introspection.
But hallelujah, the fog has lifted. Being the analytical type I am, I can't help but try to pick apart my own fragile psyche, wondering which buttons were pushed by whom, what catalyst flung me from the morass of sluggitude into this latest plateau of pleasantness, why my angelic child didn't seem enough to bring multiple smiles onto my face last week, when usually he transports me into realm of maternal nirvana at the slightest babble or coo. And not to make too light of this, but I truly did need to ask myself some pretty uncomfortable questions...
Was I trying to fool myself into thinking "Problem Solved!" Got a little baby to keep me on track and living in a white picket fence world?
Am I slacking on the necessary tools I need to keep using on a daily basis to stay clean and sober (and therefore sane)?
Is it PMS? Or that other thing, what's it called, the syndrome where you get all depressed after having a kid... brain fart. I forget.

Whatever it was, is, or will be again, this one I survived none the worse for wear. And I feel as though this deplorable winter weather may have necessitated me coming out of my funk, if only to summon up an ounce or two of much-needed energy. You see, Tonydaddy was out of town for the week, hard at work doing commercial refrigeration in some podunk Northern Washington town, so it was just me and the little guy. When it decided to dump several feet of snow on us, I had to (ahem) rise to the occasion. (You'd get the joke if you knew me: I'm 4'11''. And am so immune to the short jokes by now I even make them myself.)

We were out of formula, diapers, assorted foodstuffs, and my disgusting, temporarily unvanquished vice- cigarettes. Not having a snowblower, plow, or snowshoes, I had to settle for a shovel and my ipod. After laying down the boy for a noontime nap, I suited up for battle. We're talking thermal everything, Sorels, Glacier Grip gloves, my Southpark beanie... the works. Grabbed the shovel, cranked up the tunes to the point where I could barely even hear myself singing along to it (Alice Cooper's Greatest Hits- the old stuff) and attacked that white shit with a vengeance. Two hours and several layers peeled off later, the snowbanks were towering on either side of our gravel circular driveway, and I thought I had a better than average chance of making it out with my front wheel drive Mitsubishi and its elderly- but studded- tires.

I was wrong.

I'd packed up Jameson, putting him in his little snowsuit which always reminds me of the kid from The Christmas Story; you know, the little brother who falls down in the snow and is too puffy and Michelin Man-ish to get up? and had him loaded in his carseat. I warmed the car up for a ridiculously long time, enough to where we couldn't see our breath anymore, at least. Broomed off the worst of the snow accumulation on the hood, trunk and roof, thinking the car might somehow run better without it. Ha.
The moment I gently pressed the accelerator, I heard the sickening sound of spinning rubber on ice. No traction whatsoever. Couldn't even back up- there was nowhere to back up to! I hadn't shoveled back there. Why would I? It was a massive job as it was just to do what was in front of me, let alone the remaining half of the circle (a good 40 yards or so).

So, realizing it would be fruitless to sit and spin (no pun intended), I hopped out and waded toward the defunct chicken coop in our backyard which now serves as a shoddy storage unit. Scavenging through the side area, the best I could come up with for traction stuff was a big bucket which I filled with some ancient straw, much of it caked with substances I really didn't want to inspect too closely. Tromping back to the driveway, I strewed and shoved and kicked and scattered, cursing a blue streak the entire time. Then I got back into the now gloriously warm car, glancing back at my sleeping son, and said a fervent prayer for the ability to get the hell out of this hated frozen stretch of drive.

Miraculously, I was able to do just that. With a jubilant shout, I gunned my way up and out onto the sloppy side street we live off of, fishtailing and skidding the entire way. Once onto safer ground (or asphalt, rather- at least that's what I remember it to be before it disappeared under all that white) I drove straight to the hardware store, intent on buying bags and bags of sand and ice melt.

They were out.

So was the next place I went, and the next after that. I was this close to pulling into Shwab's for a set of chains when I decided to check Napa instead. Thank God they had everything I wanted, and the man must've seen the desperation on my face, because he even packed it out to the car for me. Of course, I had a squirming baby on my hip, too- that probably upped the sympathy factor a bit.

Now that I was feeling a tad more prepared for braving the elements, it was off to the grocery store for vittles and whatnot. By now I was ravenous, and you know what they say about shopping while hungry. Seventy dollars and a bunch of junk later, my trunk was once again slammed shut and I was on my way back to my refuge from the storm.

The next two days were actually a blast, believe it or not. I said to hell with keeping up with the shoveling- I'd merely push the shovel around the walk each morning til I found the newspaper, then scurry back inside and watch the flakes swirl outside the windows. My son, as usual, brought me untold amounts of joy with his precociousness and boundless curiosity. I got lots of work done, scoured the house from top to bottom (easy to do when the man of the house isn't leaving messes quicker than I can clean them up) and devoured my way through the rest of the "Left Behind" series. Not bad for Christian fiction. Being the incorrigible bookworm that I am, I would love to read more worthwhile faith-based fiction, but quite frankly, most of it is sappy tripe. Of course you have your Bill Myers, your Randy Alcorns, and the greatest of greats: C.S. Lewis, but on the whole, secular writing is way meatier and more satisfying.

Okay, I kind of went off on a rabbit trail there. Back to what this post was really supposed to be about: I believe my angst was alleviated through good old-fashioned pioneerism, to coin a phrase. I had to buck up and get 'er done, so I did. No more moping around, aimless and lackadaisically losing my momentum which I had built up over these last several months; no, I had to kick it back up a gear and participate in my life again. If not only for me, for the sake of my son as well.

When my husband got back, he immediately commented on my newfound upbeat state, and lavishly complimented me on the "Mexican plowjob" -shoveling- I accomplished. (We can say that, he being Hispanic, and me being, um, Mexican by injection...) Another joke he likes to crack is: Q~ How do you turn your dishwasher into a snowblower? A~ Buy your wife a shovel. Ha. Ha. Ha.

2008-01-26T09:21:00.000-08:00

It strikes me as somewhat curious that much of what I write here I attempt to filter and slant to make all seem quite well in my life. And don't get me wrong- I think that overall, I'm a fairly happy person these days, with most of my demons long since exorcised or at least beaten into submission. But of course things aren't always A-OK, I still live daily with doubts and fears and misgivings and guilt, and at times my happy face is just that: a face.

I would say that this last week has been more difficult than most. I've caught myself several times slipping into a semi-daze of depression- never quite getting going throughout the day, just spending my time wandering through the house in my pajamas, drinking cup after cup of coffee but not eating... bouncing aimlessly from site to site but finding little of interest online... attempting to escape through the reading of a good book, but having to put it down after scanning the same paragraph a half dozen times yet still unable to have told you what I'd just read... electing to not answer the phone when it rings, for no other reason than instinctively needing to jealously guard my solitude...
Sadly enough, that's how it's been for me lately. I wouldn't categorize it as a full-fledged depression- after all, I'm still devoting a certain amount of time to the necessities. I guess I'm more just drifting on a sea of apathy, really.

Financially, things could be better; maybe that's part of it. There's a certain amount of strain between my husband and me in regards to my spending- we avoid talking about it, because it invariably leads to arguing, but the money issue lurks silently around the edges of our conversations nonetheless. I agree that I'm careless with money at times; he obsesses about the green stuff entirely too much, to the point where I end up calling him a stingy, greedy bastard- words I instantly regret the moment they tumble from my mouth, but of course cannot take back nor assuage the sting of their having been flung. The bills always get paid, and it's rarely that we're significantly late in doing so. We want for very little, in my opinion. But with a child, come goals, and long-term ones at that- perhaps that's the source of the tightly controlled panic I hear in Tony's voice when he speaks about our future. It's difficult to imagine buying a home, paying for good schooling, and achieving a higher standard of living financially when we have loused up our credit so badly in our past, are still somewhat in debt with various creditors, and literally live paycheck to paycheck. Sigh. Now that I'm keying this paragraph onto my computer screen, I can empathize so much more with Tony- how stressful the role of "Man of the Family" must be, his overwhelming desire to provide for us coupled with guilt for not being "good enough", "rich enough", or "smart enough" to figure out a way to propel us up the ladder another rung or two. I want so badly to assure him of his worth, his success in MY eyes as a husband and father, in a way that truly hits home, but hesitate to even bring it up, afraid that I might fail miserably in my approach and just end up making him feel all that much worse, a subject of pity to be consoled. He's a very proud man, my Tonydaddy. But aren't most of them, for that matter?

So I stay silent, as does he, and we talk about inconsequential matters- I, still in my pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon; him, outwardly his regularly upbeat smiling self, but with shoulders knotted tense with the stress of trying to hold it all together. Both of us watching our precocious son intently as he struggles to keep his balance in this new, upright position, standing on wobbly bowed legs with a beatific smile on his face.

Good Times, Bad Times, You Know I've Had My Share

2008-01-17T10:10:00.000-08:00

This last week has been one of ups and downs, smiles and frowns. Some of the bad news is that my hundred hours of community service (which took me nearly eight months to complete, and I finished back in December of '06) somehow has gotten lost in the labyrinthine system of the courts, and my probation officer called me this morning to inform me that it was my responsibility to rectify this error. She had looked through my file there at Probation & Parole, saw notations that it was being completed throughout the months, spoke with my former P.O. and gotten her assurance that yes, I had completed it, and that I had shown her the slips; but the Community Service Office at the courthouse apparently has no record of any of it being done, so she was assigning me the task of going down there and finding out what they needed to verify it was done. Something that, frankly, I am not so confident in being able to do. I mean, like they're gonna just take my word for it? Of course I don't have any paperwork anymore- I turned it all in to them! And my P.O. said to not be so sure that just my putting a face to my name by going down there will do anything- they've gone through numerous staffing overhauls throughout these last couple years, and chances are slim that anyone from back then still works there. So it looks like my only hope will be to go down to the places where I actually did the community service, and seeing if they had records of it still, or would be willing to attest to the fact that I did it there. I can only hope and pray that they do... if not, I'll bet I have to redo the entire one hundred hours, all because of someone else's misfile. Arggh!

Another lousy thing is my grandmother's deteriorating health- this Tuesday I spent all day, from eight that morning til nearly three in the afternoon, hustling her from appointment to x-ray to blood draw to pharmacy... all in the hopes of avoiding another hospital stay. Well, this morning she was once again admitted to KMC, so all our efforts were for naught. Her congestive heart failure is causing fluid to accumulate in dangerous amounts in her lungs and extremities, and the diuretic her doc prescribed isn't working, so once again we're waiting with bated breath to see if she'll come out the other side of this. It's both disheartening and exhausting for all of us, the family, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be for Grandma.

On the bright side, tonight we'll be hosting my little sister and her fiance for a spaghetti dinner and some Scrabble. It's something we don't do nearly enough- entertain, I mean. All too often, I just toss together something quick and easy- why toil away all afternoon at a five course meal for just the two of us? So, this'll give me a chance to cook a great- albeit simple- dinner, have some great company and conversation, and kick some serious ass at Scrabble!

Another cool thing going on is Tonydaddy's great escape this weekend- he's going on a men's retreat through our church, or rather our church's denomination- the Evangelical Free Church of America. This is so awesome how it came about: someone actually donated the funds for his ticket, knowing we couldn't really afford it, which was why he had planned on skipping it. We could've swung the cost of the trip, but there was also going to be skiing, shooting, meals, etc., and that would've been a bit out of our reach. This way, he'll be able to enjoy the whole thing, thanks to some nameless Christian's generousity! Amazing how God works like that, when it's something worthwhile. I'd been praying for Tony to realize we could afford it, even if it would've made this month's finances a little tight, just because I knew how much he would enjoy himself. I mean, being with a bunch of other Christian guys out in the middle of nowhere, blowing stuff up, skiing his heart out (something he grew up doing almost daily but has had to give up in recent years)... of course I wanted him to go! And now he is. Thank you, God. Thank you, Good Samaritan.

This'll also give me a chance to spend some time with family during the four days it'll be just Jameson and I- we'll be going to dinner with my aunt and uncle, my good friend plans on accompanying me to church Sunday, and who knows what else will pop up. Probably a couple visits to Grandma in the hospital, too. And while part of me will be missing my man, I'll also have the contentment of knowing he's having a blast. Literally.

Taxes, Faxes, and Waxes

2008-01-14T11:42:00.000-08:00

Taxes~
I got a packet from the IRS in the mail Friday. You know, the standard "Forms and Instructions" crap. I've been eyeballing it off and on all weekend, and although it's just an innocent sheaf of cheaply inked newsprint, it still has an ominous aura to it, in my opinion.
This may be due to the fact that I'll be filing quite differently than ever before. First of all, I now have a dependent! Two, actually, as my husband's daughter from his previous marriage lived with us for most of last year. Second, after lengthy discussion with the hubby, we decided the pro's outweighed the con's and we'd file jointly- also a first for me. And thirdly, but certainly not leastly- actually the most terrifying I think, I've been employed as an independent contractor these last six months since my release, so will be swimming in unfamiliar waters when it comes to filing; listing all those deductions and what-not. I've heard sharks and other dangerous creatures swim in those seas, just waiting to devour the ignorant souls such as I. And who the hell can afford an accountant? Certainly not I. How I long for the days of the good ol' online short form direct deposit, rubbing my hands together gleefully as I waited for my almost guaranteed return. Now, who the heck knows what's gonna happen. Will I owe? Will I do it wrong and get audited? Little old me? My man's the one who makes the big bucks, even after child support, so it just doesn't seem fair that my piddly little income has to be so darn complicated to compute. Yeah, I've tried to save some receipts of stuff I had to buy for work. Yeah, I've done my best to keep track of mileage. But, I just have this nagging voice sneering at me, one of the more unsavory characters from the committee who live in my head:
"You fool, Kendra. You're gonna get screwed, and you know it. Who do you think you're kidding? You don't know how to work a real job- the only thing you were ever good at was selling dope! And Uncle Sam will never forget how bad you took advantage of him when you were "serving your country". He'll get back at you one of these days, and don't be surprised if this is how he gets ya."
I hate that guy! Wish I could get him to shut up, but you know how that goes. They pick the middle of the night to whisper their negative nonsense, when you're at your weakest and all you want to do is sleep but can't 'cause they nag you to death, reminding you of all the embarrassing moments you've had since second grade and all the woulda coulda shoulda's in your life. I wish one of those fluffy sheep I try counting would crush their heads with a feces-encrusted hoof and silence them for good!

Faxes~
Normally I'm blessed with the ability to do my job from my own computer in my own office, in my own home. This is wonderful- if it were any different, my son would either be in some daycare (which I swore to myself I would never do unless absolutely positively necessary), or I would get very little done chasing him around at my boss's place- a non kid-friendly house, unfortunately. Here, though, Jameson's content to play with his myriad toys scattered strategically throughout our home, so no matter where his chubby little arms and legs crawl him to, he's bound to be sidetracked somewhere along the way, preferably before he reaches my keyboard to reach up and bang out things I really didn't want in whatever I'm happening to work on. He also can't seem to resist the cords- the ipod cord, the power strip ("AAHH!" I always shriek when I see him going for that one) or especially, his favorite: the mouse cord, which when he sees it wiggling while I mouse around, he assumes that must mean it's a game where he must tug on it in return, preferably with enough force to rip it out of my hand and onto the floor, where he then must immediately inspect it with his mouth..... Ah, the joys of motherhood.
But I digress. This little section was supposed to be about my ongoing war with FedEx, and their incredible assertion that 48 of the little boxes we mail every week, and which our company has been doing so for years, this time all happened to weigh 24 pounds apiece. Exactly. These packages were in 9x6x6 boxes, which is about shoebox sizes, except a bit shorter in length. Normally, once packed and labeled, they weigh between just under 2 lbs. or just over 5 at the most, depending on what's in them. So this claim of 24 pounds was freaking preposterous! What the hell did they think was in 'em- plutonium? Obviously someone screwed up somewhere, hopefully on accident- I'd hate to think a company as large and well-established as FedEx would stoop to overcharging by putting B.S. weights on mass mailing companies such as ours and just hoping no one would notice. Well, my boss is a stickler for details, and she certainly did notice. Her being the busy lady she is, she assigned moi the job of straightening the whole mess out. So I put together a graph of tracking numbers, dates, their incorrect estimate next to my exact weight (yes, I actually reproduced every single shipment by looking up what was sent in our records, and weighed it to get an exact number, down to the ounces and grams, even), and package dimensions. You shoulda seen me- I despise Excel, so slogging my way through this was quite the process, peppered with obscenities and shouts of frustration. But I got 'er done, and whipped out a subtly nasty cover letter to go with it- the easy part, for me.
After I was done- I had been given a week to do this, because of all the research involved, but my Virgoan tenacity and perfectionism caused me to finish it over the course of the weekend- I submitted it to my boss for approval before faxing it off, and she was absolutely floored. After showering me with compliments (me brushing it off like it was nothing but knowing inside I was nowhere near as skilled as she was thinking), she offered me a promotion on the spot. I'm not sure if any significant raise will be included, but doing the bookkeeping and invoicing will be a damn sight better than all those cursed trips to the post office. And, after the training- which I'll have to do at her house, I'll still be able to work out of my own home office, thank God.
Meanwhile, however, little Jameson is getting chased around my boss's office by me or her while we attempt to train me on the Namaste Food accounts receivable and payable. Don't know which one is more challenging, learning all these new data entry and filing methods, or trying to concentrate while corralling my child, too.

Waxes~
Ever been struck by the urge to purge one's house of all the accumulated crap and detritus of day to day life which does nothing but create clutter? Well, I got bit by the spring-cleaning bug (yeah, I know it's the dead of winter) and have been boxing up stuff for St. Vinnie's, tossing out bags upon bags of garbage, going though the overstuffed closets of my son (how could he possibly have more clothes than Tonydaddy and I put together?!) and recklessly ripping out the stuff he doesn't wear or has outgrown and bagging it up for the exchange store (I love those places- kids outgrow their stuff so quick; might as well just swap 'em out. [the clothes, not the kid] My faves are Kidlets in Post Falls next to the Post Falls Press, and Switcheroo in the Spokane Valley). I've rearranged both bathrooms. The office, too- difficult since I have baking mixes which I mail stacked every-dang-where, floor to ceiling, and I'm trying to organize it to the point where I can fit a futon in here for when Tony's girls stay the night, so they won't have to sleep on the couch. The operative word here, however, is "try"- not sure if I'll be able to downsize that much, no matter how creative I get. I did get rid of Fifi the lime-green IMac, which I was babysitting for a friend as collateral for loaning him some much needed money. Since she was just taking up space, unused and unloved (I'm entirely Mac illiterate), I blew off the loan and just gave her back to him.
I've been washing windows, waxing floors, cleaning the bathrooms almost daily now that Jameson likes to stick his hands in the toilet, or throw whatever's handy in there if so inclined. He also loves bathtime so much he'll crawl into the master bathroom, where the taps are facing up vertically, rather than horizontally in toward the tub; he can reach them, so he'll turn them on, wait and see if someone will come in when we hear the water running, and if we do, he'll break into a toothy grin, banging his pudgy little hands excitedly against the wall of the huge oval tub, like, "C'mon, Mommy, let's take a bath! Can we, can we, huh huh huh?" Now, if we happen to not hear the water running, he'll get impatient and look for things to throw into the tub. Like a spare roll of toilet paper (I no longer keep those behind the toilet, that's for sure) or the toilet brush. Yep, it's fun fun fun.
Anyway. Hope this nesting urge doesn't mean I'm preggers again! Nah, actually not possible. But something weird's definitely happening- I'm usually not THAT much of a Suzie Homemaker...

Fun in the Sun, I Mean, Snow

2008-01-11T14:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, here's me trying to figure out how do to this- after all, it's been about twenty years...

Work in progress....

The finished product, hurray!

Just What Exactly Does "Auld Lang Syne" Really Mean, Anyway?

2008-01-05T12:27:00.000-08:00

Although I'm still a little shell-shocked, exhausted from making the rounds over the holidays (Grandma's house for gift exchange, Mom's formal Christmas Eve dinner, etc.) I feel pretty good about this new year and all it may bring. And I'm not the only one! After going to my half-sister's house for a little gift exchange and visit, a few days after the actual holiday, she showed me one whopper of a ring- Ron, her man, had finally popped the question, and did so in style. I had to ask: "Angie, did he go to Jared?" Alas, the answer was no, so I didn't get to do the corny commercial cliche I was hoping on. Seriously, though, this was some really good news for them- it was getting to the point where they needed to either commit or split. I for one was very happy that they chose to get married; I like Ron. For that matter, I like Angie; they're both really great Christian people. Amazingly enough, I only just met this sister a little over a year ago, so am still getting to know her, too! She's another one of my father's offspring which keep popping up here and there every couple of years... he was quite the stud in his day, and sowed his wild oats all over town. Angie was introduced to me through my dad, and ironically enough, her and I are closer now than I am to him anymore. And as for her and Dad, forget it. She wasn't too impressed with him and his rather nonchalant attitude in regards to his offspring, and I can't say I blame her. I've had about enough of it myself. He disowned me one too many times, and unfortunately now that I've changed so much for the better, he has no idea what he's missing out on. But like I said, I don't need it; neither does Jameson. We have plenty of worthwhile family members to spend our time and energy on.

So, speaking of time and energy, I don't really have any set-in-stone resolutions, but a few ephemeral plans are wafting around my psyche, and some possibilities which the man of the house and I have discussed may very well solidify too. But I've been finding it hard to live outside of the here and now, something I ascribe to my having to chase a VERY active, adventuresome nine-month-old around the house most of the day. It's pure joy (mostly), but much more demanding than I ever dreamed. Instead of my life revolving around me, with perhaps my man a close second place, with work, home and leisure trailing behind that, my child is the epicenter of our little universe- his needs of course paramount to ours, and he seemingly devotes much of his time to foiling any attempts to impose a schedule where I can get anything done during the day. So I find myself scrubbing toilets at odd hours, juggling the boy while I cook meals, and gravitating towards toys which amuse him while keeping him captive- literally.

Anyway, all this child-rearing stuff by nature trumps my old habits of spending long hours in a bubble bath or on a quiet walk, musing and/or debating different facets of my life, making deeply thought-out decisions in a logical fashion while drifting through a rootless, independent lifestyle. So these days, any decisions are either made by necessity- again, revolving around the youngest member of the family- or simply talked about by Tony and I in a wistful, those-were-the-days tone, knowing full well our lives are too chaotic and full to do anything drastically different just for the hell of it.

Some things that have been batted about, however, are:
*Shopping for a new bed (ours simply is NOT big enough for two adults and a squirming, crying baby when he feels the need to be cuddled back to sleep in the middle of the night)
*My possibly accepting a lateral promotion from my boss, which would change my job from miscellaneous mailings and other shipping and filing duties, to handling the invoices and other sales-related chores. This is something I'm looking forward to, as I will still be able to do most of it from home, but will eliminate most of the trips to the post office. Sweet!
*A mini-vacation, just Tony and I- time and finances willing- that will use up our two free nights accommodations at either Seaside, Las Vegas, Vancouver (nope, that won't work, as Canada doesn't like felons) or lil ol' Coeur d'Alene itself.
*And finally, though certainly not the least in level of importance.... QUITTING SMOKING AGAIN!!! Yes, I'm confessing to the horrible fact that after almost two whole months of beating down that yucky nico-demon, the bastard got ahold of us again. Arggh! It started with just one or two here and there, but I'm ashamed to say that I'm back up to at least six or seven a day, and Tony's puffing away at the rate of almost an entire pack. Sheesh.

So there you have it. My tentative agenda for the next month. Which will be interspersed with, and possibly encompassed by all the musts and have-to's of day to day life with a young child and that ever-present four-letter-word: responsibility. Keep me in your prayers, nameless, faceless online friends, okay? As I will you.

Life Goes On (and on, and on, and on....)

2007-12-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

What a blogging slacker I am! I'm not sure how long it's been since my last post, but I know I have been severely remiss in my online record-keeping. Of course I am a virtual paragon of good intentions (as I used to be every single year I would receive yet another diary; transcribing every little event, right up until January 18th would roll around and the poor leatherbound pretty would commence collecting dust for eternity). Ah well, I would venture to say things are different these days: this, rather than some chronological bore-fest of Jameson's diaper changings and my trips to the grocery store, is more of a collection of, how did I put it? "musings and mutterings", I think- more of a smattering of the more memorable events, interspersed with recurring thoughts I feel are worthy of publication.

So, now that I've applied the balm of justification on my rash of slacker guilt, we can proceed.

Grandma is out of the hospital, the whole family breathing a collective sigh of relief yet again. After a bevy of tests and bushel of Medicare dollars (I'm sure) not one of those snooty specialists will venture a diagnosis; no, their prescription pads instead held up to mask expressions of clueless dismay, they simply scribble more painkillers, anticoagulants and advisements to "take it easy" while we just "wait and see". Grrr.

* * * * * * (a short time later) * * * * * * * *

The house seems remarkable empty, as it's just myself and my just-turned 8-month-old child. The man of the house is out of town, as his occupation all too often requires him to be, and today of all days I find myself missing him terribly. It's not so much the challenge of chasing around our son by myself as I try to get work done(although since our boy started crawling and pulling himself up on things a few weeks ago, things have gotten really interesting around here). Nor is it the loneliness of an empty bed at night- if anything, I welcome the chance to leave the bedside lamp on, reading grittty police procedurals into the wee hours of the night. No, instead I think it's that lack of comfortable back-and-forth communication that I've come to expect and love, a privelege of marriage that comes when you know your spouse inside and out, and they you. The anticipation of, and meeting, each other's needs. The little touches, insignificant to a stranger's eye, but carrying hidden meaning between two people who are still in love after how ever many years. Those are the things I miss when he's gone, and that's what makes this little house seem cavernous with his absence.

When I said "today of all days" I was referring to the fact that, today, December 11th, is Tony's birthday. Now, my hubby has never made a big deal out of his anniversary of birth, and since he's recently crept into his fourth decade of existence, it's even worse. I, on the other hand, am a huge celebrator of any holiday, and the birthdays of those near and dear to me are no exception. So, of course I was devastated when he informed me of his being down in Walla Walla on this date, his time of return uncertain. Not only could I not cook some lavish dinner and present his gifts to him on this day, I couldn't even plan for a belated soiree. No, instead I am left bereft and melancholy, bemoaning his lack of interest in what I wish I could make a perfect day for him, but cannot.

So this morning found me maudlin and edgy, wandering through the house with my coffee cup in hand, distractedly smiling at my son's conquering instincts but preoccupied with thoughts of his father. As the day has progressed, the fog has lifted somewhat, but I still yearn for the homecoming of my other half, as I can't seem to fill the void of his presence with busyness or escapism of other kinds. All too often, I feel as though we take each others' existence for granted, and I just can't wait to frame his face with my hands and look into his eyes, and tell him all I've just written and more.

Working Through the Worry, Praying Through the Pain

2007-11-29T08:44:00.000-08:00

What a crazy last week this has been. Crazy enough that I haven't even considered surfing the 'net, let alone blogging on it.

I'm swamped at work. For some reason, my co-workers (spread out over all five regions of the U.S.) decided to up their "blitz box" requests. This is a small complimentary 9x6x6 box filled with either a baking or pasta mix, replete with a glossy paperwork packet and cover letter, that is sent to either stores possibly adding new lines of our product, or prospective clients we're trying to court with a free sample. Normally I send out about 80 of these a month, putting the flat-packed boxes together myself, stuffing everything in it as neatly as possible, printing a FedEx label for it off their site, then recording the data into our database/scheduler.
Well, this last week I got almost 50 of these requests, each one imperative that it gets sent within a day or two. I've kept a lot of late hours, let's put it that way. And this doesn't even take into account the cookbook orders I get, usually 5 or 6 a day, which, since Click-N-Ship still won't send media mail, I have to package and cart down to the post office myself rather than having them picked up. The daily average on those have been at least a dozen. Arggh!

What else... well, a teething son who seems to bonk his head about every ten minutes, necessitating me dropping everything and running frantically over to comfort his wailing woe sure doesn't help. I know it's a process, this learning to crawl and pull himself up on stuff, and we've baby-proofed as much as possible, but dammit, the little guy is just precocious, I s'pose. And/or clumsy.

But let me dispense with the miscellany and get down to the real tragedy, the real reason my heart is aching too much for any typing to have gotten done as of late.

My grandmother is in the hospital for what we first thought was a heart attack, but after endless testing now seems to be some sort of internal bleeding thing. It breaks my heart to think that just now when I've finally become a source of pride to her, and my son is bringing her untold amounts of joy- that we very well may lose her. So I've been at KMC a lot, letting her hold Jameson when she feels strong enough, carrying on these painful one-way conversations that seem utterly inane to me, but I'm hoping she's listening and just liking the human contact. It hurts, though. God, it's tough to lose someone you love when you're actually in touch with your feelings enough to drown in them.

I've had people die in my arms from overdosing. I witnessed a point blank beach party shooting of a girl by her jealous teenaged boyfriend, a kid we all knew. I was 15. I spent that night in the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing all the blood and bits of brain and bone that I swore I could still feel on me. I've walked in on other dead bodies here and there throughout the years, mostly drug-related; and of course both my older brother and my uncle have both committed suicide.

So there's been a lot of death in my life. Even me, spending time in a hospital bed pumped full of Narcan after an overdose, have been told I was clinically dead at one point. I'm no stranger to the Reaper.

But I'm begging God not to take my Grandma B from me now, not when we're just starting to get to know each other again. The roles have changed- it's now me who comes over and cleans her house, drives her on her errands, fights with her doctors and pharmacists when she's too timid to do it herself. I do most of the talking- she's not the same old spitfire bartending Seahawk fan who raised up three daughters and then had to take care of some of their offspring as well. She's quiet now; spends alot of time in front of the television, sometimes watching Westerns, sometimes just staring at the blank screen. I wonder what she thinks about, but when I ask, the one or two word responses just don't ring true. It's the stroke she had several years back, I know, but it doesn't make it any easier when I compare this virtual stranger to the woman who partially raised me, before I hit my teenaged years and was off and running, not to be raised by anyone anymore.

We all love her just the same. My mom is lost in her own alcoholism a bit too deeply to really devote the time away from her drinking that it would take to visit more often; my other aunt lives way over on an island off the coast of Washington; so my
Aunt Marcie and I are the ones who are there for Grandma these days, but I know the heartache is not something her and I hold an exclusive patent on. My cousins have all been to visit her in the hospital, sheepishly holding their heads down as they mutter excuses why it had been so long since they'd seen her prior to this. Same with the more distant relatives- aunts, uncles, in-laws.

I'm bracing myself for the worst, but I console myself by the fact that she was able to bond with her first great-grandchild (I was the last child, thirty years ago!) and that her and I become, if not truly close friends- due to her condition resulting from the stroke- at least close in many ways.

Thank You, Lord, for these last months of bonding with this amazing woman whose ancestral blood runs in my veins. Thank You for blessing us with the opportunity to share the joy of my son- I've loved seeing those huge smiles: one on her wrinkled face, one on his cherubic toothless one. If You choose to bring her home to You, I will understand, Father, since nothing in Your world happens on accident, but by Your design and divine timing. I only ask that You ease the pain of our loss by filling our hearts with the joy of memories of how she used to be, and with the peace of knowing she's passing on to her eternal reward.

A Glimpse Into My Past

2007-11-15T09:09:00.000-08:00

Last week there was a holiday which never fails to give me a little jolt of surprise when I realize that I am one of the people for whom it was enacted- Veteran's Day.

I am indeed a veteran, at least I served in the U.S. Army. But it somehow feels hollow, because from the very get-go I chose a duty station that was non-deployable, a cushy stateside medical post. And I never pictured myself on the frontlines of any war, defending my country- although I'd have gone, had they ordered me to, sure- instead the main things on my mind when I enlisted were the travel, my sign-on bonus, and a chance to go to college.

So I guess that's why I forget that Veteran's Day honors all this country's servicemen and women, including myself. I know I provided a necessary service, as did lots of say, Reservists and whatnot; but we just seem so inconsequential compared to those who fought wars, served hardship tours in far away lands, and shed their blood on foreign soil... I dunno.

On Huckleberries Online, one of my favorite blogs, there was a post by a veteran of the Vietnam War, describing his trip to D.C. to take part in a reading of all the names on the Vietnam Wall. He was so humble and matter-of-fact in his description of the experience- the way he shared about not getting this kind of laudatory welcome when he and his "brothers" came home from the war back then, so it was nice to finally receive it now; his conversing with the many luminaries attending the event, some veterans themselves, and how he respected them; and how he photographed a grave belonging to the son of a local veteran, who, because of his full disability, was unable to travel there himself.

Humbling. For me, anyhow. Put things in perspective.

When I enlisted in the Army, I was barely nineteen years old, and already had made some bad decisions. As a sophomore, I had dropped out of high school; although it was a breeze for me, I thought at the time my social life- one big party with much older people- was more important. I had vague plans for a GED and then some higher education, but wasn't very energetic in pursuing them; in fact, it was sheer luck that I was able to take advantage of a program called "Challenge" that allowed me to attend Maui Community College on a grant and earn my high school credits back through tests I was able to pass. Nevertheless, I blew off the rest of the program once I got my diploma, although I would've been able to continue accruing college credits had I not dropped out. So when by chance I spoke with a recruiter, I made an on the spot decision to sign up, dazzled by the promise of a $15,000 G.I. Bill, a $5,000 sign-on bonus, and the chance to attend college part-time while I was enlisted, for only 25% of the cost.

So I took the ASVAB, testing out at the 96th percentile, which would've allowed me to choose whatever MOS I wanted, had I not already had a bit of a criminal record. Having gotten expelled from a high school for possession and sale of LSD did not look good to Uncle Sam. Did I mention I had already started to make a mess of things even at that tender young age?
I ended up settling for enlisting as a combat medic/ 91B, the civilian equivalent of which is a medical assistant. Not the most glorious job (I was leaning more toward code-cracking, or perhaps foreign languages) but oh well, it offered the above-mentioned sign-on bonus, so that sold me. I swore in, got my traveling papers, and found I was to report to basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, then AIT (school) at Fort Sam Houston in Texas.

Basic was all I'd been warned about/ promised and then some, but I sweated and groaned and fought my way through it, coming out on the other side a lean, mean, fighting machine. Or something. I remember being both relieved and sad that it was over- I think that was the closest taste to the "real" Army I ever got.
Then AIT... that was more of a mixture of a frantic cramming of information down our throats in the limited time they had to dispense it, as well as continued physical torture, I mean training. I tied for the top score in my graduating class, and was offered the opportunity to train further, what was called a secondary MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). I recognized a one in a million opportunity for being just that, and accepted. I chose veterinary medicine, which in the service is more of a research position- working with laboratory animals mainly. This was okay with me, as it insured I would remain stateside, rather than being deployed to Korea, where most of my former classmates were going.

So I ended up being stationed at USAMRIID (Gosh, the military just adores acronyms, don't they?), the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Disease- this is the military counterpart to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Very high-tech, very high-security, lots of important stuff going on there. It was a blast. I think I felt challenged for the first time in my life- I was learning new things every day. And I was a part of something huge, one little cog in a massive machine. I felt at first like I could do this forever, become a careerist, maybe enlist in the "Green to Gold" program and become an officer. I loved it.

But real life intervened, as it always seems to do. After a couple years there, what seemed novel and dignified, paled and became mundane and unnecessary, with stuck-up officers and archaic customs. The high security was a huge pain in the butt. I was exhausted, and since the Army pays a salary, not hourly wage, it wasn't like I could lower my hours. The community college I attended was pissing me off- they didn't offer the classes I needed to take during the hours I had available, so why was I killing myself by going? I was thousands of miles away from my family and old friends, all that was familiar, and the East Coast began to seem cold and forbidding, rather than a wondrous cluster of landmarks, museums, natural beauty and culture. In short, I was burnt out.

This story does not have a happy ending. Not really, anyway.
I ended up having to have a major surgery, getting deathly ill from a burst tubal pregnany or cyst, no one seemed to know which. Too busy doctors compounded the problem by prescribing bottle after bottle of heavy-duty pain medication, which my addiction-prone self eagerly accepted. Months of convalescent leave turned me lazy, sulking at the prospect of having to go back to the chaos of Ft. Detrick. By now I lived off post, separated from the other half of a doomed from the start marriage, and was consorting with civilian friends, smoking pot (after all, we all worked in the lab- we knew when the UA's were coming and how to avoid them) and hosting endless parties. When the prescriptions finally began to peter out, I started making runs to D.C. to score heroin, which I smoked or snorted, thinking that since I wasn't shooting it, I wasn't really a junkie. Ha.

I got deeply in debt, and was calling in sick so often that finally my commander and his staff put two and two together. After a tearful confession, I was placed in rehab at Andrews Airforce Base, on the top floor. I was amazed at how many others there were there- apparently drug and alcohol addiction is more common than you'd think in all the branches of the service. My roommate was a female marine sergeant who got caught stealing injections of morphine from the ER in which she worked, and we cried and sweated and cramped and detoxed together, until she broke down and walked out, going AWOL from treatment when she couldn't handle it anymore. I was so envious, I too plotted to leave, but chickened out. After all, I only had seven months left in my four year hitch, why blow it?
This changed when my sergeant from my unit came to visit. He informed me that they were considering an early discharge, dishonorable at that. I kept my cool, nodding and promising to meet with him and the C.O. as soon as I was released, but the minute he left I went to my room, threw my stuff in a bag and took the staff elevator the hell out of there. My logic: why suffer through all these awful withdrawals when they were just gonna boot me out anyway? So I ran.

Called my estranged husband and promised reconciliation if he'd come pick me up. He eagerly accepted, driving up from South Carolina to meet me there in downtown D.C. By then I had scored some dope, so was feeling just fine about the whole stinkin' mess I'd once again gotten myself into.

Suffice it to say that the next year or so was a mindless blur of drugs, travel and fear. Fear of getting caught- after all, I was a federal fugitive- fear of not getting caught and having to live like this forever! and fear of just about everything else you could imagine a young girl facing alone and on the run. It was a nightmare. When I was finally apprehended at a motel in Las Vegas, it was with relief that I confessed who I was and what I was wanted for.

The anticlimax of the whole thing was spending a bit of time in the out-processing center at Fort Sill in Oklahoma, where I was set up with a JAG attorney to represent me throughout the process. She looked over my file and decided we had a slam dunk case, and promised to get me a medical discharge under honorable conditions. Which she did, to my surprised relief. I'm not sure if I was deserving of it, but I guess the upshot of the whole thing was the fact I had served about three and a half years out of my required four with a spotless record- in fact, I'd gotten promoted several times, a commendation or two, and plenty of good reviews from my commanders. The threat of early discharge from my sarge was just that- a threat- and had I not panicked and ran, I most likely would have just suffered a demotion in rank to PFC from Specialist, and perhaps some extra duty. But no, instead I was lucky to get off with what I did- loss of my G.I. Bill, most of my benefits, and my pride in having served.

That was the big one, and I think the reason why I usually don't mention having even been in the service. It's humiliating to have to admit how the story ended.

But nowadays, I don't see that sort of pride as such a necessary attribute. I'm okay with having some humility, and admitting my past mistakes. There's only One who I'm interested in impressing- and I think I've made myself right with Him.

Anyway, there's the story with how I (sort of) qualify as a veteran. Thanks for reading.

What Do You Suppose The Dog's Praying For?

2007-11-14T19:53:00.001-08:00

A Day In The Life...

2007-11-06T21:50:00.000-08:00

Although I don't really have anything drastically deep to impart, no nuggets of wisdom to bestow, no burning desires I feel the need to extinguish, it's been a bit since my last post, so I thought I'd jump in and just let my mind wander as my fingers tap the keyboard.
I know one thing that's been surfacing over and over again lately is my marveling at how drastically different my life is these days. I know everyone experiences lifestyle changes of one sort or another, but at times I really have to shake my head in wonder, laughing at how I'm a complete universe away from, let's say, five years ago.
How 'bout I illustrate. Today was fairly typical of the way things are for me these days, so I'll list some of my activities...
6:30~ Got up with my husband and infant son, fed them both while watching the morning news. Packed a lunch for the man, packed the diaper bag for the boy. Hubby left for work, I did my morning ablutions and headed out with the baby as well.
9:30~ Bible study at my church (His Place). Laughed, prayed, drank coffee with around 35 other Christian women as we studied "Women of the Bible". Made a date for "Mom's Connect" later in the week- clothing exchange and chance to get together with other moms of little ones, yay!
11:45~ Will be turning in a shoebox for "Operation Christmas Child" this Sunday, so spent a few bucks at the Dollar Store on toys, toiletries and candy. I picked a boy, aged 4-9, to shop for. My shoebox will most likely be his only gift, and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy to pack it up as I imagined the joy on this Third World child's face when he opens it.
Noonish to Five-ish~ Worked. In my home office, on my new desktop computer, on our satellite internet connection (read: expensive). I'm blessed with a super-flexible yet lucrative position with a natural foods company, doing a wide variety of online tasks. This allows me to stay home with my beautiful baby boy, instead of having to farm him off at some daycare, while making a necessary contribution to our finances.
5:30~ Dinner and a movie. Literally.
7:30~ Read a few chapters of a Tanenbaum novel. Played with my son, making him laugh until he got the hiccups (this brings me untold amounts of joy). Told myself repeatedly how great quitting smoking feels- it's been a month- and the urge to chew on my fingernails would soon pass.
9:00~ Hanky-panky with the man of the house.
9:07~ (just kidding) 9:45~ Made a cup of Apple Cinnamon tea (reading on the box while I waited for the kettle to whistle that in ancient Egypt cinnamon was valued more highly than gold- hmmm, learn something new every day). Wandered into the office, where I proceeded to mouse around until I landed here. My blog.

Interspersed with the above, there were lots of other miscellany: diaper changes, housework, errand running, chatty little phone calls, snacks. You know. Stuff.

Now, although I won't be able to retrieve an exact timeline of any particular day from my past, I can certainly remember enough gory details to give a convincing facsimile. So here goes....
3:17(a.m.)~ A carload of shady characters, spun out of their minds, show up at my run-down apartment's door wanting to buy some dope. Including all the other losers crammed about the premises, all in various states of intoxication, this makes 14 people in my house. My stress level is rising proportionally, and I put the meth pipe down long enough to search through my drug stores for some sort of downer. The phone won't stop ringing, so I assign someone (can't remember their name right offhand) the task of answering it for me while I step into my office (read: bathroom)in order to weigh out the tweek for the latest customers so they'll get the hell out.
4:20~ I throw a mini temper tantrum. I have the biggest sack of dope, so I feel entitled to do this. Only a couple things get broken, and the upside is that several scumbags are intimidated into leaving. An older guy with tattoos on his neck and track marks on both arms invites me to smoke some pot with him. I accept. The phone still won't stop ringing.
6:05~ Time to re-up. I assign the task of guarding what's left of my belongings to one of the more trustworthy crack whores, telling her I'll throw in an extra quarter gram if she does some housework while I'm gone, as the place is a freaking disaster.
I jump in my beat-up car (extremely well-known to the police by then) and screech off towards Spokane, digital scale hidden in a secret compartment under the hood, stereo thumping obscenely loud music from a top-shelf stereo system, every component of which was stolen. I justify this by saying, "It wasn't ME who stole it. I paid someone for it." The phone won't stop ringing, but as I'm out of "shit", I don't answer.
7:25~ I sit at some crack shack in SpoCompton, fidgeting because my dealer's too paranoid to come out of his closet at the moment. He shouts instructions from within to his many syncophants. I watch some fat guy covered in sweat surreptitiously masturbate in the car out front, a girl who looks all of fifteen try to shoot up in her neck with the aid of a mirror, and an emaciated dreadlocked black guy pick at what he says are bugs crawling out of holes in his dog. I feel sorry for only the dog. Finally get my ounce of meth and peel out, nose upturned at all those horrible addicts.
9:00~ Back in business. Deciding to answer the unceasing ringing of my cellphone, I rack up so many potential sales, I can't remember them all. Having run into this problem many times prior, I'm prepared with a dry-erase marker. I use this to write the customers' names on the inside of my windshield as I drive erratically back into town. They'll be wiped off as I make the stops. I'm swerving because it's hard to drive straight when I've been up for several days, as well as hit the pipe, apply makeup, and change CD's.
12:15~ Eight stops later and six hundred dollars richer, I realize I can't remember the last time I'd eaten or showered. I'm avoiding having to deal with all the riff-raff at my house, so I hole up at a motel for the hell of it, peeping out the window to make sure I wasn't followed. I become absorbed with the mindless task of blowing another glass pipe, and forget about everything except the hissing of the propane torch. Time gets away from me. Since the phone won't stop ringing, I shut it off.
7:29~ Cramped muscles and blistered fingers warn me it's time to stop messing around with the glass tubing. I've blown four pipes and ruined another six feet of tubing as I tweeked, as well as almost set fire to the motel room. Solution: handful of pills and a dozen hits off one of the new pipes, then slink off under the cover of darkness.
8:00~ Turn the phone back on. It immediately rings, with a collect call from my estranged drug-dealing boyfriend, currently a guest in Kootenai County Detention Center. He begs me to be careful, as I lie my head off regarding what I've been up to. I promise to visit, write, bail him out eventually and be faithful and careful until then. All are lies.
8:15~ Back on the road, this time to rescue a fellow dealer. It's kind of a "boy's club", but I do my best to fit in by pulling off crazy stunts such as the one I'm about to undertake: the guy's in an altercation with a rival, so I show up waving a butterfly knife around and threatening to cut off his nuts. It works, and we celebrate by another round of meth smoking. A couple people scamper off to go shoot up instead. I realize I've left my apartment full of people who I promised I'd see shortly, and by now it's probably been picked clean and someone might be cooking a batch of dope in it. I go to leave but someone has slashed my tires, busted my windows and stolen my stereo system. I freak out, raging about idiot thieves with knives... and the phone STILL won't stop ringing.

This is by no means a definitive description of how things were back then. No, it was WAY more psychotic. And x-rated. And sad. And exhausting. I think, no I know, when I was finally arrested and I knew it was over, it was with a feeling of relief that I crawled into that police car, like a great weight had been lifted from my skinny little shoulders.

So do you see what I mean? If it weren't for the publicity I've been afforded as of late, I doubt most people would ever even have the slightest inkling of how different my life used to be. I think even I forget sometimes, and I'm not sure that's so good. I think sometimes I need to be reminded of how crazy and sick it all was, how much better things are for me now.
Yeah, after all the nonstop excitement it gets a little monotonous sometimes these days. Yeah, I'm not a big-time power-tripping dope dealer anymore, I'm just a wife and mom who's just about done cleaning up the wreckage of her past, but has lots of mundanity ahead. But that's okay. Because with the mundane, there is also great joy, inner peace, and the gift of looking into the eyes of my innocent sweet son and knowing I'm doing right by him- that he'll never know that person who his mommy used to be.

All Things Considered...

2007-11-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if I mentioned here that I was the designated chaperon for the little ones this year, that for some bizarre reason I actually volunteered for the driving/ escorting/ supervising (and disciplining if necessary) of my monstrous young nieces and nephews as they tricked and treated their way across town, silly overconfident aunt that I am. Not to mention my own little monster- well, he was costumed as a bat, actually, and an adorable wee bat he was, to be sure- which, although too young to understand the whole to-do, or eat candy, I still was obliged to dress him up and lug him around for the candy-hander-outers to ooh and ahh over.
All in all, there were six of us, the children ranging in age from eleven to seven months, and we made quite the little troupe as we traipsed from neighborhood to neighborhood, candy buckets shaped like jack o'lanterns in hand.
I knew I was, if not in over my head, at the very least swimming in deep waters when I began dismantling costume parts in order to buckle in the youngest into their four carseats. It was a cacophony of "are we there yet" and "Skyler poked me with his light saber!" while I drove to the first upscale cul-de-sac, and a relief to all once we parked, unpacked, and reassembled ourselves at the curb in time for sunset.
The ground rules were set, the littlest were instructed to hold hands with the biggest, and off we went.
* * * *
Three hours later, the buckets were overflowing, the noses were running and bright pink with the cold, and the two youngest were crashed out in the backseat. I caught myself fervently wishing for a nap as well, but quashed the thought and made sure everyone was happy with their haul before buckling them all in for the last time and heading to Grandma and Grandpa's for pizza and a treasure hunt.
That was a blast, and we all stuffed ourselves with Papa Murphy's Cowboy pizza, laughed at the old folks (dressed like pirates), and searched for our goodies with the provided clues. No one was excluded, not even the grown-ups. Or the baby, for that matter- the other kids were happy to "help" find and unwrap his gifts, too.

I wound up sitting alone at one point in the evening, reflecting on how good it felt to be a part of this family, even when it entailed some hard work at making everyone happy. Thinking, "I wouldn't trade this for the world," then realizing, wait a minute, the whole time I was shunning these very same events for my massively selfish drug habit, and ignoring the very people who cared about me the most, that's exactly what I was doing- I had traded them in. For what, now I don't know. An ephemeral sense of well-being? a temporary high? the swollen ego of a drug dealer?
Ha. All that pales in comparison to a room full of laughing people you love, your belly full of good food and your heart full of promise, looking forward to tomorrow.

Is It That Time of Year (sniff, cough..) Already?

2007-10-30T10:28:00.000-07:00

Why does it seem like I catch every little bug that wafts remotely my direction? You'd think I had a blinking neon sign visible only to germs saying, "Come on in! Make yourselves at home! Join your buddies!"
Yes, I'm sick. Yes, I'm feeling sorry for myself. My throat is so swollen and raw, swallowing is a major ordeal, one that I actually find myself weighing the pros and cons of before doing (Hmm.. is it really worth it? It's gonna hurt- maybe I should forego all liquids and just spit out any saliva that I accumulate). Gross, I know, but these thoughts really have crossed my mind.
I'm also super achey and off-balance: I think my equilibrium bailed out on me when it realized the germs were taking over. I tried explaining this to my husband after noticing his upraised eyebrow at my staggering around like a drunken robot, but instead of the warm reassuring hug of sympathy I expected, I got, "Well, be careful not to drop Jameson if you're that dizzy, babe. Seeya later, loveyaguys," and off he went to work. Arggh.
Four Tylenol, two cups of honey-laced tea, and one hour later, I was at least in an upright position, and my son seemed happy enough rolling around on his play area, so I decided to brave checking my work email and seeing what the day may have brought as far as unavoidable duties. Luckily, there were relatively few things I couldn't put off- I had some stuff to mail, so a trip to the post office is on the agenda for this afternoon; I replied to a couple queries regarding our baking mixes (hopefully my writing was more upbeat than my present outlook); even managed to make a couple froggy-sounding phone calls. All in all, not a bad start.
Now here I sit, sharing my woes instead of my germs- isn't the 'net wonderful? But I feel this brief burst of animation fading fast, and I'm thinking perhaps a nap is in order...

My First Big Nicotine Feen!

2007-10-25T09:04:00.000-07:00

I'm now on Day 25 of not smoking. Which I must say I'm pretty damn proud of myself for. After all, I'd done it before, true- but the decision was made for me (read: I was in jail, so I couldn't smoke). Being out in the real world, subject to all the glorious smells and sights and sounds, is wonderful.... except when some of them make me feen for a smoke.

Like the other day. Jameson and I were getting ready to go into Target, so I was strapping on the little front pack I wear him around in when we're doing stuff like that (he loves it, it's his favorite mode of transportation- it's absolutely adorable, too). Now, I've been noticing my ability to smell and taste have been improving, which normally is a good thing. Not in this case. I caught a full-fledged gust of smoke from some lady walking down the lot puffing away, and it smelled SO pungent and sweet and good, bringing with it all the positive associations I attach to smoking... I swear I was this close to running over there and asking her if I could get one of those from her, it had me wanting one so bad. AHHH!!! My first all-out craving. Here I thought I was doing just marvelously, beating this habit no sweat, then with the first good whiff of smoke I catch, it all goes out the window and I might as well be a crackhead jonesing for a hit.

But.... at least I didn't act on it. I gritted my teeth, told my son what I was experiencing (in a silly little sing-song voice which he seems to enjoy but I hope nobody overheard: "Mommy wants a ciggy-butt/ Mommy thinks she's going nuts!/ Give your Mama a nice big hug/ And help her squish that ciggybug!") Then I took a couple deep breaths, reminded myself I'd be throwing away all that hard work of getting to this point now even if I only took one single drag, and just... carried on. I mean, what else is there to do?

It's kinda nice having been in so many treatment centers and programs over the years when I was battling my other addictions, because really, the same tools can be applied to just about any problem one has. I'm a big subscriber to the "Take what you want and leave the rest" theory. Especially when it comes to 12-step programs. I think they're awesome; they're serving a very necessary purpose and giving alot of people who had just flat given up a whole new lease on life, and a method to overcome their addictions. But along with that, at least for me, came a whole lot of unnecessary crap. And unfortunately, I think quite a few newcomers pick up on that as well, and it turns them off to the whole program. When all they need to do is use that theory- listening to whatever's being said (or reading it), and applying the things they can relate to to their life, and tuning out what they can't. And if you do this extensively, picking up bits and pieces from maybe your church, your counselor, AA/NA, a self-help book or two- you end up (at least I have) with a workable mish-mash of recovery tools, theories, mottoes, ways to prevent relapse, and are able to incorporate anything new or valuable into it whenever you come across it. It's great, and seems to be working just as well for my quitting smoking as it did (has, rather- can't talk past-tense about addiction) for my drug use.

Life is pretty darn good for me these days. One day at a time.

Better Late Than Never

2007-10-17T21:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, I signed up for that "Blog Action Day" thing, the premise of which I understood to be showing one's eco-consciousness for that day, October 15th. Well, I did take action, I just am only now getting around to blogging about it. I'm slow sometimes, okay?

I've never been very good at the whole tree-hugging, eco-friendly, recycle each and every household item or go to hell thing. And to the best of my knowledge, in that respect I fit right in here in Cd'A, unfortunately. But after feeling that familiar tug of guilt when I read the call to arms posted on my Blogger Dashboard, I summoned up every ounce of goodwill toward the planet I had and vowed to do some greenie good that Monday, even if it killed me. And once I clicked on "yes, I'll participate", I knew I'd better follow through, else that little tug may turn into an all-expenses paid first class guilt trip.

Monday morning rolls around, and I'm sitting here at my desktop going through all my work emails and mentally compiling my "to-do" list for the day, and I realize I'm completely at a loss as far as my plans for an ecological coup. I mean, coming up totally blank (Not surprising when you consider that not even my thumb is green on the best of days- my husband is the one on whom even our houseplants rely). But after some serious calisthenics of my gray matter, I came up with a half-hearted plan, which although it may not count much in the grand scheme of things, I at least will know we're slowing our contribution to the eventual demise of Planet Earth.

My plan being two-part, I put part one into action by methodically stripping our house of every non-essential piece of cardboard, room by room, starting with my office. This may sound minor, but as mailing is a large part of what I do for a living, I end up with massive amounts of dismantled and yet-to-be-assembled box pieces, which I would formerly just fold into the outside trash and let the garbageman haul it away each Wednesday. Well, no longer will I fail to recycle these flattened brown tree corpses, no more will I cavalierly toss this pressboard forest away for landfill fodder. That very day I took my first cardboard-laden trip to the recycling depot at the school down the road, and will be taking as many more as quantity of said cardboard on hand dictates. So there.

Moving on to part two. This one being a little more complicated, it needed finessed. You see, my mother's household produces exorbitant amounts of aluminum cans, of both the beer and soda persuasion (although mostly the former), and I knew for a fact that nobody ever felt the slightest urge to recycle them. If I were to bring up the good it would do the environment, that would fall on deaf ears, sadly enough. There would be retaliatory arguments, and it just may get messy. So I couldn't go there. I considered proposing the financial angle ("Mom, just think of all the money you'll be getting back for every load of cans you take in to the center, for cans you'd normally just be throwing away!") but realized her response would be that it would cost more in gas to drive all the way there and back than the load of cans would be worth. Let alone what a pain it would be to have bags and bags of cans cluttering up the back porch or garage, remembering to throw the aluminum away seperately.... yep, this was gonna be tricky to persuade her, alright.

I finally settled on an old standby; one that I'd used often over the years, which relied on those old parental responsibilities of hers to kick in and bail me out of trouble. So a little subterfuge was being used- hey, it's for a good cause, right? I first went to the Wal and bought a massive Rubbermaid trash barrel, wheeled and handled and lock-lidded. The works. This was installed, with little fanfare, (not surprising as it was just me, Jameson, and their two dogs looking on) in the cramped corner of the back porch. Next I unloaded a smaller tall kitchen can which I'd had in my laundry room, and stationed it behind their inside kitchen trash, finalizing the whole deal by lining it with a bag and fishing out all the empties I could find from the regular garbage and putting them in the new one. Now all I had to do was wait for her to get home from work and notice the new additions. I quickly left and headed back to my house, knowing my phone would be ringing shortly.

And of course it did. "Kendra, what the hell is this? I come home and not only do I find a small dumpster on my back porch, I also see there's another garbage in my kitchen, as if the one I had wasn't enough I need two? This has your name written all over it. It better be good, too," she lit into me.
"Mom, check it out," I started. "You know my blog I've been telling you about? Well, they were doing this thing, like for the environment? And I kinda committed to helping out and then there wasn't anything I could really do except recycle, and you know Tony and I don't really go through cans or anything, but you guys do, so I just thought maybe please please please you wouldn't mind just throwing your cans into the new trash for awhile? I promise I'll take care of everything else, taking them to the center and all that, all you have to do is use the stuff. Please? Just try it for a month. I'm scared if I don't put down that I did what I said I was gonna do that they might cancel my blog and I really like what I got set up so please Mom, would you just give it a try?" Whew. After I got all that out, I waited.
Fingers crossed, just like in the old days.
I heard her sigh, could almost see her shaking her head the way she does when she's exasperated with me. "When are you going to stop getting yourself into these little last-minute jams?" she asked. "You're over thirty years old! So more importantly, when are you gonna stop involving me?"
"But will you do it? Please, Mom...?"
"I guess. Don't really have a choice, now, do I?"
I assured her she was the greatest mom who'd ever lived, that I would never put her in this awful position again, and she'd see, I'd make it up to her, I really would. Then I hung up the phone and sat there, feeling pleased with myself, sure that Mom would eventually come around, and knowing that in my own little way I was doing some roundabout good. For the environment, for my family, for the future. Is that corny or what? Damn, I'm getting soft!

The Cartoon Kendra

2007-10-17T05:40:00.001-07:00

This was actually kinda fun, creating an avatar on "Meez"/Photobucket. I dinked around with it for awhile, picking out clothes, hairstyle and color, even makeup and facial features. Obviously I have waaay too much time on my hands...

My Sweet-Smelling Clean Slate of a Son

2007-10-14T22:48:00.000-07:00

I just went in to check on Jameson, something I do quite often now that he sleeps in his own room on the other side of the house, and ending up standing there for the better part of an hour, I think, lost in thought while I gazed down at this amazing little being my husband and I (with a whole lotta help from you-know-Who) created.

Not only is the creation itself such a miraculous process, one I remember marveling at continuously throughout my pregnancy as I caressed my swelling midsection with one hand and scrolled through page after page of gestational information with the other, obsessed with what the little guy was up to at any given moment throughout those trimesters... not only that, or as the living miracle continues to grow, and mature, and amaze me- but the awesome weight of responsibility for this child is beginning to settle upon my shoulders, bringing with it a whole new set of wonders and worries and joy.

It's a welcome weight, to be sure- one I'd wished for often for perhaps a decade or so; especially when I was in the depths of addiction and despair, I'd think, "If only I could have a baby, I know that would solve all my problems. That would straighten me up, give me something to live right for." And the ironic thing is, I had given up hope for the magical event to occur, and ended up straightening up on my own, the only way possible: with hard work, devotion and dedication. Only then, after a couple years of clearing away the wreckage of my past and slowly beginning to rebuild a sweeter, simpler life for Tony and myself, only then were we blessed with the amazing news that at the age of thirty I was finally pregnant. God knew when we were ready.

So back to what I was contemplating so deeply earlier this evening as I stared down at the downy fuzz on my son's perfectly molded skull: the duty I have as this boy's mother to raise him right; to instill in him both integrity and morality, and to show him the love and respect he'll need to be able to believe in himself, hold those values close and therefore be able to show love and respect to others; to provide him with whatever he needs to become whatever he wants to be, wherever he wants or needs to go, whomever he's destined to become.

Wow. I can't believe how cavalierly some people can be about the responsibilities of parenthood, how some women just pop out kid after kid, doing nothing except spending the welfare check on crack and farming their offspring out to first Grandma and Grandpa, and once they can't or won't take care of them anymore, allowing the State to step in and take their babies away, not even putting up a half-hearted fight, just signing their rights away and never looking back. I mean, I've met a lot of these women, usually in jail, who speak so casually about the whole thing it just turns my stomach. I know a lot of it is that they're under the spell of whatever their drug of choice is so thoroughly that whatever love they have for their kids has been drowned along with their self-respect, but c'mon! What about maternal instinct, that awesome force we hear about that causes 105 pound women to lift 2 tons of wrecked car off their child in order to save its life, or single mothers who work double shifts and attend college at night just so their babies won't ever have to do the same... I just don't get it. Or rather, they just don't get it.
The power of love has to be stronger than the power of addiction. I wish I could explain to these poor lost women, these failed mothers, that with determination and God's help, they can straighten up. They've been blessed with motherhood, an awesome power that can give them the strength to move mountains if they only let it. They need to succeed and get their babies back, and in doing so, will end up giving themselves something to succeed for. Instead of the vicious circle of addiction, they will have a wonderful one of love and success.

I think my son and all that comes with him has done so much for my self-esteem, my relationship with Christ, my character in general... I couldn't even fathom trading all of that for the sick, twisted world of dope. There's just no way. The jolt of love I feel when I look down at this innocent, sweet-smelling precious child, and this piece of chalk I'm holding which will be used to mark his clean slate, what powerful, wonderful tools in which to navigate the path of parenthood. How incredibly sad that there are other mothers out there who don't or can't feel the same.

Adding 27 Hours to My Life So Far by These 11 Days of Not Smoking

2007-10-11T01:55:00.000-07:00

Now that I've rejoined the human race, no longer having the face of a cheeky chipmunk, I'm assuming that the massive doses of penicillin have begun to do their job. Not a moment too soon, as far as I'm concerned- it was awful to look so ridiculous, be a little grumpy still from having quit smoking, be in that much pain, and have the resentment towards Dr. Jerk for screwing my mouth up to begin with. However, I've tried very hard these days to eliminate needless resentment from my life- like the saying goes, Resenting someone is like swallowing poison yourself and waiting for the other person to die. Well, I've poisoned myself enough over the years, and these days I'd rather work on healing instead of falling into the same ole patterns. Especially since the guy's a jerk, why should I waste my thoughts and emotion on him? If I was a better Christian, I'd devote some more time on praying for the idiot, but instead I've managed to only pray for his other patients- both past and future. But I'm sure that as well as drunks and small children, God pays special attention to unwitting patients under the drill- or the knife- of the not-so-skilled practicioners of medicine. Perhaps they're the ones who're the reason for the term practicing, as they haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet.

Hey, how 'bout some good news... I've now been smoke-free for eleven days! My lungs are already feeling better, I've gone on a couple afternoon strolls (walks, actually, pushing Jameson in his stroller) and my usual route, which is around a mile and a half, hasn't made me feel winded at all, even when I've purposely picked up the pace a bit. I know it's probably too soon to really be reaping all the benefits, but I'm pretty proud of myself just the same.

Some of the tools I've been using are the Idaho QuitNet website, which is pretty cool- they have all kinds of little support groups, chats, options to calculate how much money you've saved so far by quitting, how much time you've added to your life, stuff like that. But mainly I just read the emails they send me, which have all the little snippets of congratulatory inspiration, mediocre comics, and comments from other quitters. It really does help me to reaffirm what I'm up to every day, not lose sight of how important this is to me. I intend to watch my son grow up, and not while I wheel an oxygen tank behind me.

Other stuff which has helped have been stocking up on an industrial size canister of Red Vines licorice, which I dip into regularly, as does Tony. He quit too, I'm not sure if I mentioned that previously, but also deserves major kudos as he smoked WAY more than I did and is also on Day 11, with the help of the patch. We both have been chewing lots of gum, too (not Nicorette, just regular old Trident) and I carry a dozen or so Dum-Dum suckers around with me in my purse for when I get the urge while I'm out and about. I hate smelling other people puffing- for some sick reason, it smells SO good! Talk about a trigger.

I've also been cleaning house like a madwoman. Not that it really needed it, but mainly just to stay occupied. The not smoking thing, coupled with my banishment from public view due to my horrible facial disfigurement, led to me attacking kitchen, foyer and bathroom floors- on my hands and knees, no less!- with hot buckets of water redolent with the smells of Pine-Sol and my old- fashioned scrub brush. Next were the carpets and rugs, vacuumed and beat within an inch of their lives, respectively. Hanging the latest (and possibly cutest!) pictures on The Wall of Jameson followed (with no help from the tall member of our family- that lazy bum just sat on the recliner and said stuff like, "A little to the left, babe. Oops, I mean my left." Laundry, plant-watering, cat and fish and son feeding, then homemade french bread pizza for us grownups finished off the afternoon. A few hours of interweb, both work-related and surfing thru my favorite sites, was next. I'm savoring these last few days? weeks? before Jameson is actually crawling- right now I can just plop him down on his blankie on the floor of my office and scatter some toys around him and he's happy. He may roll around the room, but I only have to rescue him when he gets stuck between a bookcase or something and wails. But I know that all too soon I'll be having to follow him everywhere, as he tries to explore, eat, or topple over anything he can find. Ah, the joys of parenthood- I wouldn't trade it for anything.

So, it's late, I'm tired, and have rambled long enough. This was a day in the life of a newly non-smoking mommy and wife who is grateful for what health she has and the many, many blessings she all too often takes for granted. Are we all not guilty of such at times? If you think you may have been overlooking the blessings in your life lately, take a moment and compile a mental gratitude list. You'll be surprised at how it puts all your petty gripes and bickerings in perspective when you weigh out how rich you are in what truly matters.

Incompetent Quacks Masquerading as Dentists

2007-10-07T13:31:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you a story. A brief one to be sure, as my lower jaw is throbbing in counterpoint to my tapping of the keys. I feel the need to share this, however, as you may be the next unwitting victim to this overpaid, underschooled charlatan.
Several years ago, in the midst of my legal nightmare (completely of my own doing, to be sure) I had the luck to be warehoused in our local State hold for IDOC inmates, up in the lovely town of Wallace. My stay there was fairly uneventful, and due to it being such a small facility- really just an underpopulated jail, which because of needed funds, they'd volunteered to house state prisoners as well as their own local miscreants.
The food was pretty decent, the rules were relaxed; the jail employees even encouraged us to refer to them by their first names, which lent an air of casualness to the whole thing. And as far as doctor and dental visits went, the inmates merely filled out a request, and when the time came, were escorted on foot down the Main Street of town- wearing the jail jumpsuit and shackled, of course, with two deputies on either side- to the office a few blocks up, pretending to think nothing of the numerous traffic and pedestrians casting us strange looks.
So after a month or two of residence in this laid-back little two-horse town, I decided to fill out a request to get a back tooth refilled- partly because I knew the work needed done eventually, mostly because I looked forward to the little field trip. Not too many days later, I heard my name hollered out down the cellblock, telling me to suit up and be ready to roll out in a few minutes.
We made the journey uneventfully- walking in shackles can be a painful ordeal, but my short legged stride and the fact I'd learned to prepare for such trips with two pairs of socks on to lend padding made the journey bearable. And let me tell you, after months of virtual isolation, people watching was a complete thrill. The sounds of traffic, the children at play... all the chaotic jumple of sounds, sights, smells and colors of a small town in action was quenching a thirst I'd not realized I had.
The dentist's office was like any other at first glance- magazines months out of date, fake plants, brochures from pharmaceutical companies littering every spare surface. We got some raised eyebrows from the duo of law-enforcement escorts and my inmate duds, but the receptionist was expecting us and ushered us back to the room where the drills and what-not would soon begin their humming. I sat gingerly in the too-large chair, testing out the arms that I knew I'd soon be white-knuckling.
When the D.D.S deigned to grace us with his presence an interminable amount of time later, I tempered my irritation with rationalizing that, a) he's a busy guy, all dentists are. b) I'm near or at the bottom of the totem pole due to my latest housing assignment I'd gotten myself into. c) my lil 'ol filling has to be one of the doc's more mundane procedures, nothing like caps an implants and root canals.
Introductions were made, injections were administered, and the tools began to buzz. I'd managed to distance myself from the whole distasteful ordeal, lost somewhere in la-la land (and not from nitrous, either- lowly prisoners are afforded no such luxuries) when my reverie was rudely disturbed by a resounding crack! I happened to be looking up at the dentist's face at the time, the part unobscured by his mask, and there was an unmistakable look of dismay which darkened his brow. This did not inspire confidence on my part, let me tell you.
At that point, everything came to a screeching halt. The tools were withdrawn, the spit-sucker turned off, my mouth allowed to close. After a hushed conversation with the assistant, the dentist rearranged his expression to reflect a grave, hesitant yet caring demeanor as he hunkered down to the side of my chair.
"Ms... Goodrick, is it?" he asked, referring to my chart, "We seem to have run into a problem. You see, as I was sanding away the previous filling to make space for the new, my drill skipped and unfortunately cracked the tooth quite badly. Now, normally this wouldn't be much of a problem, because most insurance would cover the cost of the additional repair work. However, because of your being incarcerated, you're under the policies of the Dept of Correction, who only cover extractions or necesssary fillings." He looked away at this point, I doubt it was because of embarrasment at his mistake, probably just to sneak a look at his watch. "So you see, I'll have to extract the molar instead- let me prepare a few more lidocaine injections, and we'll get started!"
Groggy from the procedure thus far, confused at what had just happened, and intimidated by this blustering buffoon, I'm ashamed I didn't speak up, just let the guy jerk out a perfectly good tooth (well, before his ineptness busted the damn thing in half, the only thing wrong with it was a need for a surface filling.) And of course once I had a mouth full of bloody gauze, I couldn't complain if I wanted to.
Fast forward a few years. This dentist, who I'll perhaps nickname Dr. Jerk, apparently caused more damage than I had originally thought. Now that I have the freedom to visit my own choice of practicioners, I've found a great guy, who after consulting my ex-rays informed me that there was a large fragment of broken jaw bone embedded in that lower socket, most likely from an overzealous extraction by you-know-who. At the time, we decided to hold off on slicing me open and removing it, as at that point it wasn't interfering with anything.
Last night I noticed some sensitivity on my lower left cheek, and upon prodding and poking, realized it was the exact site of the ex-tooth! I grouched about it to my husband, reminding him of the awful Dr. Jerk, but went to bed without giving it another thought.
The baby started hollering for his middle of the night bottle feeding around three-ish, and upon staggering out of bed and into the kitchen, I realized the sensitive little lump had become a full-fledged agonizing golf ball of pulsing swollen heat. After feeding the little guy and getting him back to dreamland, I peered into the living room mirror, and with a sinking feeling, saw my familiar visage had been replaced by one of the chipmunk families'.
Of course it's Sunday. I didn't make it to church, had to call off a dinner I was planning to invite four of our family members to, and the baby duties have fallen on Tony so far today (thank God he was home to help, and not out of town). And my dentist is closed, so hopefully tomorrow they'll be able to fit me in.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story is. I do know, as a former meth user, I'm very fortunate not to suffer from extensive dental problems. I guess the everyday problems, however, I should have held off on addressing until I could go to a dentist of my choosing, rather than a cut-rate hack who views inmates as second-class citizens, unworthy of decent care.

The Other Face of Muslims

2007-10-04T08:16:00.000-07:00

There was a guest speaker at my church the other night, a doctor slash Middle Eastern traveler who, because of security reasons, did not give his full name. I'll refer to him as Dr. John throughout this writing.
At the morning service, our pastor urged us to show up that night to hear this guy speak, as he was purported to be very good, very powerful. I knew my husband was going to be on his way out of town by then, and my mother had already offered to watch the baby that night, so I figured, 'why not? should be interesting.'
The Other Face of Muslims was what was written on my program, so I thought, 'okay, a missionary? a sociology guy? a convert? what's he gonna be?' And it wasn't exactly a huge crowd that showed up to hear him speak, either- maybe fifty or sixty people all told.
I took a seat near the front by some folks I knew, and pulled out my pen and scratch paper in case I wanted to take notes (old habits die hard: in college I must've taken my weight in notes; it's the only way I know I'll retain information). I'm very glad I was prepared, as once Dr. John began to get going I was scribbling furiously, not wanting to miss a thing.
He was introduced as being a star in his field of study, one who could've had all the fame and fortune he wanted, but after finding Christ forsook it all and set off to teach English in the most difficult, dangerous countries there are: Iran, Iraq, and other Middle Eastern Muslim-populated states, finally settling in Azherbazhan (sp?) where he's resided the last ten years or so.
A quiet speaker with an open, kind face, I immediately liked him, sensing his innate dignity and heartfelt desire to convey what he'd learned about the Islamic culture. The Muslim people to us, an audience of North Idaho Christians, were so foreign and far away... most of us considered ourselves fairly open-minded and well educated, but as Dr. John continued to speak, I for one realized just how ignorant I truly was in regards to this faith, one that I rarely even thought about, although he informed us it was the largest growing religion in the United States today.
He explained to us that it would be almost impossible for a culture like ours to really understand how their religion and traditions are so intertwined, practically inseparable. It was difficult to distinguish who truly believed, though, as it was considered dishonorable to one's family (a major no-no) to profess to be anything besides a follower of Islam. There was a lot of disenchanted people- youth in particular- but the social stigma for speaking out was so great that most kept it to themselves and became the equivalent of Christmas and Easter churchgoers. Even taking that into consideration, the Muslim people have by far the highest number of atheist/agnostics in the world: about 1/3 of the population. With those statistics, you'd think the missionaries would be flocking to spread the Word and convert all those unbelievers to Christianity, right? Well, think again. Because of the past dangers (Christians being beheaded and all that), the fact that they seem to always be at war, and the unattractiveness to your average missionary (the land of Osama bin Laden and his ilk!) Muslims are by far the least ministered people in all of Christiandom. There are one to two missionaries for every one million Muslims. One percent of all the money collected for mission work, foreign-language Bibles, etc- probably millions- goes to Muslim/ Middle Eastern people. Eighty-nine percent stays right in the United States! Now, just to clarify this statistic, I'm not referring to general collection plate money. I'm talking about money specifically donated in the name of people leaving the U.S. and traveling overseas to try to bring people to Christ. The other amazing thing Dr. John said in regards to this unbalance was the fact that there are more missionaries sent to Alaska than those sent to the entire Muslim world. Wow.
Okay, I thought all that was pretty sad stuff, but in order for it to really hit home, Dr. John began to give us some background on the Islamic faith: Muhammed, the Quran, and the many parallels between our beliefs and theirs.
Apparently the Quran, their holy book, was written entirely by Muhammed, a man from Mecca- a great one, to be sure, but still just a man- around 600 A.D. In doing so, he managed to unite and bring prosperity to the Arab people, who were going through great upheavals at the time. So not only was he a godly prophet and author, he was also a political animal and military man. This is reflected in his writings, especially the later parts of the holy book.
What's too bad, however, is that the devout followers insist that every single word of the Quran is absolutely true and must be obeyed, although Muhammed himself had denounced certain parts of his book as untrue, claiming to have been possessed by an evil spirit while writing (ever heard of the Satanic Verses? those are the ones). I think that the bin Ladens of the world are using angry, violent later portions of the book to fuel their fires of aggression, and in doing so, alienating us from all Muslims, although most are pacifist and hold values similar to ours.
The parallels are startlingly similar to ours, really. It's a monotheistic religion, the Quran and the Old Testament of the Bible having many of the same historical events, as well as directives. Dr. John quoted quite a few suras in which Jesus was mentioned, up to and including His birth (from a virgin) in 3:38, and death (in which Allah raised Him up to Himself) in 4:158. Isaac, Abraham and Ishmael are all mentioned as being prophets as well. There was a lot more, but I just wanted to touch upon a few of the big ones.
So the bottom line was this- there's a lot of good stuff in the Quran, and that's what almost all of the Muslim people have been taught. On the whole, they're a peace-loving people, just looking to improve their quality of life. Aren't we all? And back to the statistics, as far as quality of life goes, almost all of the top thirty countries rated as having the best were predominantly Christian nations. I think the exception was Japan. And at the other end of the spectrum, those thirty countries with the lowest quality of life were ALL Muslim. Now that's sad.
I'm sure there's other factors besides religion- political upheaval, poverty, disease, government or lack thereof... but it's no wonder these guys are losing their faith. With that low of a level of general happiness, wouldn't you doubt the religion of your parents (and their parents) after awhile? Especially if all they ever did was go through the motions, too.
It's too bad that most of America lumps all these good people in with the extremists, the suicide bombers and the hate-mongers. Especially when, according to Dr. John, the Muslims he's met are the exact opposite: considerate, open to new ideas, generous and caring. He's had the opportunity that we have not- to discuss things with them face to face, be invited into their homes and introduced to their families, and share his beliefs.
So he left us with an entreaty: to keep an open mind, to pray for those less fortunate than we, and to remember that Muslims are this- reasonable, relational and reachable. Are we?

By the way, I'm still not smoking! Day 4 and counting... hooray!

Exorcising the NicoDemon

2007-10-01T11:21:00.000-07:00

Today's the day. The BIG day. The first day in I-don't-know-how-long that I voluntarily will absolutely not smoke one nasty cigarette all day.
Yep, I'm quitting. No more butt-sucking for me. (Sounds pretty disgusting when you put it that way, huh?) Well, it is disgusting, and I'm sick of it. No more yellowing fingers, no more mouth tasting like an ashtray, no more spending over a thousand dollars a year on a slow form of suicide. Nope, I've decided I would like to see my son grow up, and for him to not have to see me puffing away while we're at it.
I think I have a slight edge on the average quitter, as I only sucked down 9 or 10 cancer sticks a day. There's no smoking in our house, either, so I'd already eliminated the "comfort of my own home" element. The smoking while driving thing will be pretty easy, too- although I used to love to smoke while I drove, since I've had my son he's usually in the car with me, so that's out.
So the toughies are going to be after meals (or sex, for that matter), while in stressful situations, or while around other smokers. But I think I'll be able to combat the urge by reminding myself why I'm doing it, and use the little tricks recommended by others who've succeeded. You know, hard candies, staying busy, that kind of thing.
What really ticks me off is the fact that I'd quit (although not of my own volition) for a little over a month, but caved at the first whiff of secondhand smoke, and have been at it ever since- for about six weeks now. And I've hated it! It hasn't tasted good, nor has it satisfied my neurotic oral-fixation tendencies, for quite awhile now. All the more reason to kick the habit.
I can do this. God's already helped me get rid of a lot of nasty habits in my life... I'm sure He won't mind me bugging Him for help with one more.

NOT a "Meth Mom"- No Way, No How

2007-09-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

I just read the print edition of the Spokesman, and while I want to thank DHO for getting the word out there about my blog (like he said, a voice like mine is one that really just isn't heard from that often), I also need to clarify something. I am not, and never ever have been, a "meth mom". This may seem like splitting hairs to some, but to me it is a very important point. My one and only child is only five months old, and I have been clean from ALL mind altering substances for almost three years. I would like to think that in my previous life as a practicing addict, had I become pregnant I would have immediately cleaned up my act. I've always felt very strongly about drug use around children, let alone the horror of crack babies and the like. However, it's a moot point, since I was never seen fit to be blessed with a child until well into recovery. Just wanted to get that clear.
Other than the unfortunate headline, I'm actually quite honored that my humble little newborn blogbaby has been given such an introduction. In fact, I think I may even be a bit more inclined now to keep my posts a little higher quality, just in case someone may be reading this and can leave a tad more enriched. Or with a smile on their face, or even a thoughtful frown...

Extending a Hand to Who I Used to Be

2007-09-23T15:51:00.000-07:00

There was a trailer court down the hill from my grandparents' house that I remember frolicking around at twenty years ago or so, when I wore my hair in pigtails and had scabs on my knees more often than not. It was owned by a couple who were elderly even back then, so it was no surprise when I heard a few years back that they had quietly passed away, as old folks so often do, within several months of each other.
What has been a shame was the rapid disintegration of the already shabby little neighborhood after they died, and the only bright spot of the whole mess was that they weren't around to see it. The place began to teem with meth cooks and junker cars, the ruts in the unpaved roads overflowing with garbage as the children who played in them seemed to get even dirtier and more skinny. It was no wonder that whoever owned the site finally decided to wash their hands with it, and one by one the trailers began to disappear, the somewhat intact ones transported elsewhere, the more decrepit of them just demolished.
A few residents refused to go. I remember reading an article or two about it, and idly speculating about the cause- too doped up and couldn't afford it? or truly deprived of their right to due process and making a stand? Whichever it was, they brought the whole 'Operation: TrailerSweep' to a standstill, and the last I heard, had no running water or electricity but were still holding out, even though police had been brought into the mix and it was a just a matter of time before the whole thing came to a close.
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. A lady from my church called, asking if I had a few moments to listen to a unique situation she needed some assistance with. I said of course, and she began to explain how a young lady and child had been standing on the side of the road, covered in soot, as another member of our church was driving by, and she felt compelled to stop. Upon turning into (guess where?) the trailer park- or what was left of it- she had realized one of the structures on the lot (one of the last remaining) was engulfed in flames, and the woman and child had obviously just fled from it. After calling 911, she pleaded with the woman, who was apparently in shock, to take her phone number and call her if she needed anything at all, please.
Now, I'm not sure how much time had elapsed, but I suppose the woman realized a few days lodging in a motel courtesy of the Red Cross was not going to get her and her daughter very far, found my church friend's number in her pocket and gave it a shot. They met up, talked, and my church friend left the woman's hotel shaken by her story and quite afraid for her and the child.
I guess this woman had led a hard life for someone still quite young. Walking a road awash with tough men drinking in rough bars, black eyes and a bleak outlook, she turned to drugs and disreputable digs like her last stop. Now, after losing everything, she felt like giving up- after all, how was she going to be able to pick up the pieces when they had no pieces left?
Hearing this story, I felt my throat tighten in empathy. I too had felt that low, and recalled the stinging pang of having nothing but the clothes on my back, though it had been quite awhile ago. Didn't ease the ache, nor the rush of shame which accompanied it. How ironic that I had been chosen to possibly assist with what could have been me; in another time, in another town.
Upon hanging up, I attacked my closet with a vengeance. By another stroke of fate, the newly homeless woman and I were apparently the same size, and no sooner were the words out of my friend's mouth informing me of this, I was eagerly volunteering to donate clothes, as well as anything else I could think of as being helpful to someone with absolutely nothing. This lady had nothing. The only baggage she had was not the kind one could unpack and pick an outfit from, if you know what I mean. And with a kid, to boot.
So, a half hour later, I had assembled a mishmash of shirts, skirts, jeans and jackets. Socks, bras, and baby blankets. A huge teddy sat atop a bag of makeup and assorted toiletries, and a few of my purses and backpacks were finally going to stop cluttering up my poor closet. I enlisted my husband's help, and between the two of us we threw in a few more odds and ends- some toys, books and bubble bath for the little one- and got it all loaded up.
On the drive over to the woman's house who was organizing this, I realized something. I felt GREAT!!! This was better than Christmas, better than birthdays. This was giving to someone who not only was a complete stranger but was truly in need, and to know that I could help was the best I'd felt in a long time. Yeah, the lady was a wreck, and who knew if she was going to even appreciate all the help. Maybe she'd just trade it all to the dopeman for another fix. But that wasn't the point.
Giving for the sake of giving was a brand-new experience for me, one that I was savoring for all it was worth. I had a sponsor one time who told me that we hit our bottoms when we finally stop digging. And cynic though I am, I still am holding out hope that this young woman will put down her shovel and reach up and out with that newly freed hand; that I, or someone else with no other motivation than which to help, will extend the hand of human kindness to her and she will begin the long yet wonderful journey up and out of that hell on earth we addicts inevitably reach before our deaths or recoveries.

What If There Were No Hypothetical Questions?

2007-09-22T11:16:00.000-07:00

~If a deaf child swears, does his mother wash his hands with soap?
~Is there another word for synonym?
~If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?
~Whose cruel idea was it to put an 's' in 'lisp', anyway?
~Would a fly without wings be called a walk?
~Why do they lock gas station bathrooms? Are they afraid someone will clean them?
~What do you do when you see an endangered animal eating an endangered plant?
~Why do they put Braille on the drive-through ATM's?
~How do they get deer to only cross at those yellow signs?
~If a guy with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself, would that be considered a hostage situation?
~If the police arrest a mime, do they tell him he has the right to remain silent?

Entertaining the Gendarmes

2007-09-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

What an unsettling feeling it was to have two Idaho Department of Correction officers tromping through my house this afternoon, their gold badges flashing (batches? we don' need no steenking batches!) and jackboots leaving smears of mud, an all too vivid reminder of my sullied past. Although I knew this home visit was mandatory, part of my necessary contact with them, and although I had nothing to illegal to hide, it still quickened my pulse and caused my thoughts to race. I caught myself holding my infant son unnecessarily tight as I surreptitiously tried to decipher everything they did and said during the short stay. They were here perhaps three or four minutes, yet it felt like eternity.
Freedom. Such a precious thing, yet so intangible, ethereal really. How does one even describe the lack of freedom to someone who'd always had it? I won't try, not in these pages anyhow. What I can say is that no cost is too great for me to pay to maintain it. This includes suffering the indignity of Big Brother (or Sister, in my case) infringing upon what little privacy I have in my modest home ("Well-kept. Even... homey", my probation officer said, with a faintly surprised tone.) I have no problem jumping through the numerous hoops and paying the neverending costs: of supervision, of urinalysis, of court fines, fees and restitution. Again. Just please don't ever send me back to jail.
All of this is worth it, if I am afforded the privelege of remaining in this society, among the company of my loved ones. Freedom, sweet freedom. For it is what keeps me sane, and has helped keep me sober for these last few years as well. The two do go hand in hand, after all; and they, in return, are directly proportionate to my quality of life continuing to rise, and rise some more. The longer I'm out (and clean), the better life gets; the better life gets, the easier it is to STAY on the straight and narrow...
But I can say none of this to the gendarmes. They are not counselors, concerned with my well-being or what makes me tick; no, all they are really are glorified babysitters. They view us all with thinly veiled suspicion, looking for the lie in every statement- and who can really blame them? Ninety percent of the time, the convict does lie, and will reoffend. Well, maybe only seventy percent, I don't know. Still, the majority, that's for sure.
All I know is I'm in the minority- one of the few who've indisputably changed their lives for the better, never to darken the inside of a cell again. Not from my own doing, anyhow. So now all I have to do is convince this new P. O. of mine of that fact, and I should be discharged from all this nonsense once again within a year.

Busting the Blogcherry

2007-09-19T22:53:00.000-07:00

I sit here, in my newly converted spare room/ office, fiddling around on this splendid new computer of mine (happy birthday, Kendra!) and realize that with the amount of time I now dedicate to tasks in which I careen around the glorious information superhighway, it would be absolutely remiss for me to not create some sort of platform on which to ruminate from.
So... history take note. Prepare to absorb the echoes of my soul, the wonderings of my id, the blatherings of my ego. Ha.