Apparently There is NO Justice in this World!

After surviving:

• The most frightening night of the year for any dieter, Halloween, without eating a single piece of candy.

•  A family dinner in which your Mother-in-Law, the slimmest lady in the world, fries ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING plus serves delicious desserts including a heavenly cake and scrumptious homemade cookies by drinking a couple of gallons of water and saying "No, thank you" excessively.

AND . . .

•  Sitting across from your brother-in-law who is shoveling desserts into his mouth like a human hoover while STILL WEARING a compression garment from the LIPOSUCTION he just had the very day before.

I got up this morning and weighed in.  I only lost 0.8 pounds this week.

Life. Is. Not. Fair.

That. Is. All.  

Until next time . . .

 

Are You On Facebook?

Let's just pretend it hasn't been over a month since my last post, shall we.

WARNING!!  This post is severely long and terribly rambling.  I'm working through something and I need to use this blog as down and dirty therapy.  Remember we're broke and uninsured. ;-)  Feel free to skip on by if you're not in the mood to witness a middle aged woman unpacking her emotional baggage.   

Anywho . . . Someone must ask me about Facebook every single time I'm with friends, family, or frankly just people in general.  No, I'm not on Facebook.  Mom #2 is not on Facebook.  Baby Boy is not on Facebook.  Collectively, we are not on Facebook.  It's never really concerned or interested me too much; just a different way of wasting time online.  I'm sure people are on Facebook while I'm reading all of your blogs. ;-)

In the spirit of full disclosure, actually, I do sort of have a Facebook page.  It doesn't have any information on it, no photo, no friends, or anything like that and it's not under my real name.  I use it to "like" my favorite companies' websites so that I can get coupons.  I'll do just about anything for a coupon.  I big sparkly puffy heart coupons.  

Well, what set me off is that my sister recently sent me a link to a Facebook group for people who went to our primary/secondary school.  Primary school you say - long forgotten - big deal.  Well it is a big deal.  I grew up in Europe in a very close-knit, conservative,  dangerously-close-to-a-cult, religious group that included a school where we received a highly edited education. We spent many, many years there.  The majority of my developmental years.  The group page included photos from years past, along with more recent photos and updates from a lot of people who checked in.  My silly face was in a lot of those old photos and it really brought back memories.   Some people are still enveloped in a looser translation of the religion, many have moved on to more mainstream lives.  All seem to look back on those years as a fond experiment.  It's kind of like a recently defunct exclusive club and you were a founding member.  Very few people in the world are privy to the experience we shared.  

For a week after perusing the group pages, I proceeded to have raging nightmares.  The images brought up a lot of pain that I thought I was over.  Over the years I have weathered a fairly serious identity crisis as I have grown up, released myself from that religion, came out, began learning about actual science and history, etc . . . There were many lost years and many more rebuilding.  I'm confident in myself now, but that week I was having daily flashbacks.  It was emotionally draining.

Now that I've come out on the other side, I realize there are some people I really would like to reconnect with.  I see their photos, their spouses, their children and how much their lives have blossomed.  I feel the desire to reach out.  They obviously feel the same way or why would they have such a group.  It's like that shared experience is our sun and we're all in tight orbit around it.  The gravitational pull is getting harder and harder to ignore.

But on the other hand, I don't know if I want to live my life "out loud" like that.  I enjoy my anonymity.  I do blog (sort of), but I don't usually give my real name, or the real name of my family members.  I think it's common knowledge what general area of the country I live in, but not altogether too specific.  I like having a veil, even if it's imagined, of privacy in my life.

I have to admit that I am also afraid that I'll be judged harshly by people who are still "in the faith."  I'm completely burned out on religion.  I'm glad it's there for people who need it, including my very own Mom and Sister, but I simply do not partake. I have a long miserably sorted history with church, religion, demon deacons, evil church ladies, being gay, being feminist, being artistic, and being a bunch of other stuff that is  fodder for a whole other post.  Another long post. 

All that is to say, I've been thinking about actually personalizing my page and really joining Facebook, but I probably won't.  Are y'all on it?  What do you like about it?  What do you hate about it?  Give me the scoop!

Who knew a simple question, could conjure up so much . . . stuff.  Such is life, I guess. 

If you've read this far, thanks.  I really needed a listening ear.  If you skipped over all the drama in the middle and are just skimming to the end, I understand that too.  Time is money, Honey. 



43 days of triple digit temperatures.  I just had to mention, it's HOT!   


Until next time . . .

Depression Hurts . . .

 . . . And so does my hip. :(

I got a little over excited playing Wii Just Dance 2. 

That darn Rhianna song on there really got me jamming and I threw out my hip. 

I'm so freaking depressed because it seems like every time I have try to have some physical fun with the family, I hurt myself. 

Mom #2 says it's because I'm too competitive and push myself too hard so I can win every single game.  I do admit that I am a tad bit competitive . . . but still . . . games are fun . . . but . . . winning games is AWESOME!!!

Y'all should see me gimping around campus with my backpack.  Considering I'm at least twice as old as everyone else there, that limp really adds to my old lady charm. I mean, seriously, geriatric much? 

*SIGH*  Never a dull moment over here at Dos Mamas.



Until next time . . .

Defibrillator, Anyone? PLEASE!!!

This weekend, as I was paying bills, Baby Boy plopped some papers on my desk and said he wanted to talk. 

Guess what those papers were?

Brochures for universities . . .

in JAPAN!!!!!

Knock

Me

Over

With

A

Feather

Let this be a cautionary tale for you homeschooling Moms out there.  

If you raise your kids to do very well in their studies and allow them to think that the world is their oyster and they can do anything they want as long as they are willing to work hard and sacrifice to get it . . . the whole she-bang could backfire on you.  You could end up with a son who doesn't want to live in their bedroom for the rest of their natural lives.  

They may actually want to branch out and have a life of their own.  

*SIGH*

Until next time . . .

Taken Aback!

My back hurts. A lot.

I can sit fairly comfortably, but standing and walking are pretty much out of the question.  It hurts.  

I've been hemming and hawing for the past few days trying to pretend it doesn't hurt, but . . . it hurts.

I can't really figure out why it hurts.  I wasn't doing anything rash like the last time I threw my back out.  In fact, Baby Boy and I have been doing a lot of nothing during our Winter Break from classes.  It's been heavenly.

Yesterday I decided to go to the doctor who sees the pathetically destitute and uninsured for same day appointments.  Mom #2 had to work, so I hobbled myself over there, tried to find a comfortable position to sit in with those nasty-hard-waiting-room-chairs, and then proceeded to further humiliate myself by not being able to follow the perky blond nurse very well as she skipped along in front of me to the doctor's office (you know, once she finally called my name.)

I did all of that so that the doctor could come into the examining room and in sixty seconds flat call me fat (which I am, but still . . . the nerve), tell me that since I had injured my own back (in 2008, on purpose, don't you know), that he is refusing to treat me.  He said that even though that was over two years ago, and I have had no incidents of back pain since then, this is now a chronic condition and can only be treated by a Pain Management Center.

Oh, and the pièce de résistance - he also mentioned that the only Pain Management Center that would even consider working within the financial terms I can afford is . . . [drum roll please] . . . about 100 miles away.

With the price of gas these days - AS IF!

So, in conclusion, my back hurts.

We'll just leave it at that for now. 

Until next time . . .

Shock and Devastation

I hate to break my extended silence for such a depressing topic, but I need some blog therapy right now. Please feel free to stop reading now.



Today I have tears, tears, tears.

A very sweet, handsome, artistic, caring, funny, homeschooled friend about Baby Boy's age took his own life very recently.  He's been in our home, to Baby Boy's birthday parties, and to many functions where homeschooling families hang out.  I wouldn't say our families were super-close, but I think we can confidently call ourselves friends.

I'm taking this terribly hard.  It really saddens me that a young man felt his only option was to end his own life before it really had a chance to begin.  I just feel so sorry.  Sorry for him.  Sorry for his Mom.  Sorry for his family.  Sorry for his friends.  Sorry for Baby Boy.  Sorry for myself.  

I'm actually surprised at all the emotions that have been stirred up.  I suddenly feel all those aches and pains that I went through as a young person.  You know, I was a bonafide freak when I was a teen.  Not a mild freak, a REALLY freaky freak.  I was the one who ate lunch in the hallway on the steps to keep from getting picked on.  Shoot!  I still am, I just don't care what anyone thinks anymore.  I struggled with sexual identity, weight issues, poverty embarrassment, and just plain old-fashioned puberty.  Mom #2 and I both had separate struggles that led us to and from the brink of suicide, but luckily we had forces in our lives who pulled us back.  I wish this young man had been so fortunate.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say here.  Just . . . if you know a young person who is struggling with who they are, please encourage them.  Let them know that it will certainly get better. 

I'm amazed at all the beautiful young people who feel hopeless.  What's going to become of the future if all the sensitive, creative souls are snuffed out?  We NEED them!

Live! Love! Laugh! Come out of the shadows and be yourselves!  WE NEED YOU!

I guess I just want everyone to hug their children a little tighter today and, if they want to talk, listen.  Even if they don't want to talk, talk to them.  I just don't want to hear about another life lost. 

I don't even know how I'm going to look into this Mom's eyes.  She just lost her precious baby boy. 

Please keep her family, and ours in your hearts today.

That's all.


Until next time . . .

Mother, May I

Have you ever gotten bad news?  Not a little bad news, a lot of bad news.

You know, like, the dryer's broken (see previous post); every time you go to the mailbox there's nothing but bills you can't afford to pay; the college counselor repeatedly screws up your son's financial aid paperwork so that he may not be awarded in time for next semester . . . yadda yadda yadda.  I'm sure you're all familiar with bad news.

Then . . . you receive a teeny weeny kernel of good news.  Really good news.  Great news.

Is it selfish to want to keep that grain of good news to yourself for a little while and just enjoy it like a secret pet?  Is it wrong to rub it and pet it and visit it whenever the inevitable more bad news shows up?

Or should you make the good news common knowledge so that everyone can bask in its glow?

I know I sound selfish, but it just seems like in a Mom's life there are so few times when we are allowed to have a secret.  Secrets are fun.  I want a secret.

I realize I'm talking in circles, so I'm going to shut it down now.

*SIGH*   

Oh, and don't worry.  I already came clean, but it was fun while it lasted.  ;-)

Until next time . . .

Mental Madness

I need blog therapy today.  If you're not interested, please move on.    The sun will come out tomorrow . . . and all that jazz.

 
If I were a professional, real live, licensed psychiatrist, then I would definitely have front desk help to make sure my phones are always answered.  At the very least, I would have a professional answering service so that my mentally ill patients who are experiencing life-affecting side affects from their medications would have some recourse other than calling and hearing the phone ring off the hook for 2 weeks at a time with no answer.  

Mom has been seeing this . . . doctor . . . and I use this term very loosely . . . since her most recent hospital stay back in February.  I have never been overly impressed with him, but he seemed to at least acknowledge that Mom has a problem and needs lots of hand-on serious help, plus he didn't get overly perturbed when I bum-rushed her appointments to correct all the hallucinations she was representing as fact.  That was a small positive in my book.

What I didn't like was the fact that her appointments were only once a month and they only took about 5 minutes total and then he'd whip out his prescription pad and start laying on the drugs.  He seemed to be more interested in warehousing her than actually treating her.  Seriously, he'd ask her questions like "Are you having hallucinations?"  

WHAT??!!

Even the craziest patient knows the answer to that question.  Uh . . . "NO!"  If you answer that question incorrectly, the result is a one way ticket to the loony bin.  When he pulled that stunt with Mom, I was like . . . "Are you serious?  That's the best you've got for an out-patient interview?"  I mean, I've NEVER been to medical school and I'm sure I could have done a better job.  In fact, as the black sheep of my family, it's my job to get Mom to open up to me without upsetting her or making her overly suspicious, so I KNOW I can do a better job.  I DO a better job.  Regularly.  Have mercy!

I'm sorry I'm so prickly.  I was at the end of my rope yesterday.  Today, I let go.   

My mom is experiencing some frustrating side effects from her medications, which the doctor just increases every time she goes to see him without actually gauging how each increment will affect her.  She's been trying to contact him, but he won't return her calls.  She has an appointment later this month, but I'm not sure what little sanity she has will last that long.

I'm also just feeling sort of ambivalent about this entire situation surrounding my Mom.  She has been staying with my sister for a few months now, but she spends about 10 hours a day by herself because my sister works and my niece goes to school.  My sister has more room at her place because it's just her and my niece, we have Baby Boy and we have a classroom/office.  of course, we did give her full reign of the guest room, even moving in her own bed, desk, and as much of her personal furniture as we could fit in here to make her happy and literally gave her 100% free access to all things Two Moms', but she just wasn't happy here.  The thing is, she certainly isn't any healthier over there.  When she was living here, our life was SUCH a struggle and I admit I was pretty happy when she moved out.  She and I are very much alike to the point that I feel like a guest in my own home because I try very hard to be respectful of her as a woman and my Mother.  Plus, since Mom can't work right now . . . and refuses to get a hobby . . . or do any volunteer work . . . or leave the house except to buy fast food . . . we see her a little too much when she lives here.  It's hard to share your throne.  This is my throne.
 
*SIGH*

I'm digressing.  The bottom line is that this week we're firing her psychiatrist even though we're having a little trouble finding another one who is both currently accepting new patients and also accepts Mom's insurance.

So keep the Two Moms plus One Additional Mom clan in your thoughts today.   



Until next time . . .

It. Was. Not. A. Date.

A very nice young lady from our homeschool group was taking a family day trip to the local water park this weekend. She was allowed to invite one person, and guess who that was?

You already know.

She and her dad drove down and picked up Baby Boy and apparently they had a fantastic time because 10 hours later, Baby Boy came home smiling from ear to ear and exhausted: he took a shower, ate all the food we had left in the house, and went to bed. He said she gave him a hug when it was time for him to come home. What have we learned about keeping our hands to ourselves? Anyone.

Just because he's getting older does not mean little hot tamales can come over here and take my Baby Boy away . . . this is going to take a LOT of getting used to.


WWWWHHHHAAAAAAA!!!!!!


That is all. Enjoy your week. I'll be spending mine slathering myself in Oil of Olay, because I'm feeling a little old and distraught today.


Until next time . . .

Clankety Clack!

Who would have thought that a cup of coffee could drive a person insane? Listen up. I'll tell you how it most certainly can.

I have never drank an entire cup of coffee in my life. I have tasted it on a couple of occasions, but I just don't like the taste of it . . . so no coffee for me. None. Ever. No coffee. I stick to my morning orange juice for my pick-me-up.

Sometimes Mom #2 will drink a cup of coffee or two during the winter, if she's working outside, as we Texans require adequate warmth from the inside out if the temperature ever dares to dip below 40 degrees. This doesn't happen too often and I don't like the way her breath smells after she drinks coffee, so she usually just sticks to her delicious homemade Mexican hot chocolate. That's a whole different post, so enough about that.

For the most part though, during the decade or so that we've been together, there's been no coffee in this house.

Enter my Mom.

She loves coffee. She usually drinks about 10 cups a day. Due to her new prescription cocktail, she's been put on decaff, but she's making up for that by just having 40,000 cups a day. I'm sure it's terrible for her, but it keeps her from harassing me all day long somewhat sane, so we're just letting her drink herself into oblivion have as many as she likes.

It's not the actual drinking of the coffee that bothers me. It's the coffee preparation ritual. She is so LOUD! Here's the rundown:

• She makes a big pot of coffee three or four times a day and then microwaves single cups all day long. . . so she slams the microwave door shut and yanks it open a hundred thousand times a day.
  

• She has become addicted to one specific coffee mug, so she has to rinse it out not to mention waste gallons and gallons of water a million kajillion times a day.

• She has to measure her cream and sugar just so, so she has to drag out, open, close and shove back the ceramic canisters across my counter tops fifty-eleven times a day.

• Don't forget the stirring. She has to use a metal teaspoon against a glass mug and stir stir stir a bazillion stirs for each of her cups of coffee (I think we've already addressed how many that is.)

• And finally . . . and I know you knew this was coming . . . the slurping! Yes the slurping! OH THE SLURPING! All day long and all night strong: slurp-slurp-slurp-slurp-slurp! If it's that darn good, JUST DRINK IT! She has about a hundred million gazillion slurps per cup.

Did I forget to mention that my bedroom is directly outside of the kitchen?

My Mom keeps extremely odd hours. So several times a night, after I've fallen deep into sleep, I am awakened by this coffee-preparation ritual. That's actually fine. It gives me a chance to go to the bathroom a few gagillion times a night so that I never have to worry about stretching out my bladder ever again in this lifetime.

What really gets my goat is that she has to get up and do this same clankety-clack ritual at about 6:30, 7:00 and 7:30 every morning. I hate being awakened by noise. I like to wake up peacefully and quietly at 8:00 every morning. I know that's not early to a lot of you, but it's early enough for me. And it's quiet. It's the specific time of day in this house when no one else is doing anything. I require peace and quiet or I wake up and instantly become mean as heck and proceed to take it out on my entire family all the live-long day. So everyone except my super self centered Mother usually goes out of their way to keep the morning routine quiet and drama free.

So if you wonder why I've been so sporadic in my blogging lately, it's because I've been in an extremely bad mood for 10 or 12 weeks.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel. I'm not quite counting my chickens before they hatch . . . but . . . it has been rumored that someone may be moving out in about 30 days. I'm cautiously optimistic. I'm keeping quiet until I have more details, but I will go ahead and take those good vibes now. In case my point is being lost in my subtlety, I said NOW!



Until next time . . .

Someone Please Tell . . .

. . . My Mom (who has this history as well as this history) that I was trying to be nice by letting Baby Boy spend the day with her, against my better judgment.

When I explicitly say that Baby Boy is to have NO bread, dairy, or eggs for one hour before and two hours after his medication . . . that is exactly what I mean.

Otherwise, Baby Boy will have an extremely violent reaction to the medication, be up writhing in pain all night, and then Mom #2, Baby Boy and I will have to spend 7 hours in the emergency room letting the doctors, medical students, and nurses practice all different sorts of sadistic treatments on him before sending us home with the following technical medical analysis:

You may want to hold off on taking that medication until you can talk to your primary care physician on Monday.

*SIGH* Where have all the grown-ups gone?


I hope you're having a better weekend than we are.


Until next time . . .

Can Someone Please Just Tell Me Why . . .

My unemployed and uninspired Mother is too busy to talk to me?

I've been trying to call and chat with her; not to give her a hard time, but just to see how she's doing and how she's handling things. So why can't I get her to stop moving and give me 10 uninterrupted minutes?

Let me tell you, this is a stretch for me already, because I despise talking on the telephone. Ask anyone who knows me. If anyone actually wants to talk to me, they have to call either Mom #2 or Baby Boy on their cell phones and have them to tell me to answer my phone . . . because I have no problem letting it ring all day long.

I actually have probably only initiated a hand full of phone calls in my entire life, and the majority of those were to call businesses and complain. Complaining is my phone specialty. If I'm on the phone, I'm usually ticked off . . . but I've put all my usual issues with the telephone aside and tried to call Mom every day this week now.

Here's how it's been going:

• On Monday, she couldn't talk because she was out shopping to buy herself a new outfit so she could get her mind off the stress of losing her job (yes, the one she walked in and quit without notice).


• On Tuesday, she couldn't talk because she was going to a matinée with some lady from her church.
  


• On Wednesday, she couldn't talk because she was getting a massage.


• This morning, I thought I'd mix it up a bit and call her early this morning, before she got out and about. But the joke was on me! Do you know that she is already on her way to get a manicure so she can be done in time for a "ladies who lunch" session with her church lady friend?

Apparently, I've been living my life the wrong way all these years. I thought that if you had no job, no income of any kind, and threw away your chances of collecting unemployment income, you saved money, not spent it all, but alas . . . as usual, I am mistaken.

Insanity ~ ~ Membership has it's privileges.

*SIGH*

Until Next Time . . .

Wii Are NOT Amused!

As I half sit, half lay here in my drug induced haze. . . I have lots of time to contemplate many things:

• The meaning of life . . .
  
  
  • The future of our planet . . .
    
    
    • When will the price of gas go back down . . .
      

Instead I lay here devastated and embarrassed. Many have asked . . . and I have coyly batted my eyelashes Marilyn Monroe style and kept my silence.



But today, for the first time due to incredible pressure from my so-called family, I will admit out loud where all the world can hear, see, whatever; now all the world will know.


The rumors are true. Yes, I hurt my back kicking butt during the hula hoop challenge on Wii Fit.


Well, now that I am thoroughly humiliated, I do have one thing to add. Even with all my pain I set a new record that still stands! Yes! It's OK to play injured, I mean, that's what got Tiger Woods the green blazer, right?



By the way, I'm still flat on my back, of no good use to anything or anyone, but I'm proud to say that it was all for a good cause. Now that kid knows who's the most pathetic boss!

Take that, Baby Boy!    I mean, Mommy Loves You!

*Sigh*, I guess confession is good for the soul.


Until next time . . .

If You Work for U.P.S. or Love Someone Who Does . . . Do Not Enter! (A Rant)

OK. Mr. UPS and I should be old friends. We've done lots and lots and lots of business together. Baby Boy receives medical supplies via UPS every single month of his life. I also use them for other miscellaneous shipping tasks. Actually we have a rather simple arrangement: I pay my hard earned money and Mr. UPS' job is to deliver my packages timely and safely.

Lately Mr. UPS has not been holding up his end of the bargain. To this I say the following . . .

Dear Mr. UPS,

First of all, I live in a gated community. This is not the only gated community. My town is full of them. It is to be expected that you will come across a gate every now and then on your delivery route. The gate is equipped with an intercom. WHY DON'T YOU USE THE INTERCOM???? I am home. I will let you in. It is a very simple intercom system. I even provided the intercom code to you when I requested delivery. I also gave you my home and cell phone number. If you could not figure out the intercom, why didn't you try to use the telephone? I know that you can use a telephone because whenever I see you driving, you have one hand on the wheel and the other on said telephone. Why not use that telephone hand to dial me up? I am not angry. I am a nice girl. I'm a nice girl who wants her package.

Secondly, I wonder, why do you insist on leaving my packages with the property manager? The property manager does not want my packages. She will not call me and tell me that I have packages. She gets very snippy with me when I call her to ask if I have packages every single day. She wants to know why I don't check the tracking number and see if my packages are there. I told her that it is true that you have a very yummy website that is supposed to track my delicious packages in real time, but you are too lazy to scan them properly so I am forced to "guesstimate" when my packages are either baking in the sun on your lunch break or sitting in her office. Either way I am certain that my package is not up here in my home where it belongs.

Third of all, Mr. UPS, I want to know why you have a job that consist of driving to various addresses around town when you cannot read. I really don't understand why your website said my package had been delivered and signed for by me when I am sitting here in my house not enjoying the contents of my package. I also don't understand why I called my property manager, who wishes I would just die, and asked if I had a package, she said "No." So I had to get my yellow pages out and call other various gated communities in my area and find my package which had been dropped off and not signed for by me in a community that I do not even live in. How come when I called that community's property manager and asked if I could drive over and get my package, she told me that she is not authorized to release it to me because I don't live in her community. How come she also informed me that she had to call you back, Mr. UPS, and have you come pick up the package so that it could be scanned properly and redelivered to the right address.

And finally, and most importantly, Mr. UPS, I would like to know why I have been hold for 20 minutes trying to speak to your supervisor to complain about you and hopefully get you fired. I am not normally a vengeful person, but I have to say that I hope today is your very last day.

Thanks for listening. I really needed to get this one off my chest.

Until next time . . .