tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50496396038281670852024-03-04T21:22:00.129-08:00Alala MamasA blog by 3 mamas who are stone broke, pissed off, and writing about it all: political, literary, silly, funny, angry, constipated, loopy, and accusatory, etc., etc., . . .Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754377995161712436noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-18708183958708825592018-05-13T08:51:00.002-07:002018-09-14T09:27:34.151-07:00Happy Crappy Mother's Day!My mom sucks. <div>
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Today is Mother's Day, and I won't be seeing her or talking to her. I did print out a card and have all the kids sign it, and I did sign it as well, and I did send school pictures. </div>
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Months ago, my mom sent me a letter detailing the ways I had hurt her feelings over the last several decades. The list was not all-inclusive, but went over some of the highlights of our awful relationship. I responded to that letter in my head, on paper, on my computer, dozens of times, but deleted it every time. My mom and I don't have civil discussions, no one changes their mind about anything, and that's not all her fault. </div>
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Instead, I wrote her a letter I'd never send, <a href="http://alalamamas.blogspot.com/2018/02/dear-mama.html" target="_blank">right here in this safe space</a>. </div>
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Recently I discovered my family has been getting together and not inviting me, not just once; it is a pattern, one that apparently will continue. At Christmas time, my daughter invited everyone over for Butter Beer and snacks on Christmas Eve. My brothers and mom couldn't attend because they had already made Christmas Even plans - dinner at my brother Phil's house. I don't know if I would have gone had I been invited; Christmas Eve is my favore part of the holiday with the kids' anticipation reaching a peak. But my youngest brother was in town and I may have changed our plans if they had invited me. But they didn't. </div>
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Then a few months later, I found out my sister-in-law had thrown my younger brother a 40th birthday party, and the whole family had gotten together, again, without me. I was crushed; I spent a whole day of work crying between phone calls. before my work day started, I burst into tears on my husband's shoulder, and my daughter interrupted me to ask me to braid her hair for an interview she had for Upward Bound that day. I dried my tears, but when she asked me what was wrong, I told her. </div>
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I really couldn't see why they weren't inviting me, other than my mom being annoyed with and disappointed by me, which is completely our norm. Nothing had happened to escalate our mutual disappointment and anger with each other. It was baseline. <a name='more'></a></div>
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So with my feelings wounded, I wrote a very polite letter to my oldest brother and my younger brother, the ones who live in Montana. I first told them I loved them very much and loved their kids and would-be kids (my sister in law is pregnant, a fact I found out from my dad, and when I emailed my congratulations over to my brother, he did not respond), and that I was wondering if there was a reason they hadn't been inviting me to family gatherings. There was, and the reason boiled down to my mom. </div>
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I finally responded to her letter and let her know all the ways that she had hurt MY feelings over the years. The most hurtful thing my mom has ever done was to disown me. Three times. Within less than five years. </div>
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No: The most hurtful thing she has done is to continue to deny that it happened, or at least that it was a big deal, at all. She doesn't remember calling me Tonya (my name is Tanya, no "ah" sound), so it never happened. Ignoring me in public was totally normal because we were fighting. In our tiny town, I walked out of a bar and saw my mother standing there with friends. I looked at her. She looked at me and pointedly away. It seems like a small thing when I write it down, but the feelings, my god the feelings at the time...I was crushed. I uncharacteristically burst into tears and ran. </div>
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My oldest brother's baby mama, who he's no longer with, liked to tell me that I may think my mom was bad, but really I should be grateful. <i>Her </i>mother asked for money, did drugs, etc. I should consider myself lucky. How much of that came from my brother? Is that how he feels now? Do he and his wife talk about me like that? Do they say, it's such a shame Tanya can't get along with her, she's not that bad. She means well. I picture that. I picture my mom and my sisters-in-law and my brothers emailing, calling, talking about their next get together. Do they even mention me and my kids anymore? Is it just a given now that we're not welcome or invited? </div>
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I've still got my dad, whose views on politics are pretty much in line with my mom's, but who doesn't force them on me, who still invites me to everything and seems happy to see me and my kids. I've still got my step-ma, who takes great care of us when we visit, who sometimes makes off color comments but generally is more concerned with family being together than that the family believe the exact same things. </div>
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I get annoyed when I see posts, memes, etc talking about "If you still have a mother, go hug her. She won't be around forever." Just because one's mother is alive does not mean they deserve props. Respect is earned, and parental love should be unconditional, but it's just not that way for everyone. I'll spend the day being grateful for my kids, and working on making sure my love is given freely and without caveats. </div>
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Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-17291910141134630202018-04-08T08:32:00.001-07:002018-04-08T08:32:36.381-07:00UK Shameless vs. US Shameless POSSIBLE SPOILERS<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl12MY0-uUO_vC4VvbRKK0wo8cSb8GdQfs0wtwyLHFNm0EnWWLB1smGsl1h8OE1eND6xuw8Gkau2fTw16oT8fgPmrPHsQEsh3a2miCtiAV4rgsGCKDJb9qV65dh9PMemDkUEbOdO6gOzA/s1600/FrankNewer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="350" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl12MY0-uUO_vC4VvbRKK0wo8cSb8GdQfs0wtwyLHFNm0EnWWLB1smGsl1h8OE1eND6xuw8Gkau2fTw16oT8fgPmrPHsQEsh3a2miCtiAV4rgsGCKDJb9qV65dh9PMemDkUEbOdO6gOzA/s320/FrankNewer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from: http://shameless.wikia.com/wiki/Frank_Gallagher</td></tr>
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I'm an unabashed Shameless fan. I love the US version and am up to date on that. I also love the UK version, but I have not finished all episodes available on Hulu quite yet. After a lot of episodes of both, I have come to the true conclusion that the Brit's version is better, although there are characters I like better on the US version.<br />
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I find the UK version to be more real. Chatsworth Estate IS poverty. Cramped, dingy, neighbors right up your ass. Crime is rampant; in fact, the Maguires (Milkovich's in US version), a crime family, live right next door to the Gallagher clan. The characters are much more down to earth and believable. Not every one is a gorgeous human being with a perfect body; they look like people you'd see walking down your street, not standing next to a Hollywood star or walking the red carpet.<br />
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The Gallaghers may be down and out in the US version, but they have a huge house I would love to have for my large family.<br />
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Frank Gallagher in the US version is pretty much just a huge piece of shit most of the time, using his children, not caring for anyone but himself. UK's version has a lot more nuance and is more than the caricature portrayed on the US show. He has feelings, he actually does care about his children, but is still a piece of shit. He's got the red cheeks, the gin blossom, and greasy hair. William H. Macy is amazing and I adore him, but he looks too good to be an alcoholic.<br />
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So, UK Frank wins it for me. As for the other characters:<br />
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Fiona: This is a tie. I love Emmy Rossum, though she was being a huge thundercunt last season, like Ian said. UK Fiona didn't have too much of a chance to grow on me as she left after __ seasons, sadly.<br />
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Lip: All right, so US Lip is the bomb. UK Lip pissed me off when he went off to college and cheated on Mandy, and then listened to her when she told him to go on and leave her and their child. She didn't want him to, really, but didn't want to hold him back. So he left his goddamn child. I don't care for that sort of thing. And US Lip is hot in that bug-eyed but also bedroom-eyed thing he has going.<br />
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Ian: UK's Ian does not suffer from bipolar depression as does the US version. He's a guy next door looking type. I luuurve him. US Ian is by no means bad though. Damn that boy is sexy and have you seen him as the Joker on Gotham? Holy shit.<br />
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Monica: UK all the way. UK Monica is a C U Next Tuesday and I LOVE IT. She comes and goes as the seasons go on, always being a huge bitch and not giving a crap about her kids for the most part. <br />
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Kev/V: US all the way. Kevin is a stone cold foooox. V is sexy as hell. I did like the UK version, but they also didn't stick around that long so I couldn't really fall in love with them.<br />
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Mickey: UK Mickey is absolutely goofy and loveable. He has a tendency to have spittle flying from his mouth at all times. He STILL has not told his family he's gay at the point I have gotten. When his mother has a baby and seems to care for it very little, Mickey pretty much takes over the care of baby Cille. He is full of feelings and at times brings his battling family together. US Mickey is gone, and I loved his character, but the two are so different as to not really be able to compare them.<br />
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UK Shameless' characters do often leave, such as Fiona, Kev and V, Lip, Debbie, Ian, and even Liam. At this point it's a whole new cast of characters, practically. But I do like the characters and stories the newbies bring. Paddy and Mimi Maguire(sp) were my favorite for a long time, but Paddy left too. the Gallagher house is never empty, but currently on the season I am watching, Carl and Frank are the only originals still in the house.<br />
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The US show keeps the same foundation of main characters. I'm patiently waiting for Mandy and Mickey to come back. Sadly, UK Mandy died in an awful fire. UK characters die much more often. As I said, the UK version is just more gritty and indicative of life below the poverty line.<br />
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<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-20311614452455345282018-02-16T10:21:00.000-08:002018-02-16T10:21:37.339-08:00Fuck your prayersI am having a hard time working today. I do customer support through chat, email, and phone, and I find myself crying off and on all morning.<br />
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I am so hurt and so angry at our government and many of our people. I just find it so disheartening that while our children go to school and get murdered, you are more interested in keeping your guns.<br />
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NO ONE HAS EVER COME FOR YOUR HAND GUNS OR YOUR HUNTING RIFLES. NEVER. Obama had eight years and despite your idiotic tropes, he never took your guns.<br />
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You care more about your right to own weapons of mass destruction than you do about my kids' right to go to school without worrying where they'll hide from a shooter. My fucking family members care more about it than they do about my kids, their own kids. It's...sick.<br />
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I am so proud of the kids at the school. <a href="http://time.com/5161034/florida-school-shooting-survivor/" target="_blank">David Hogg</a> had me sobbing through my stretching at the gym the other day when someone ill-advisedly turned on the news in the fitness room. They are leading the way this time, and I want to hug every one of them. I want to assure them that someone does care about their friends dying.<br />
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I saw a tweet suggesting we all keep our kids out of school until our government decides their lives are important. I would support that. Maybe even just a day. I don't know what to do at this point, but I sure as hell won't be praying for change. Even the mythical Jesus said you have to do more than pray. Pray, then DO. THE. WORK. <br />
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<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-52129771671283301492018-01-22T09:38:00.000-08:002018-01-22T09:38:34.375-08:00Regret-free AbortionToday is Roe V Wade's anniversary. The other day our shithole president addressed March for Life (butlolfuckyouifyouarealreadyalivingchildorwomanonthisplanetespeciallyawomanorchildofcolor) protest, claiming he gives a shit about the lives of children and women. Women called bullshit, of course.<br />
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Women aren't going to stand for his dumbass bullshit, trying to drag us into back alleys for our abortions. And in case you didn't know Dump was a flaccid flip flopper, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tsOlXidHXRE" target="_blank">here's proof he is lying to his redneck anti-woman base. </a><br />
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So if you believe Dump is anti-choice, you're wrong. I bet there are dozens of women who have expelled Dump's nasty cell clumps from their uteri. I mean, christ on a cracker, we can't have more Don Jr and Erics and Ivankas running around. That's fucking disgusting. <br />
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I have had two abortions and I have not had a single moment of regret. The first guy who impregnated me was abusive, and he was excited about the pregnancy. He wanted the baby, way more than he wanted me. He wanted to marry me. He also barred me from leaving a room when we got into a fight, and pinned me to the wall. He also cheated on me during our brief summer fling. I had no doubt that I would be having an abortion, and I did. I dodged a big bullet with him.<br />
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The second time was with a boyfriend that I later married. He supported the decision, and I don't know if he really wanted me to have the baby or not, but it doesn't matter, because I didn't. No regrets, not a single moment wondering what if I hadn't. Two regret-less abortions. <br />
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The situations were quite different but my decision was not and I am happy I made those decisions. The most harmful thing about the process for me was when I naively went to a Crisis Pregnancy Center expecting them to provide what they advertised, referrals for abortion. Instead a nasty old woman in polyester pants tried to convince me to keep the baby, even sent me a postcard at home, a clear violation of privacy, and called my house as "a friend." She gave me booties for my precious baby, which I threw in a dumpster.<br />
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<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-896265185129984092018-01-13T04:55:00.000-08:002018-01-13T04:55:14.961-08:00The Bad ChristmasThe year before we took in our nieces and nephews, they had an awful Christmas.<br />
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Their mom, though she was supposedly working full time and then some, and making tips, neglected to buy them any presents.<br />
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She should have gone to her parents. They would have made sure to buy a few things for them, if they knew my sister-in-law had nothing for her kids. But since she was leaving the house every day for 12 hours, they thought she was working (and maybe she still was at that point, I really can't say), and had no reason to believe that she couldn't provide this for her children.<br />
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My mother and father in law are raising two grandkids from another sister-in-law, so that Christmas morning the kids began opening their presents. My MIL noticed that my SIL's kids were sitting, still hopeful but sad-eyed, watching their cousins tear into gifts. When asked, my SIL teared up and said she had bought presents, but they had been stolen out of her car in the Wal Mart parking lot. All that was left was a movie for her youngest son - Toy Story 3.<br />
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The only gifts they got were what their grandparents got them; well, we had gotten them gifts but we were broke that Christmas and so only got them a few small items from the local thrift shop. The kids came over to my house that evening to play. Some of the older kids took my daughter's brand new bean bag and tried to hang it from the rafters in the basement and swing on it. It immediately tore and spilled out millions of staticky, white balls. I got so angry at them for that. I yelled at them. The bean bag was pink corduroy, it was really big, and my youngest daughter loved it. I made them clean up those white balls for over an hour, and I was still huffy.<br />
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Later the kids were upstairs and I asked them what they got for Christmas, and they told me they'd gotten pajama pants from Grams and Papa. They recounted the story of their presents being stolen, and I immediately got pissed because I knew it was a lie. I also immediately felt like dogshit for chastising them for breaking the bean bag.<br />
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The next Christmas came up, and we knew we had to make that up to them. We got help from the school - two different organizations got gifts for the kids. My beautiful, generous friends bought all the kids gifts. We splurged too much too, and that morning when they came up the stairs, we recorded their faces, so bright and surprised and nearly in disbelief. Three more Christmases and we spoiled them rotten. I tried not to, but I'd go overboard and it would take us several months to get caught up on the bills again.<br />
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Finally, this year we scaled it back. The kids are older now and some of them mainly wanted clothes. We decided no new electronics; they are on computers, tablets, phones, etc., enough already. So they each got about five gifts and a stocking. For seven kids, that's still 35 presents. The baby only got a couple, of course (oh, I forgot to mention, my youngest nephew is now living with his dad and doing fairly well. We also had a new baby about 18 months ago) and the kids had their stockings as well, filled with candy and small gifts. We are still behind a bit but will be caught up next paycheck. It was important to us to dim the memory of that last bad Christmas with their mom. I doubt we succeeded, except inasmuch as kids memories do blur when they are that young.<br />
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But even if they never forget that bad day, I hope it will at least be overshadowed by the happier holidays.<br />
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<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-32280821648595151662018-01-07T13:08:00.000-08:002018-01-11T18:06:53.479-08:00Still LuckyWow! It's been four years. I am a bad, bad blogger!<br />
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We did get pretty busy with having four extra kids. My last post detailed all the wonderful ways in which we were blessed after we took in my nieces and nephews. We were given a good queen size bed. People brought us groceries. We got help with Christmas presents through two different charity organizations. We'd just gotten stable enough to get off food stamps, but soon figured out we needed that back, so I reapplied and we were able to get about $500 a month in food stamps, which was amazingly helpful.<br />
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When we took the kids in, I was not working much; my medical transcription job had been cut severely as doctors began to use voice recognition technology and did not need transcribers. I was down to an hour of work a day or so on that. I got some work doing freelance writing, but it took tons of time and brought me very little money.<br />
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A few months later, I went on an interview for a company my best friend worked for. It is based out of our teeny tiny hometown, and I get to work from home still. I do have a set schedule, though. The job is in customer support, so I answer phones, emails, and chats, and as we are a pretty small company, I wear a lot of other hats too; proofreader, trainer, organizer, spreadsheet maker and editor, special project manager, etc. Most days I really like my job. Most customers are fine people, and my coworkers remain cooperative, funny, and amazing in many ways.<br />
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To train for the job, which requires me to do support for seven different websites we own, I had to be out of town for weeks. I'd train for a week with one customer support rep, go home for the weekend, and then train the next week with a different person. I'd rotate back to the start when I had been to everyone's houses. It was difficult to get through, as we only had one van, which I had to take, and my husband was left with seven kids to take care of. Luckily, it was summer by this time and he didn't have to worry about getting them to school, but he did have to get to work five days a week and get them to appointments (when we took in the kids, their teeth were terrible and each one needed at least three visits to pull teeth, fill cavities, etc). My in-laws were instrumental and we could not have done it without them. They babysat, took my husband to work, and helped deal with an outbreak of <a href="http://alalamamas.blogspot.com/2012/11/lice-suck-blood.html" target="_blank">lice </a>that lasted for months because I simply did not have time to comb through seven heads every night.<br />
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It wasn't long after the kids moved in that their mom went to Georgia. I am still not sure why she went, but she rode along with some friends and eventually they left her there, and she's been there ever since, no ID, no car, no possessions.<br />
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We organized our large basement so that the younger kids were on one side and the older on the other side. As they got older, we divided them with boys on one side and girls on the other side. the basement is sort of separated by the stairway, so they have their own spaces, sort of.<br />
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We made do. Eventually, with my job, we stopped getting food stamps. The kids are still all on Medicaid, thankfully. It is still difficult to feed the kids on our budget, but I menu plan and we do go to Family Services when we need to, such as now, right after the holidays. You never know what you're going to get from them; one time we got an entire cheesecake. Usually we get a lot of cube steak, but one time we got sirloin and New York steaks. One year my father in law was able to get a buffalo permit from the tribe and both he and my husband got a buffalo. That fed us for a whole winter and boy did I get spoiled on buffalo burger; it's quite a bit tastier than beef. We just had to pay for the processing of the meat.<br />
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The help we get has slowed down, but the school still asks us sometimes if we need snow boots, if we need help paying for instrument rentals, etc.We are still grateful. We are still a family. We are still very, very, lucky.<br />
<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-38030954834832659072013-05-23T08:19:00.003-07:002013-05-23T08:20:38.901-07:00And if I had a bugle i would blow it<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many of you know that for a couple of months now my husband
and I have had seven kids. Our two nieces and two nephews have been staying with
us since just before St. Patrick’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
family business, but suffice it to say their mom, my sister-in-law, is homeless
and unable to care for them at this point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no one else who could care for them
right now, so we took them in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up
in a house where I was told repeatedly “If you get pregnant don’t expect any
help from me,” so I sort of came out of that with an unwillingness to help
others in these situations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that all
changed when I had children and nieces and nephews started popping out all over
the place. I fell in love with those kids, all eight of them, so when four of
them needed a stable place to live, there wasn’t really a choice. Of course
they were going to stay with us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
absolutely do not have the money to afford four more kids on top of our three,
but at least we have room for them. For a whole month they were living in a
seedy hotel with ten people, so just having room to play or sit quietly and do
homework is pretty awesome for them. We have a full basement, and it’s
partially finished. That’s where the kids stay, on a set of bunk beds and a
queen-size bed. We could use a couple more dressers and some major
organizational supplies (especially for their shoes! My god, the shoes!!!), but
otherwise they fit here just fine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where I’ve
been so pleasantly surprised is by everyone in our community. When people find
out we’ve taken in these kids, they have surprised us over and over with
generosity. A woman from the church my kids attend gave us a queen-sized bed.
My brother-in-law and his girlfriend brought us a car full of groceries. My mom
made little Easter baskets for seven kids instead of three. I talked to their
school counselor, and told her where we were really having trouble was feeding
the kids, so she hooked us up with the “</span><a href="http://feedingamerica.org/how-we-fight-hunger/programs-and-services/child-hunger/backpack-program.aspx" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lunch in a Backpack</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">” thing. That helped, but we were still struggling to
feed these kids, all ages 5 to 10, who seem to be hungry at every moment of their waking hours. So I applied
for food stamps, and we were approved for $608 a month. That’s about $150 a
week, and all of us are so grateful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One evening
when the kids were playing outside, a woman who knows their grandpa stopped by
and gave us a nearly full platter of Subway Sandwiches, which was perfect
timing as they hadn’t had much for snacks all day and I didn’t have any idea
what I would be able to put together for dinner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The school
system also hooked my nieces and nephews up with clothes! They sent three bags
of clothes, some old and some new, including shoes, underwear, and socks. My
eldest niece got three really beautiful dresses, and they all felt so special
with their new things. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One day, a friend
stopped by and gave us a couple of grocery bags of snack foods! </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We have just
been amazed at how everyone we know has helped provide for these kids. It
matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, so much. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve taken
to making a weekly menu now, and buying groceries once a week. I stock up on
bananas, clementines, apples, and pears, and buy the ingredients for the
dinners I’ve chosen. I keep ingredients to make our own cookies on hand. All of
the kids, even mine, are starting to eat more vegetables and a wider variety of
foods. We haven’t gone as healthy as I know we should, but we’re moving that
way (the other day, they ALL ate salad!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>SALAD!!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our house is so full
now! The hubby and I had just begun talking about having another baby when all
this happened, but we absolutely cannot handle that now, and that’s OK. Being a
presence in these kids’ lives is more important right now, for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So even
though none of the people who have helped us read this blog, we are
grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will try my best to pay this
forward. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
P.S. Any study or blogger who says having three kids is as difficult as having 6, or 7, or 10, is HAHAHAHAHAHA WRONG. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-6063452941527476742013-04-16T07:46:00.000-07:002013-04-16T07:46:00.623-07:00Working At HomeI've been working at home for about eight years now. I am a medical transcriptionist; I type up reports of your visits to the doctor. Well, probably not yours specifically unless you live in my smallish city and go to a certain hospital. I don't work for a national company; I transcribe local doctors and work as an independent subcontractor for a local businesswoman who owns a transcription business. <br />
<br />
Working at home is amazing. One of my best friends since grade school works at home too. I can work whatever hours I need to as long as I get my work done before the 24-hour deadline, while my friend works set hours every day. We both have small children that we have to run to and/or pick up from school. Both of our jobs allow us to avoid daycare expenses. Working at home is great. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the real world, that cereal would spill <br />
on the counter, the OJ would end up<br />
all over the laptop, and mom would<br />
find a better place to type her work. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Except when it isn't. My friend and I went to Chico Hot Springs with our other childhood bffs last weekend, and we confessed to each other that we have become no-showering, dirty-clothes-wearing, stank breath, messy haired slobs. Our other friends piped up that they'd love it if they could roll out of bed and go to work. And that IS nice. To a point. My friend said she sometimes went four days without showering. I admitted I almost always sleep in my bra and often wear the same clothes for two days in a row. I never wear makeup. So my friend, who may have been totally sloshed, insisted we make a pact. At least four days of our work week (I talked her down from all five days), we will get up and shower or wash our faces. We will fix our hair. We will put on makeup (she even gave me some makeup, since mine is pretty much decimated with four little girls in the house) or at least earrings. We will get dressed in real pants (difficult for me since I have exactly three pairs of jeans, but still doable). <br />
<br />
I'd already decided I needed to start caring for myself. Hell, even just changing my underwear and washing my face makes me feel like a new woman, so I started getting dressed every day, even if it was yoga pants, and began wearing earrings again. I've amassed a few pairs as gifts over the years. I'm all about hair flowers, too, so instead of makeup I'll probably be doing hair flowers and earrings. <br />
<br />
Another difficult thing about working at home is that there are so many DISTRACTIONS. Especially now that we have seven kids in the house, there is always someone who needs me to do something. Someone wants to read to me--how can I say no to that? Chores need to be supervised, fights need to be extinguished, dinner needs to be served, etc., etc., etc. So at times, work that would take me four to five hours takes me ten hours. This means I'm distracted during all things. When I'm working, I feel bad for ignoring the children. When I'm doing something for the children, I feel guilty about not working. It's something I need to work on changing, these feelings, because neither thing gets my full attention. <br />
<br />
Even with the distractions and lack of personal care, I love working at home. It's the only way I can work realistically right now, with seven kids, one vehicle, and a partner who works outside the home. I know how lucky I am to be able to do this--but that doesn't mean it's all blissfully rolling out of bed and performing my work until finished, and then attending to the children's needs. It's a mishmashmosh of coffee breath, sock buns, and getting my ears used to sporting earrings again. <br />
<br />
I'm trying. <br />
<br />
<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-76305393458899500772013-04-15T00:17:00.001-07:002013-04-15T00:17:21.328-07:00Let's Be Bad, Together. <div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'>I've started subscribing to the thought that for feminism to really work and come full circle, women have to care for and support other women. This is hard because our culture has taught us to judge each other as whores, sluts, prudes, thin, fat, ugly, pretty. You know where I am coming from. Fighting the urge when we meet or see another woman and not to compare her to yourself physically and mentally (job, man, etc) is what women do a lot of the time. We have to program ourselves to fight this innate urge to judge our fellow women.
This comes to the forefront of my mind tonight because I will be attended a hip hop/rap show where a female group is headlining. There will be big hair, lots of eye makeup and hella cleavage. I am sure to be one of them, as this is part of the fun.
The headlining women swear like sailors and talk like men. In a word, as a woman, I jump between thinking the music is super ridiculous to a good turn in the status quo of things. Why shouldn't girls be able to rap about getting laid? About wanting to be tough? Men have been doing this in every form...forever.
If the critics of feminism think feminist language is hate speech towards men, they need to think again. Women are just trying to undo the millennia of oppression placed upon them. And if we wanna do it with big hair while trying on your crude lingo? We are going to do just that. </div> Brighidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09362368521143507633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-19493681792451739942013-03-14T12:53:00.000-07:002013-03-14T12:56:04.498-07:00A Virtuous Woman is Above Feelings<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A couple of years ago, after a visit to their place, my stepmother sent some stuff home with me for the kids. When I got the bag home and looked through it, among the toys and clothes there was a magazine. My stepmom had written on it that it was for my mother-in-law. I looked at the cover, and something jumped out at me. See, the mag was called <em>Above</em> <em>Rubies</em>, which is a publication "to encourage women in their high calling as wives, mothers, and homemakers." Oh, brother, I thought, no WAY am I letting my MIL see this crap. I threw it away. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Recently, though, I came across another magazine while I was waiting for some work done on our vehicle. I skimmed it for any particularly offensive articles.<em> Above Rubies</em> followers believe their god should control their bodies, not their own selves here on earth. (Contraception? Goodness, no! Submission to husband in everything? Of course, silly billy!) and instead I found one that made me stop in my tracks. It wasn't offensive, exactly, but it was disturbing. The article is titled "I Almost Gave Up!" and is about a woman who read AR and threw her birth control away. Her second child was a sick baby who had jaundice and a milk allergy. The next two babies had kidney problems, and one of them needed surgery. Her husband lost his job during that time. Obviously this was all very stressful. So the wife asks her husband if he would consider having a vasectomy, which he would not. She begged him, then, "Well, how about just a temporary preventative method? I really need a break. I can't do this anymore."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's stop there. This woman has been through incredible stress and anxiety; probably she'd been sick with worry for YEARS. She's coming to her husband, her partner in life, for support. She's telling him very clearly she wants a break from pregnancy, that she needs time to recover. So how does her loving husband, her spiritual leader, comfort her? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He refuses to have sex with her until she changes her mind. Not, mind you, because he's a DICK, but because "He was not willing to compromise [their convictions]." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, this woman who obviously needed comfort and support, changed her mind. Her kids began asking her when she'd have another baby, and "I realized I was the only one wanting a break." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THAT. is the part that hit me the hardest. She believes her own opinion doesn't mean shit. Her feelings are invalid. I'm all about reproductive choice for women, and </span><a href="http://www.alalamamas.com/2011/12/well-are-we-pro-choice-or-not.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">not just when it comes to abortion</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. If a woman wants to have 19 children, who are we to tell her she can't possibly be happy having babies every year? Because we don't know what that woman is thinking. But here, we do know what she was thinking. She was thinking she needed time for emotional recovery. She was thinking her husband might support her in her crisis. She was thinking of her own personal emotional and physical health! She's the one carrying the children in her body, but her emotional torture means nothing <em>even to her</em>. Gawd, that's just so <em>fucking</em> disheartening. </span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-11569089221087435802013-03-08T07:19:00.000-08:002013-03-08T07:19:57.976-08:00Celebrating International Women's Day Informally<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPolyUOPh7FHvntjkXJSTJKRm0Sm9p-4wf5Nx3Iau4T3u1cKjD6BD7k3dZSE8z0NMAVmUzzCtZzSa2E8-luOBbFRQprH6tG0YTsCZZLPGXHFxNliZ5NpvRgyotAY9rpKn4065DV5J_fQ/s1600/IWD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPolyUOPh7FHvntjkXJSTJKRm0Sm9p-4wf5Nx3Iau4T3u1cKjD6BD7k3dZSE8z0NMAVmUzzCtZzSa2E8-luOBbFRQprH6tG0YTsCZZLPGXHFxNliZ5NpvRgyotAY9rpKn4065DV5J_fQ/s200/IWD.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
I began a post for today, International Women’s Day, and I
was going to list all the crappy bills being introduced in Montana that will
hurt Montana women. That’s sorta my schtick, being pissed off, and I definitely
am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have already had bad news
today and I didn’t want to bring myself down any further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So instead, a happy list! I did some good
things for women and girls over the past year, even if I couldn’t be involved
in a formal IWD event (there are none here in Billings as far as I know).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Being real. My daughter, 8, asked me how babies
are created, and I told her! I had been planning a speech and I was going to
get library books and it was going to be a whole thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, one evening we were lying together
in my bed talking, and she asked me. No one else was around, I had the time, so
I explained how babies are made and born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I believe her words were “Huh!”, and since then she has told me several
times that she wants to have kids, but she wants to adopt, since she doesn’t want
to go through “all that stuff.” I’m not sure if she means the sex or the pain
of childbirth!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This led to a funny exchange
a few weeks ago: </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">DD: <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom, do you have to do, you know, to have a
baby?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you mean sex?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">DD:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yeah, that. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 2in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: -0.75in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>
Oh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there are other ways (I go on to explain
about sperm <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>banks and surrogacy and
etc.)</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">DD:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Can you do that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want a sister. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 2in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: -0.75in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>
…well, I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Daddy and I could also
make a baby by having sex, like we talked about, right?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">DD:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess…but do in PRIVATE and shut your door!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>…we
usually do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 2in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: -0.75in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">DD:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
this one time in Spokane, I saw you and Daddy and you were naked and
kissing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was supposed to be taking a
nap. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Are
you ever going to let me forget that?!?! Also, next time maybe you should just take a nap.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Girl Scouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The same DD mentioned above came home from school one day last fall with
a Girl Scout flyer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could she join?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, I said, and signed the slip saying I’d
be willing to volunteer. That quickly turned into me being a troop leader, and
I’ve been loving it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re currently
doing a project involving gathering healthy and diet-specific foods for our
local food bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Volunteering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My Brownies and I have volunteered at the Billings Food Bank twice as
part of our project, and I have to say I love it, and am looking for more
opportunities for us to volunteer around the community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never really learned as a kid how important
it is to just help people—even if it’s doing a favor like babysitting for a
friend or giving someone a ride to work, so now I’m doubling down, trying to
make sure my Girl Scouts know it is important that we get involved, that it’s
not only fun for us, but it helps someone, maybe a little girl just like them. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p>So yeah, it’s been a depressing year with the War on Women
still going strong even though voters told the GOP in no uncertain terms last
fall to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">back the fuck off</i> women’s
rights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there’s still work to be
done, and I think one of the most important things we can ever, EVER teach our
children is compassion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teaching them to give a shit about people,
not things or gadgets or money, but people. If the human race is going to be as
amazing as </span><a href="http://thebarking.com/2013/03/you-cant-ignore-it-forever/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Doctor</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> gives us credit for, we better get on that compassion
thing. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-86951211161502821172012-12-20T08:48:00.001-08:002012-12-20T08:48:43.466-08:00My agnostic nativity <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve always adored Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was young, I would go crazy with anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were fairly poor growing up, but my parents refused (I know now) to get public assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad worked in backhoeing, and when the ground was frozen there wasn’t much for him to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some weeks the only income we had was the $20 my mom got from helping an elderly man in his home, Mr. Parsons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so thankful for Mr. Parsons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, there were days when all I had to take for lunch was a couple slices of bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom doesn’t recall that and doesn’t necessarily think it’s true, but I recall it clearly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, at Christmas, we were spoiled rotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through the year we didn’t get sugared cereal or pop or candy or toys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, my parents were able to give us four kids fabulous Christmases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d come down to a living room practically bursting with gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we got up so early that by the time it was light, we were done opening and ready to start playing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had difficulties with my parents over the years, but I will always be grateful to them for making that time of year so magical for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They must have saved all year, bought presents throughout the year, and/or gone into credit card debt to do it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was the kind of kid who believed in Santa Claus, hard, and could not be convinced otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the magic I loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Santa could be at my cousin’s house early so she could open her presents on Christmas Eve, and later come to my house so we could open ours Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The writing on the tags was different because Santa was in a hurry, for Pete’s sake; this was not proof enough to disbelieve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to wish that I was one of our fish so that I could see Santa Claus just once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I NEVER EVER wanted to peek and find my Christmas presents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am all about surprises remaining surprises, the buildup and anticipation, all that. </div>
<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, at around age 10 when I finally found out Santa wasn’t real (by way of walking in on my mom preparing Easter baskets—it all clicked for me that night), I still loved Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved wrapping the gifts, and every day I’d come home and rearrange the gifts under the tree and check to see if there were any new ones under there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom would wrap up candy bars and packs of gum and tie them onto the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day we were allowed to take one present off the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We played with the ornaments in the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got so sick with anticipation that one year I spent hours picking every single piece of tinsel out of our shag carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put it in a bowl and fed it to my fake Cabbage Patch Doll.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But while writing about my love of Christmas and the magic of it all, I realized that one of the reasons I loved Christmas so much is because there was an unwritten rule no one dared disobey – there was no fighting on Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brothers didn’t make fun of me when I danced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t hit my little brothers and make them run crying to their room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom and Dad didn’t bicker, even though it annoyed the crap out of Mom that Dad could always guess his gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was even one Christmas after they separated but before the divorce where Dad came over to hang out for Christmas, and they didn’t fight then, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our family had rules of engagement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back in the day, I didn’t even mind going to church on Christmas Eve, because it was part of the tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got to sing the songs I loved, and when we got home some version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Christmas Carol</i> would be on TV, and we’d watch that until we were forced upstairs to bed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I’m agnostic, not Catholic, and yet I still love putting up my nativity scene that my mom made, which is close to the one my mom has that my aunt made for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a huge set, with 12” figurines and camels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I adore it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put it on top of my piano, like my mom did every year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though my husband and I haven’t been able to buy each other presents at Christmas for years, I share my kids’ excitement and anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love Christmas, and I thank my parents for my unflagging adoration, even though they’d be annoyed at me for saying HAPPY HOLIDAYS, Y’ALL!! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-90833571458689645462012-11-24T15:05:00.000-08:002012-11-24T15:06:09.841-08:00Boobs and betrayal<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8A6QpV5sSCORNsfFaQrzS9aFGDgisZIM_Y8hq3RVjA3MdQDegH8qA6NbEb4qxbujLPOqQkeN2ib0B4Xh9Kew0tPz2f1LU3MgGB9eEVWQzZVCxy8qL9zMFYKtzNHVLbKl1lPiAnmNztE/s1600/book+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8A6QpV5sSCORNsfFaQrzS9aFGDgisZIM_Y8hq3RVjA3MdQDegH8qA6NbEb4qxbujLPOqQkeN2ib0B4Xh9Kew0tPz2f1LU3MgGB9eEVWQzZVCxy8qL9zMFYKtzNHVLbKl1lPiAnmNztE/s1600/book+cover.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I follow a lot of parenting pages and blogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them are natural parenting type
pages, and nearly all of them espouse breastfeeding, which I am all for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I breastfed my first child for a few months,
but I didn’t have any support, i.e. someone to show me what to do, how to do
it, the pitfalls and how to avoid them, etc., so we only made it for two
months, and then I pumped for another month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some of the bloggers I follow get a little bitchy about BFing, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s clear to me that breast is best—it
provides the best of the best nutritionally and bumps up immunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has lasting benefits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I also think if a woman can’t or even
just doesn’t want to breastfeed, we should all shut the eff up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as the baby is being fed, we should
back off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, if I have another baby
I’ll (probably) definitely give it another whirl.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I added
the qualifier after reading Florence Williams’ book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breasts:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Natural and Unnatural
History.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Williams, who received her
MFA through the illustrious MFA program at the University of Montana, breastfed
her children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was happily nursing my
second child, blithely backstroking through that magic bubble known as the
mother-infant pair-bond, when I stumbled upon a news report…I read that
scientists were finding industrial chemicals in the tissues of land and marine
mammals as well as in human breast milk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Being a journalist mama, she wrote about it, sending off her breast milk
to Germany to be tested for flame-retardants, which hang out and build up in
our fat, and have been shown to cause all kinds of problems in lab animals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her breast milk tested positive, higher than
she expected, and 10 to 100 times higher than women in Europe. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Williams’ milk also tested positive for a jet
fuel ingredient, among other chemicals and exposures that come from
electronics, furniture, and food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that
got her wondering about the ecosystem that is the human breast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What toxic load had I already bequeathed my
children by nursing them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did it
mean to their health, and to mine? Was it still okay to breast feed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did these chemicals interfere with our
bodies?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could we ever make our milk pure
again?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breasts store fat, so they also
store fat-loving chemicals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re
permeable, reflective of everything we eat, drink, touch. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
book made me a little uncomfortable, which I take as a good sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Williams is a chatty writer, so she makes the
scientific stuff understandable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
parts it was a bit much for me, but not so much that I didn’t want to keep
reading every second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I particularly
love the way she started the book off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She took care to mention a theory of breast evolution—basically, it goes
like this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men like big breasts, and
find them useful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big-chested women were
chosen for mating, the big boob gene got passed down, and well, there you have
it, that’s why most men prefer a large dairy section.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Large breasts are a better indicator of age,
the theory goes, so our ancestor males knew that once the boobs started
sagging, either with age or after pregnancies, the males would look elsewhere
for a mate.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then, to my delight, she pretty much pshaws that whole theory, pointing to
glaring holes:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frances Mascia-Lees, an
anthropologist Williams spoke with, thinks the last fifty years of study about
breasts and attraction has been a bunch of bull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If men had so much to do with breast
evolution, if they prefer women with large and firm breasts, why would our
boobs be at their largest and firmest while pregnant and breast feeding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why is there so much breast size variation,
and why are smaller-boobed women just as good at nursing and parenting in
general?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Just suppose for a moment,
gentlemen of the academy, that breasts evolved because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> needed them, not because her club-wielding cave man did.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ha!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
that was all in the first few pages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basically, we know nothing
about breasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What causes breast
cancer, what REALLY causes it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young
breast feeding mothers get less of it, older breast-feeders like me, a little
higher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing that has been
actually, without a doubt proven to cause breast cancer is radiation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the most commonly recommended screening
tool?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Radiation, in the form of
mammography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Williams goes into a lot of
things that I’m not going to do justice to, but I found this review that
touches beautifully on some of the science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What this book did for me, though, was make me more aware that I need to
be more aware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s exhausting, all the
steps we have to take to get away from plastic, for example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carcinogens are found on the back of shiny
receipt paper, for crap’s sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
incredibly depressing, but we’re on a need-to-know basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it turns out we really do need to
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://thebarking.com/2012/11/boobs-and-betrayal/" target="_blank">Cross-posted at Bark.</a></span></span></div>
Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-23851490381018771142012-11-14T18:40:00.000-08:002012-11-14T18:40:21.630-08:00Lice suck. Blood. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a full year ago that I first dealt with the dreaded
head lice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <a href="http://www.alalamamas.com/2011/11/what-louse-y-day-that-was.html" target="_blank">wrote about it</a>, foolishly
thinking after that one day, that initial shampoo and brush out, and follow up, that the problem was
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lice were not in fact gone, and everyone
in our family got it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got used to the
bugs, and they didn’t scare or creep me out as much as I had thought they
would, but they lingered. Oh, lord, did they linger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used RID on two of my kids and myself to
get rid of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I scraped my scalp
daily for weeks after Jo found a shitload of bugs on my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the long hours I was working then, and
my partner working evenings, nearly all of the nit combing went to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lice stuck around for a long time, though
I washed their sheets, wrapped up their stuffed animals in bags and put them in
the basement for weeks, and tried to keep up on the relentless combing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We didn’t
truly get rid of the lice until we moved from Spokane to Billings, MT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother-in-law has a bad-ass nit comb like I’ve
never seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My partner told me stories of
how hard his mom used to comb their heads with it when they had lice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never used any RID or anything on their
heads, just combed religiously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
Mom-in-law got ahold of my kids, the lice were gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmi6oHZ01kbWX9om_mLbAt4ai6BPpmzwnjxZS5S5wziuTu5SXImAiYZ8qPU4G4UwTCOHszQn27Vj6PRMb-GMWMy_mwvRb_sbKD0sv0_VRbolt8WVBav8804STLHZtRvixF5YchSgnVIU/s1600/lice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmi6oHZ01kbWX9om_mLbAt4ai6BPpmzwnjxZS5S5wziuTu5SXImAiYZ8qPU4G4UwTCOHszQn27Vj6PRMb-GMWMy_mwvRb_sbKD0sv0_VRbolt8WVBav8804STLHZtRvixF5YchSgnVIU/s320/lice.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, I know it's gross, but you need to know what they look like. <br />
My daughter's hair is not that thick, so they're easy to spot when <br />
they're adults. SICK. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until a
couple of months ago, that is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
sister-in-law and her 4 kids moved in with my in-laws, who live only a few
blocks from us. My in-laws are raising an additional 2 kids, so my nieces and nephews
are here often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They spend the night,
they hang out at the Y together, they nap together, they play together, they
use each other’s brushes and wear each other’s clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One morning my 4 year-old nephew came
upstairs, groggily scratching his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Oh, no, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I checked his
head, and sure enough, nits (eggs).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since then the kids have been passing the damn lice around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the first episode in Spokane, I knew I
wouldn’t use pesticides on my kids’ heads again (ugh, how could I do that in the
first place?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Know better, do
better).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, my son had a few nits and
I had my partner buzz his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, my littlest girl
with her fine, curly hair got them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began
looking into natural remedies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My cousin
had told me to wash their hair with vinegar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Apparently it loosens the grip of the lice and the nits to the
hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The louse will lay an egg on the
individual hair, near the scalp, and sometimes the nit comb won't even get it
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ended up going through their hair
meticulously, grabbing each nit with my thumb and index finger and sliding it
all the way down off the hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I’d
crush it. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So if
you are dealing with lice, here’s my advice:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>DON’T use Rid, the shampoo OR the spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I tried <a href="http://www.nuvoforheadlice.com/Nuvo%20method.htm" target="_blank">this method</a>, but it was implausible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounded great, but in practice it sucked
ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put that much soap on my little
girl’s head, and I couldn’t brush through it, let alone blow dry it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fuck that method.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mayonnaise in the hair, followed by a shower
cap and left on overnight, is supposed to be a good method. But I also read
that lice can hold their breath for over 8 hours!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gross</i>.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
you need to do is get your infested person in the tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wash the hair however you want, then put in
some conditioner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read that coconut
smell is yucky to lice, but who knows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
went and picked up some Suave, that cheap shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Slather the hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comb it first
with a brush or comb to get the tangles out, and have the kid lean up against the
side of the tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lay a white towel on
your lap (so you can see the buggers), and get your comb out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also use a paper towel on top of the towel,
to wipe the comb off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll want to
crush the little fuckers when you find them, even the nits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s hard to do on the towel, so when I
find one I grab the paper towel and put it on the hard edge of the tub and
crush the louse with the handle end of the comb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I divide my girl’s hair and put half up in a
little clip while I work on the other half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Comb through the hair, making sure you get the comb right down on the
scalp, because that’s where they like to hang out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The big egg-layers can be as long as your
pinky nail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you’re done combing,
rinse the hair and then blow dry it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
lice apparently do not like the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Also, don’t bother washing the crap out of all the bedding or freezing
the stuffed animals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just <a href="http://www.mnn.com/your-home/at-home/blogs/natural-remedies-for-lice" target="_blank">toss them allin the dryer for 20 minutes</a> on the highest heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heat will help—lice can’t survive super
hotness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just being
vigilant is the best advice I can give you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Learn about the lice life cycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
you get all of the big egg-layers out, the ones that hatch won’t lay eggs for
10 days. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And don’t worry—lice can’t jump
from kid to kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can’t even live
very long if they are not on skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t
be a-scared, just be aware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-59691591055677729022012-11-05T17:00:00.001-08:002012-11-05T17:02:17.996-08:00"A Million Hours Left to Think of You, and Think of That"<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYxpIKxjY1PUto9sTJ5XugZkio3ZJOqP4TnSUDYZF50CkDpZhzsDxLD2pzxkDhtkegQILoZGWSIDllLN9XKFUFbWpRiyIiIMPBm17KUknAcOyyVqSgAWPdpEPsLQPiV1UWIbC7VAdLWi7/s1600/Brighid+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYxpIKxjY1PUto9sTJ5XugZkio3ZJOqP4TnSUDYZF50CkDpZhzsDxLD2pzxkDhtkegQILoZGWSIDllLN9XKFUFbWpRiyIiIMPBm17KUknAcOyyVqSgAWPdpEPsLQPiV1UWIbC7VAdLWi7/s200/Brighid+3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*I am not an expert. I am just a person sharing a piece of my story* </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I have only told three people outside of counselors that I self-injure.
The counselors, surprisingly, or perhaps not, both had the same nonchalant
attitude about it, like if they showed it was a large concern, it would become
a bigger problem. Maybe this is how they are taught to treat it? And they
always ask: “Why do you think you do it?” and I give the real and honest
answer, “To make a physical manifestation (yes, I say that. I’m a poet) of the
pain I feel on the inside on the outside.” Seeing blood or feeling a burning
pain from the emotional or mental distress, in whatever way, makes it seem less
serious BECAUSE it can be SEEN. The pain can be visualized. I’ve placed it
outside of myself. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMSuXhCagvbgFloHcMNgWc223ySYa9i_Xsq2TpkZVnFuWT0TARZeTQZtDuniCgTAsb3JrH9CFFR2LCDNxuBdVWN_SgyMQ50Lga4ImtLqBw9YqbOoYIDBkKksjJz861atA2nX3V9ih8S4T/s1600/Itchy-Skin1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMSuXhCagvbgFloHcMNgWc223ySYa9i_Xsq2TpkZVnFuWT0TARZeTQZtDuniCgTAsb3JrH9CFFR2LCDNxuBdVWN_SgyMQ50Lga4ImtLqBw9YqbOoYIDBkKksjJz861atA2nX3V9ih8S4T/s1600/Itchy-Skin1.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When pain isn’t tangible, it seems less real. And when what
you are feeling doesn’t seem real, you feel insane. So, there came a point for
me when I needed the injury, the wound, the blood to feel a bit more ok.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It started small. I’d bite a nail to a jagged edge and run
it on my skin until it burned. Then, until it bled. I have a scar from the time
an ex-boyfriend wouldn’t let up on a lecture that before I knew it, I was
flying to Washington D.C. with a significant cut from digging and digging the
night before.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I found myself finding relief in restaurant bathrooms during
stressful situations, or what I now know to be panic attacks.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I changed my method over time to get faster blood results
and, honestly, the Washington D.C. dig had caused a seeable scar. I had to draw
blood, feel pain, and not scar and the new method allowed me to accomplish this
goal.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPI51XGSg2T-cLdH3QHdc4H3gA0JztwEtX22aAcmGeIrLJzYvxrGxyP_EK-8zJdtbzem2bfQ-sjBmHEgsmeTpY3EBSqSKBwjOH6A9xQNyMD2qIWVg3KdlNs5eVcTu8iNxSbL_vn5g3YWm/s1600/depressed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPI51XGSg2T-cLdH3QHdc4H3gA0JztwEtX22aAcmGeIrLJzYvxrGxyP_EK-8zJdtbzem2bfQ-sjBmHEgsmeTpY3EBSqSKBwjOH6A9xQNyMD2qIWVg3KdlNs5eVcTu8iNxSbL_vn5g3YWm/s320/depressed.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Self-Injury is not about a cry for help. It’s self-therapy. If
it was a cry for help, self-injurers wouldn’t work so hard to hide it. This is
my own opinion. It is unhealthy self-therapy, but it is what it is: an extensive
symptom of my diagnosed depression and anxiety.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">According to the Self-Injury Foundation, “research shows
that the main reason people self-injure is to regulate intense emotional states;
that is, to feel better” and that scratching, cutting, burning, biting, facial
picking and other self-harm behaviors are exhibited by those who self-injure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I haven’t self-injured in a few weeks, but I am glad I found
the Self-Injury Foundation website. The information there has given me
perspective about why I self-injure. Reading that my self-injury isn’t because
I’m “crazy” and am, in fact, self-medicating in an unhealthy way has helped me understand my motives more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>If you, or someone you know, self-injures, please visit <a href="http://www.selfinjuryfoundation.com/">www.selfInjuryfoundation.com</a> or
contact your doctor.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
Brighidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09362368521143507633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-72667237801943885472012-11-01T16:01:00.001-07:002012-11-01T16:01:30.592-07:00Drinking is dumb<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don’t drink alcohol very often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started drinking in high school when I
began dating an older dude who introduced me to the wonders of Black Velvet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also introduced me to heartache when he
dumped me and began dating another girl, a girl I considered a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then took up drinking to dull the pain of a
broken heart, as well as to escape being pulled in all directions by my parents
and their terrible, ugly divorce proceedings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I drank pretty heavily for the next seven or eight years, but I never
liked the taste of it—any of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beer I
hated the least, so that was my beverage of choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While I
was drunk, I slept with at least fifteen dudes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some I still don’t know if I slept with,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>but the clues pointed me in that direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped drinking when I met my first
husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of my life had been spent
trying to win the love of a boy, and that’s a different story, but once I had
one, I didn’t drink much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The older I
got, the worse my hangovers got.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few
years later, though, my husband and I split, and even though I was happy about
that, I was nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was back in the
dating game, and I pretty quickly got burned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And then I started dating a great guy who drank, so I went through
another phase of drinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually,
though, I slowed down and stopped, because I still never liked drinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I liked being drunk, but I hated it going
down and I hated the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if I
drink a little bit, I feel like crap for a whole day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I pretty much stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drank a little in graduate school, mostly because
EVERY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SINGLE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FUNCTION. outside of school involved everyone
getting sloppy drunk, and I suppose I wanted to fit in, and to fit in I needed
to be chatty, and I’m not a Chatty Cathy by nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So even though I only got tipsy three or four
times during my two years of grad school, I still drank way more than my
usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
today, I don’t drink for all of those reasons mentioned, plus one more:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone I love very much is an
alcoholic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am so pissed at ALL THE
ALCOHOL IN THE WORLD, by which I suppose I mean the culture we live in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For fuck’s sake, I can’t read a Facebook
status, tweet, blog post, whatever, without the casual mention of alcohol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s fucking ridiculous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Had a rough day, lol, going to get my drink
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch out, yo!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mommy needs her bottle.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVMOyCAnmNKxz9Eg9kEkRE-4Nc9yU3yX7nFECehdyk8PUD-HtfXzHXDskdgrHaighvXYdnHkbuD1WXpYIPHLwBSEpUwjpIo5k_t_eyG4YEZsyfd6-IhRYZlDU4E-rAAJATCBmrwITRZg/s1600/sex-and-the-city1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVMOyCAnmNKxz9Eg9kEkRE-4Nc9yU3yX7nFECehdyk8PUD-HtfXzHXDskdgrHaighvXYdnHkbuD1WXpYIPHLwBSEpUwjpIo5k_t_eyG4YEZsyfd6-IhRYZlDU4E-rAAJATCBmrwITRZg/s200/sex-and-the-city1.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We couldn't help but wonder when we'd get </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">our own gin blossoms to giggle about.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
really do not understand the alcohol culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Go out for dinner—drink!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stay at
home with your partner—drink!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take out
the garbage—that deserves a martini!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
pervades EVERYTHING.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And here’s a thing
I don’t get:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mention how your kids make
you want to drink, and you’re a normal mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mention how your kids make you want to take a toke, and by god, you’re
going to get blasted and possibly reported to the authorities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>FUCK
THAT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our society tells us to go out and
drink, drink, drink your life away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll
look cool, you’ll have that extra burst of confidence, you’ll be able to dance,
you’ll get up the nerve to call that girl or boy, you’ll be friends with the
cool people, the next day you’ll be able to tweet about how totally wasted,
sauced, sloshed, tanked, pickled, and fucked up you were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, we’re pissed beyond all
belief about the person who gets five DUIs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re outraged when a drunk fight breaks out and someone is hurt or
killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With good reason, these anger
feelings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s a very mixed message
we’re getting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drink responsibly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about an oxymoron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-24304075820665994262012-10-28T17:31:00.000-07:002012-10-28T17:31:44.633-07:00NaMeWriMo: I'm in. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s almost November.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve attended 3 Halloween parties this weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am feeling done with Halloween, before it
even arrives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’ll be done soon and then I can steal all
the Reese’s peanut butter cups and Snickers from my kids baskets…er, to
freeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last
year I participated in NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, since I’m a Nonfictionista, I
participated in National Memoir Writing Month, or NaMeWriMo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The goal is, you write 1500 words a day,
every day, during November.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the end
of the month, you’ve written enough words to make a novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note: YOU HAVE NOT WRITTEN A NOVEL.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of writerly folks </span><a href="http://www.salon.com/2010/11/02/nanowrimo/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">eschew</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> NaNoWriMo,
saying that people just write and write and write and then think they’re done
and try to get their manuscript published.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, obviously, that’s dumb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Days, weeks, and years of revision would obviously be the next step, not
rushing out queries or self-publishing that shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That seems obvious to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t
even come close to finishing the 50,000 words or whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I got 50 pages out of it, and that’s more
than I’d written for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
worked on some of my 2011 NaMeWriMo stuff, but not nearly enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve not written much for the past year,
which makes me sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got this writing
degree and I can’t let this go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s
been a tough year for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been
working 10 to 12 hours a day, 5 and sometimes 6 days a week, and there’s been a
ton of personal stress that I can’t write about, but suffice it to say when
I do get the chance to write, I’m too down or tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lately, I haven’t been working as much because
my medical transcription job has been partially outsourced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some clinics stayed with my boss’ company,
which I am not an employee of but an independent subcontractor, so we still
have some work, but only about half of what I normally would get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is going to hurt by my next paycheck, so
that sucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it does leave me time
for writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brings me to NaMeWriMo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need this; I need the release, I need the
focus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to write a shitload.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here I go, starting Thursday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wish me luck…no, wish my butt on the couch
and my fingers on the keyboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll let
you know if I need a kick in the ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-68286728670536835782012-09-23T17:20:00.000-07:002012-09-23T17:20:00.211-07:00Letters from dipshits<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisu2BJdZNb7uRgjFg5oSc-90llr7ww2eqb5GXMFXZfQXFe2q474cLDyYq6V1t8w4Nin6Goydji7jx24O5o9F6dUbiDAGsWJx9UTX9cPJpz8Ku3MwmL7ngbFMuzTLsy2gSk3bWQbXE63K0/s1600/Bess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisu2BJdZNb7uRgjFg5oSc-90llr7ww2eqb5GXMFXZfQXFe2q474cLDyYq6V1t8w4Nin6Goydji7jx24O5o9F6dUbiDAGsWJx9UTX9cPJpz8Ku3MwmL7ngbFMuzTLsy2gSk3bWQbXE63K0/s1600/Bess.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elizabeth never had any kids because<br />
her body shut the shit down <br />
on those clowns. Can I get a witness?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're all familiar with what Rep. Todd Akin said regarding </span><a href="http://fox2now.com/2012/08/19/the-jaco-report-august-19-2012/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">pregnancy and rape</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, right? That if we women don't want it, we can squeeze our eyes real tight and prevent a pregnancy? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A Montana woman from Lolo, a tiny town near Missoula, wrote in to <em>The Missoulian, </em></span><a href="http://missoulian.com/news/opinion/mailbag/war-on-women-pregnancy-from-rape-is-rare/article_e0887ae2-0262-11e2-9e62-001a4bcf887a.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">defending Akin</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. She wants to have the conversation. And she does, all by herself. I'm not sure she gets where she wanted to go with the letter, but she insists that science backs Akin up. It's the science that tells us:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. The woman may be on the pill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. It may be during the non-fertile days of her cycle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. She or he [the illegitimate rapist] may be sterile, naturally or through disease or surgery. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. She may be too young or too old to conceive. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. There can be disruption of the ovulation cycles due to the extreme emotional trauma. (source from <strong>1967</strong>)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. One study shows there is 58 percent "sexual dysfunction" (no penetration, or retarded or premature ejaculation). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">7. Another study shows that there is often no sperm deposited in the vagina.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So basically, a woman gets or does not get pregnant because of a multitude of factors. Well, <em>we knew that. Like, everybody pretty much agrees on that. </em>Of course, the letter writer's source is the antichoice misinformation-spreading Dr. Jack Willke. In a </span><a href="http://www.abortionfacts.com/online_books/love_them_both/why_cant_we_love_them_both_29.asp" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">book he and his wife wrote</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, he states:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a healthy, peaceful marriage, the miscarriage rate ranges
up to about 15%. In this case, we have incredible emotional trauma. Her body is
upset. Even if she conceives, the miscarriage rate is higher than in a more
normal pregnancy. If she loses 20% of 600, there are 450 left. Finally, we must
factor in one of the most important reasons why a rape victim rarely gets
pregnant, and that is psychic trauma. Every woman is aware that stress and
emotional factors can alter her menstrual cycle. To get pregnant and stay
pregnant, a woman’s body must produce a very sophisticated mix of hormones.
Hormone production is controlled by a part of the brain which is easily
influenced by emotions. There’s no greater emotional trauma that can be
experienced by a woman than an assault rape. This can radically upset her
possibility of ovulation, fertilization, implantation and even nurturing of a
pregnancy. So what further percentage reduction in pregnancy will this cause? <strong>No
one really knows, but this factor certainly cuts the last figure by at least
50%, and probably more</strong>, leaving a final figure of 225 women pregnant each year,
a number that closely matches the 200 found in clinical studies. (emphasis mine)</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So never minding that Willke's data is </span><a href="http://www.rhrealitycheck.org/article/2012/08/23/rape-forced-pregnancy-rep-akin-colorado%E2%80%99s-personhood-measure-and-crimes-against-h" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">skewed and not even close to up-to-date,</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> he admits he's making shit up. The letter's not changing any minds; it doesn't make enough sense. It was sort of amusing, though, and I was reminded once again that the War on Women isn't just being waged by old white men. </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></blockquote>
</div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-65389940368356369652012-09-16T20:32:00.001-07:002012-09-16T20:32:19.618-07:00Summer days, drifting away...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We found LOVE in the woods, yo.</td></tr>
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Holy crap, you guys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been totally neglecting things this summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, two things: my memoir-barely-in-progress, and my blogging. </div>
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I had a great summer, though, and tried not to beat myself up too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked my full-time-plus medical transcription job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took on a temporary non-medical transcription gig, which I’m still finishing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent two weeks bra-less and in pain from a case of the shingles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And still I got to do just about everything I wanted to this summer:</div>
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Went camping and went for an 8 mile hike with my kids and my niece and bro-in-law. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crow Agency is the Teepee capital <br />
of the world. Very cool.</td></tr>
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Camped out at Crow Fair, where my in-laws camp for about two weeks every year, and attended the largest pow-wow in the NATION, y’all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Taught the kids to swim!! (OK, they mostly learned it on their own, but I instilled in them the confidence to brave the deep end, let’s say)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1bydMsp5orXbowlTg-P9vKjx6jYTOKm5_HCFkvrNfol54amIQan6OCv-uRL1q52RFRZdCJ0rvuhe6tt3ci5llqw1PfHjPDBPxkKDqD049Hej81O4UnMY21G7YRpNVKZpZijANDxqunVo/s1600/P1010744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1bydMsp5orXbowlTg-P9vKjx6jYTOKm5_HCFkvrNfol54amIQan6OCv-uRL1q52RFRZdCJ0rvuhe6tt3ci5llqw1PfHjPDBPxkKDqD049Hej81O4UnMY21G7YRpNVKZpZijANDxqunVo/s200/P1010744.JPG" width="200" /></a>Went to the corn maze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I freakin’ love the corn maze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next time we’re going without the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All they did was whine until we got out of the maze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorta wanted to lose them in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Started getting healthier!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joined Bountiful Baskets, a food coop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every other week or so, for $15, I ordered a basket filled with fruits and veggies, I’d say at least $40 worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of it went to waste, but I learned how to cook spaghetti squash and butternut squash, and also discovered I don’t still hate squash from when I was 6!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Got greener!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew some basil, then I harvested and froze it LIKE A BOSS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew some strawberries which didn’t do great but are still producing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I planted multicolored peppers and instead got some black Hungarians and a whole bunch of green peppers, which are not my favorite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh well!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomatoes are doing all right, not producing a bunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m PISSED that the Topsy Turvy planters I ordered this year are already coming apart!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one from last year is fine, but the new ones are not going to make it until next year, which I’m especially ticked about because I wanted those strawberries for next year! Grrr.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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I also began using Castile soap and apple cider vinegar to wash and rinse my hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of ordering my usual Mary Kay cleanser and moisturizer, I’m using raw honey on my face and coconut oil on my skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm currently making some household cleaner. All I had to do was add some grapefruit peels to a quart jar of vinegar. In another week or so (it's supposed to sit for 2 weeks), I can put some in a spray bottle and test it out. </span>Next up is probably making deodorant, since I’m almost out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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So I didn’t write this summer, but holy moly did I type.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I had a lot of fun, mixed with a lot of personal stress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I made it through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am ready to nest in with my crockpot and my hoodie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my laptop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-49105704781193437552012-07-22T11:59:00.001-07:002012-07-22T11:59:25.802-07:00What I Did Over Summer Vacation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSOao2PgugsrNnnKZFYMJILZITdFnQAvNL_F2_2CXitqDzjrcmI2MMukEmZDM29Uym8mcy5yUDCXTMsazm22vQCT9mPO0ha53eCl76F7uHmlwdk3_22z_5twYB7p71ESj7XOizw5kwa4/s1600/womanwriting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSOao2PgugsrNnnKZFYMJILZITdFnQAvNL_F2_2CXitqDzjrcmI2MMukEmZDM29Uym8mcy5yUDCXTMsazm22vQCT9mPO0ha53eCl76F7uHmlwdk3_22z_5twYB7p71ESj7XOizw5kwa4/s320/womanwriting.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A kimono would have felt really nice on my skin.</td></tr>
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">This year for summer vacation, I got the shingles. </span>I spent my entire nine days of
vacation (that’s five work days plus two weekends) hurting and
uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Wednesday before my
planned vacation, I woke up with the right side of my back feeling sensitive
and a little painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I checked in the
mirror, and it looked like I had a bug bite, so I asked my partner to look at
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He confirmed it looked like two bug
bites, or else a really big spider bite (eeeeeeek!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it continued to bother me all day, so the
next day I went in to the sliding scale fee clinic, where the doctor said it
was indeed a bug bite and was not infected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I mentioned that my whole right-sided<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>back hurt, but that didn’t seem to register with my doc, and he sent me
home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That day, a small circular area of
a rash showed up under my armpit, kind of on my side boob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the weekend, the pain got
worse, the rash began to look blistery, the bug bite seemed to look worse, and
a rash broke out on my back near the bug bite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It also got blistery looking, and Monday I went back in to the clinic, where
the PA diagnosed me with shingles and wrote me a prescription for valacyclovir
and nortriptyline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The valacyclovir
turned out to cost $250 (holy shit!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
father-in-law suggested I go to the local Urban Clinic, which mostly serves
Native Americans but which is open to all (which hardly anybody knows!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father-in-law works for the government, in
charge of something to do with the area’s Indian Health Services, so he’s
always got good tips like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the Urban Clinic they quickly
diagnosed me with shingles, even using me as a specimen to show others what
form classic shingles took.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rash
spots had the blistery herpes-looking stuff, and the area around them was
reddened as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The visit was free,
thank goodness, and so was some sleeping / pain medication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to Costco for some generic meds
(acyclovir), and it only ended up costing me $16.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was given different stories about
my likelihood of erupting with shingles again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the Urban Clinic I was told that this outbreak means I’m unlikely to
get it again, while the sliding scale fee clinic told me it put me at higher
risk for recurrence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’ve had
chicken pox, like I have, the virus apparently stays in your body, and can
erupt at any time, usually when a person is older and their immune system
starts breaking down slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone
said I was pretty young to be getting shingles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It can also be brought on by stress. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, I’ve been under stress,
working 60 hours a week for almost a year now, taking on another transcription
job on top of that, caring for my children, worrying that I’m not getting any
writing done, and all that comes with being a working mother with a working
partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pain that comes with shingles
is unusual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nerve pain, which I’ve
never experienced, because shingles attacks you under the skin, and the rash is
sort of a side development, not the main pain generator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rashes itched, sure, but the whole right
side of my back—shingles is nearly always one-sided—ached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Describing it to someone, I mentioned that it
felt like my muscles were stiff and achy, but also that the skin was extremely
sensitive there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pain began to wrap
around to my breast, making it achy as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I haven’t worn a bra since about day three, which bothers me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My breasts are large (DD) and I have almost
no shirts that hold them in with any success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So on these 100 degree days, whenever I went out I wore a sweater or a
shawl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plenty of people are comfortable
not wearing a bra, and that’s cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
HATE the no-bra, baggy t-shirt look, so I wore my tightest camisoles and tank
tops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a medical transcriptionist,
shingles came to mind right away when I had the right-sided back pain, but I figured
my job was turning me into a hypochondriac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Turns out I’m just super smart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
feeling sorry for myself that I had to cancel all my plans, which included a
trip to Missoula and Spokane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was also
very much looking forward to a trip to my hometown to search the newspaper
archives, visit the museum, and walk around doing some memory mapping for my
book project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I’m lucky to have
had the week to recover, see the movie Brave with nine children, and I did
finish three books (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Refuge</i> by Terry
Tempest Williams, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ya-Yas in Bloom</i> by
Rebecca Wells, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pearl</i> by John
Steinbeck).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And today, finally today, I worked
on an essay. </span></div>
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</span>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-55944103408563766922012-07-20T14:03:00.003-07:002012-07-20T16:54:44.699-07:00Rich Kids of [the fleeting] Instagram: Don't be mad. I hear UPS is hiring.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bF2ohD6tDpLM5OE3TdCAMRPO9hduzeia-SxiW-xe9FnwT6O53H9zt85Gv9PMnIHm-C4YuzlLCt4LKy_alGLL-qr27EAxSban-OXTdUyQIVaU3SsNCodcC5UXVpW6lmUe9Bagie7KcQGL/s1600/longbar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bF2ohD6tDpLM5OE3TdCAMRPO9hduzeia-SxiW-xe9FnwT6O53H9zt85Gv9PMnIHm-C4YuzlLCt4LKy_alGLL-qr27EAxSban-OXTdUyQIVaU3SsNCodcC5UXVpW6lmUe9Bagie7KcQGL/s1600/longbar.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="color: #674ea7;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>more (every day!)<br />at <a href="http://richkidsofinstagram.tumblr.com/">richkidsofinstagram.tumblr.com</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Damn. The label on that Champaign bottle is conspicuous, like I should recognize it immediately, but I don’t. And I wonder about the cost of that gold watch hanging from that kid’s skinny wrist (not a single pimple on his baby face). And I had no idea Rich Kids still tied their sweaters around their shoulders like some sort of old-school beacon of wealth. Rich Kids do things like stroll on their parents’ personal beaches with wine that, per bottle, might cost more than my rent. They smoke cigarettes in their penthouse suites and pretend to be bad asses. They take personal helicopters to those personal beaches and suites and vacation homes - Fuck helicopter taxis; you gotta’ own it, keep it on call. I’m not sure if the helicopter is cooler than having a personal jet plane. My first guess is no. And there’s that hot pink Mercedes Benz, a birthday present. Is it just me, or is it clown-car ugly? How does she – a teenager – drive the car around on the streets without having rocks and rotten eggs and dirty panties flung at her? Does she route out only respectable (“safe”) streets? Or does she only drive it to Versace? Or do people see her ride stopped at a stoplight and reach out to pet it, maybe drool on it a little? I confess, of this Rich Kids’ world, I seem to be totally oblivious. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Scrolling through the collection of photos on the tumblr “Rich Kids of Instagram,” shared on Facebook yesterday by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheOther98" target="_blank">The Other 98%</a>, was a bad way to start my day. The tagline for the tumblr page reads: “They have more money than you and this is what they do.” I don’t know exactly how the tumblr works. I don’t know how the lives of super rich kids work either, and, for the most part, I don’t care. But I scrolled through the pics anyway. A peek into a forbidden foreign culture? Or train-wreck magnet syndrome? </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At first, the pics opened up a surprising deluge of emotion, a mix of bitter anger and pity and sorrow, and, in the end, I was hating myself. Self-fucking-hating. The self-hate wasn’t self-pity like “I am such a loser for not having the shit those jerks have. If only ... ” The self-hate – rather than hate for the Rich Kids – is simple really. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For a poor girl who feels she has busted her ass, determined to find a “better” place one day, self-hate can be cyclic and persistent. I can be my own biggest obstacle when it comes to reaching legitimate happiness. Most of us poor girls have been trained to be kind, self-sacrificing, not to take more than our fair share, to say thank you. When assholes don’t at least meet you somewhere near the middle – AND when they gloat about it, accuse you of being jealous because you weren’t quick enough to stop them – you get pissed. If you've faced a seemingly unfair amount of broken promises and hardships or if you've grown up around or fully aware of people who have, you can get teeth-grinding punch-throwing pissed. When you get pissed, you hate yourself for giving in, for playing the game, for coming across as selfish, for stooping, for shedding your grace.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was angry with the kids for being so … stupidly rich. Gluttonous. Disgusting. And it looks as if they’re flaunting the piss out of it. I opened the Twitter profile of one rich kid linked to the site and found the defining line under his name on his profile to read: “Don’t be mad. I hear UPS is hiring.” Maybe the Rich Kids get tired of the guilt “forced” on them when they have to look upon the rest of the deprived world (one of the many problems with being well-educated, right?), and so they spit in its face. But what the fuck do I know? </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe they regularly perform amazing, global-changing acts of kindness, and I’m jumping the gun. Maybe they’re just too young, too busy, having too much freaky fun to consider anything on an intellectual level. They’re just kids. Teenagers are notoriously oblivious and self-centered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And, just like me, they couldn’t help where they were born. Who they are is a result of learned behavior, the result of a complex system. I know this. If I was super rich, what might I buy my own children? I recognized the sweeping generalizations behind my anger. I had fallen back to ignorant stereotypes. I had answered shallow with shallow, and I hated myself for it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided I could be more empathetic. Try to consider the intense pressure and lack of honesty these kids surely deal with on a daily basis. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I imagined the fear that must
reside knowing that who you are lies primarily in your “things,” and with an
unfortunate turn of circumstance – the wrong words spoken at a cocktail
party? a stupid act of investment? a thief? a revolution? – you could
lose it all. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I imagined them fighting with their parents, parents who are self-centered and material. I imagined them feeling the pressures and stresses that come along with the need to impress small-minded peers with impossible and unpredictable standards. I imagined the demanding presence of life-raping drugs. Illusive escapes. Failed geographical cures disguised as year-long Caribbean cruises with no happy ending. Trippin’ and spreading STDs around for weeks on Daddy’s yacht. Suicidal in the Porsch, trying to fill the five car garage up with carbon monoxide. I imagined them walking into the office of the most costly psychiatrist or spiritual guide in the world and asking him/her to “fix it.” <i>Poor kids. </i>The jokes on <i>them</i>. This is the best I can do as far as empathy. I tell myself: Hey, I employed my imagination. At least I made an effort. It’s more than what most of the Rich Shits would do for someone like me. I kick myself again. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>Damn it.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I kinda’ sucked at my attempts to make the Rich Kids “more human” (or whatever it was I was trying to do). I confess, it made me feel better to imagine the Rich Kids suffering. My empathy was more annoying than anything. I kept stepping over the edge and onto the dark side. And, in part, I hated myself for even trying. <i>Poor kids??</i> I didn't believe it. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sure, there is tremendous pain in being
ever-surrounded by concrete objects but nothing 100% Genuine . . . but
that pain isn’t reserved for the elite. I wonder if the Rich Kids know
this? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is <a href="http://richkidsofinstagram.tumblr.com/post/27335853875/by-christycham" target="_blank">one Instagram of a Barbie doll</a> posed to look as though she’s sucking a line of cocaine up her plastic nubby nose. Maybe it’s indicative of a Rich Kid poking a little fun at herself. But there lies the cocaine, three lines of it. Expensive shit – or so I hear. And it’s real. I’m sure of it. It’s as real as the massive sailboat off the shore of Greece in <a href="http://richkidsofinstagram.tumblr.com/post/27498806458/were-off-emmagray26-aschirr-by-abe-linken93" target="_blank">another Instagram</a>. Thousands upon thousands of dollars are sucked up Rich Kids’ noses (on sailboats, helicopters, jet planes, yachts, penthouse suites …) in big swift sniffs. But I think I have every right to be upset/bitter/angry, even as they snort drugs, sip refined alcohols, throw exclusive parties all in some stretch of desperation I will never fully understand. I know nothing of this place these kids live in, the Kingdom of the fleeting Instagram. And they know nothing of me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I try to relate, but I can’t. My efforts to be sincere, to be some kind of higher spirit capable of rising above my anger, capable of redefining myself as “lucky” (luckier than the Rich Kids) for having gained extra insight by pulling myself “up by my bootstraps” “against all odds” (by way of many ominous student loans) seems dishonest, pointless and wimpy. It also feels conceited because making claims of having pulled oneself “up” from anywhere is subjugating that from which you pull yourself up and out of. I still struggle with such concepts, hence, self-loathing. When I say “And they know nothing of me,” a little (oddly American? smart?) voice in my head says, “Why the fuck should they care?” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not being holier-than-thou when I say I WISH I didn’t want for anything. Of that, I am sincere. Ironic, but sincere. Even as I make myself write about it, I know I’m seeking (any) confirmation, some reassurance I’m doing okay. And because I was raised as I was, writing can feel selfish. Even the desire to simply work toward being “comfortable” feels excessive. When you grow up poor, you also hear that little voice say things like, “Who the hell do you think you are?” My tendency toward self-defeat feels like a curse. A Rich Kid may be first to tell me I’m being stupid. And I would have a hard time not punching Rich Kids pretty nose. Or maybe Rich Kids hear "Who the hell do you think you are?" even more than I do.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Truth is I can be a prideful bitch, and I think I might genuinely want the “Rich Kids of Instagram” to hate me back to keep things simple. The logic of dominance works every which way. And it works by way of fear and through a global want for some kind of love. We all want confirmation. After all, here are these pictures. And so I'm trying to forgive them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks “Rich Kids of Instagram.” I have to wonder if a bit of personal enlightenment wasn’t the foreseen part of a grandeur plan of the tumblr's creator. I want to kick myself again for doubting it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See ya’, Rich Kids. Wouldn’t wanna’ be ya’.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Damnit.</span>Rheahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17045631783854905954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-62468872380230047122012-07-11T08:46:00.000-07:002012-07-11T08:49:12.550-07:00Me type. Me no write.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWgAlNZWyZKr3b5NLrV5oNObEd5QR03ht3Icx8o804X-4VgYOj5C-ReGUeb_6tVvjqF1IlHGHoIdz3KfuU3j2oax5EjDGQi8lw0JKxVRLqnsWbBrvmlis9qkCgsFewLW2vMME9LfOnOk/s1600/typist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWgAlNZWyZKr3b5NLrV5oNObEd5QR03ht3Icx8o804X-4VgYOj5C-ReGUeb_6tVvjqF1IlHGHoIdz3KfuU3j2oax5EjDGQi8lw0JKxVRLqnsWbBrvmlis9qkCgsFewLW2vMME9LfOnOk/s1600/typist.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only reason I wear my pajamas to work is because my </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ruffly dress is at the cleaners!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About a year ago, I took a promotion. I'm a medical transcriptionist, and technically I'm an independent subcontractor, so there's this relationship thing where the woman who assigns me my work is not actually my employer, but we interact in some ways as if she is, and it's all good. I've been typing for a living for almost eight years now, and it's been a perfect type of work for me for several reasons:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. I types real fast, y'all. *shakes her money makers*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. I get to work at home. Mixed blessing, but a blessing, no question, especially with kids.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. I have a great memory, and memorization is a huge part of my job - I don't have to stop to look shit up. Well, of course I do, but less and less often. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So each day I'm assigned 1500 lines of work, which is a full-time load and probably eight solid hours of work for me. My other job is running my household. My husband helps out, but the bulk of all things domestic still falls on me. About a year ago I got a raise because I started proofing my own work. I worked for this raise and it felt good, because I have a certain higher level of responsibility now, which didn't scare me as much as I thought it would. I also started making more money, but it came with longer hours. I started getting up earlier. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we got back to Montana four months ago, my husband got a job right away and began working long hours. I kept up my long hours, usually 12 hours in my office, taking necessary breaks to take children places, prepare meals, and sometimes just goof off with my kids. Then I had the opportunity to begin proofing other transcriptionists' work, which meant another small raise on top of a per line rate for the documents I proofread. It adds at least an hour to my work day and adds about $300 to my check each month, $150 every paycheck. Oh, and did I mention I took a big chunk of non-medical transcription as well, with no definite deadline but which is totally looming over me?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, my husband is working hella long hours at the restaurant. All this is to say that we're now making enough money to get by. We're able to pay our bills and buy some healthier groceries. We've been able to take the kids to the local water park and for the first time in years (maybe ever) I bought my husband a father's day gift. I'm still working on a budget, but I think we're doing all right now. I hope to be able to get insurance for myself soon (my kids and husband are able to get health care on the Crow reservation nearby, though I do plan to sign my kids up for Healthy Montana Kids)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Working these long hours at home is different than working long hours on my feet like my husband does. Today we had a mild disagreement about how much time he was allowed to relax on a day off. I was a little bitchy. I <em>do</em> love working at home, and I <em>am</em> lucky. Every day I get up around 6, make coffee, and either shower or get right to work. One by one as my kids wake up they come upstairs and push open the door, eyes squinty and chins crusted with drool. They'll come close for hugs, and sometimes curl up on my lap or on the floor while they wake up for the day. I pretty much treasure those moments. But it breaks my heart when my four year-old says "Why do you always have to work a long day!" or when my eight year-old brings up the fact that we need to have some time alone together. And so sometimes I take a break from work and have a picnic under the tree in our front yard, or watch a program with my kids. Once in a while if I feel I can't make it through the day without, I'll ask one of my younger kids if they want to nap with me. They always say yes, and my favorite way to fall asleep is with my hand across their narrow bodies. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I make time for my kids, and I make time for my husband. Even though I'm exhausted by 10 p.m., some weeknights and most weekends I'll stay up until he gets home at 11, 12, or 1, just so I can sit with him and hear about his day, and so I can tell him all the stories of what happened around the house. We've still managed to have sex a couple of times a week through all this, and I'm so glad we still have the passion we've always had for each other. Even being exhausted I can be quickly convinced by my extremely amorous hubby to participate in some bowchickawowow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I work hard to make sure my relationships don't suffer, and of course I have tremendous guilt. But something has to give, and so lately what gives is my writing time, and my reading time. I'm trying to turn a thesis into a book, and I have no time and not much motivation to work on it. When I finally get the kids to bed at night, I gotta do some cleaning. I can't relax in the living room unless I pick up and sweep, and the dishes are my personal chore, so I have to keep up with that. So around 10 p.m. I collapse on the couch (which we just got FREE from our neighbors at a garage sale) and ponder if I should read one of three books I'm in the middle of, or maybe do some writing, or if instead I should maybe watch one episode of Reno 911 and then take my sleeping pill and hit the sack or doze on the couch till High Hawk the hubby gets home. Sadly, the latter's been winning almost all the time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTNOMMSxogOwt3VGRZA56lPqYWLEY06mCkkvWF4fT-BWDyiKm7TkpWvatZsI_iKpiwTrIZSKEjCqIc39V7gZ5uDshtVtD4g4-Un4qQYVlTvaneTNaIXUECJUJhm7O7_E7xW2TUpeNWW4/s1600/P1010691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="150px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTNOMMSxogOwt3VGRZA56lPqYWLEY06mCkkvWF4fT-BWDyiKm7TkpWvatZsI_iKpiwTrIZSKEjCqIc39V7gZ5uDshtVtD4g4-Un4qQYVlTvaneTNaIXUECJUJhm7O7_E7xW2TUpeNWW4/s200/P1010691.JPG" width="200px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over a year's worth of notes! And <br />
why yes, that IS Anchorman there<br />
in the corner!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm so grateful to be able to move up in my work, to have this particular kind of work, and to be making enough money to get by. But. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started to borrow</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Anne Lamott's idea about writing words, ideas, sentences, etc., down on index cards. I started with white, but then I got a stack of different colored ones, and when I'm typing away at medical records, if I have an idea for a blog post, I write it on a green index card. Pink is for ideas for my manuscript, and orange is for a different book idea I have. So I've got a stack of neon reminders that alternately inspire and taunt me, tease me and tempt me. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mostly, they just get scattered all over the floor. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-41603994966040908692012-07-01T14:49:00.000-07:002012-07-01T14:54:05.339-07:00Dream, Reality, Fantasy<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDhCHz5Ez5x5A63YQrPS18ZnqT55wZWFhyQUCtg7oUfDjXxZUMVhUh5xAG9qNZeisU8YnOSD_MSkYNQddv01LfLXoOlehfeOoHFWnK_XQszY-zCXbMWSmfrsD1NletsaSqzucda_mo1FH/s1600/woman+walking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDhCHz5Ez5x5A63YQrPS18ZnqT55wZWFhyQUCtg7oUfDjXxZUMVhUh5xAG9qNZeisU8YnOSD_MSkYNQddv01LfLXoOlehfeOoHFWnK_XQszY-zCXbMWSmfrsD1NletsaSqzucda_mo1FH/s1600/woman+walking.jpg" /></a>You know, I try to be Ms. Revolutionary and try not to care
that I am no longer married, am jaded and accepting of a non-traditional
lifestyle, but sometimes this tra-la-la stuff stops and I get smacked in the
face with gorgeous engagement pictures on Facebook or bridal showers or
weddings of well-adjusted individuals I know. My fear is that I will veer away
from this sort of happiness because 1) I feel I don’t deserve it. I had my
chance and/or 2) this sort of happiness and stability doesn’t really happen
anymore. Yet, there it is in front of my face, this POSSIBILITY of the American
dream: someone to commiserate over student loans, to have more children with,
to know the ins and outs of each others quirks. Maybe I’m just not built for it
anymore. </div>
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I wonder if this is a post-divorce phase? Will I ever be or
feel eligible for a real baby shower or bridal shower? Will I ever wear my
dream wedding gown? None of those things happened with my first marriage or
first child. I feel this is the price I pay for having been a 19-year-old
mother and newlywed.<br />
<br />
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What are your experiences? Have you been here? Did you get
out of the slump? Did you embrace the new “fun-loving, devil may care” you? Are
you a married lady who thinks women like me are nuts? </div>
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Tell me.</div>Brighidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09362368521143507633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-65414954848503006722012-06-26T13:41:00.000-07:002012-06-26T13:41:09.502-07:00Re: Update to Supporter Record<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnQoD3hqaZp_niCG3OsjQlQ42me7owhFqSa6X6__KMIqhuH9f01RFwlM7LF78nOL3WNQM-3317_v6O3qeXH8sqJrsT-jPCi5ZY7qaUf-yZRHtwAdLGEj3VawKYFj6JiyBtRLMdFehugwb/s1600/puppy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnQoD3hqaZp_niCG3OsjQlQ42me7owhFqSa6X6__KMIqhuH9f01RFwlM7LF78nOL3WNQM-3317_v6O3qeXH8sqJrsT-jPCi5ZY7qaUf-yZRHtwAdLGEj3VawKYFj6JiyBtRLMdFehugwb/s200/puppy.bmp" width="128" /></a></div>
The shit IS getting deep in my inbox. Some of the political campaigns' e-mails/requests/demands/plees have been quite pissy. They have surprised me. I've been hitting "unsubscribe," and I've been angered by the fact that I feel guilty when I do it. Yesterday, I replied to one. But my bitchin' was modest, and it's not like anybody (but you) will read it (that is, if you want to) . . . I probably should have wrote a poem instead . . . "Poetry = Anger x Imagination." ~ Sherman Alexie<br />
<br />
<b>Re: Update to Supporter Record</b><br />
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<td style="text-align: left;">Mon, Jun 25, 2012 at 9:27 PM
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<td colspan="2"><span class="recipient">
</span><br />
<div>
<span class="recipient">To:
info@dscc.org</span><br />
<br />
Re: e-mails from Rosenbaum, DSCC Director of Online Communications. <br />
Please
do not threaten me with the consequences that might happen if I do not
donate $5 to your campaign immediately. Also, please do not bring up my
"record" as if you might shame me into contributing seeing as I have yet
to offer some scarce cash to fight the Romney agenda (capitalism?
you're against it? why do I question this?). I would like to think that I
have the power to bring the walls crumbling down if I don't contribute,
but we both know this isn't true. I am a democrat and a liberal thinker
and I am a writer and a teacher and the most I can do at this time is
spread information. However, I can't help but feel disrespected by
threats and "record" checks. My family and I need our cash for things
like cheap toilet paper. I would tell you more of our sad story, but I
am near to certain that you are not interested, and I have a feeling you
couldn't relate if I did tell it to you (although I try to be slow to
judge). Here's an idea: Instead of you blowing five dollars on your next
cheeseburger or on a pair of snazzy new dress socks, skip it and put
that money back into the campaign. From me. Your welcome.<br />
</div>
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</tbody></table>Rheahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17045631783854905954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5049639603828167085.post-39358839620805540532012-06-19T22:14:00.000-07:002012-06-19T22:14:58.486-07:00Won't you take me to Crunchytown?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8ILyq2198GN16jPbur2BcUoO3Wt3KousjVrw4AwnUmc7ZO7wqNzXfsBgk9_qvBGG468A1mmxCb3arMDzAncL6py04aNaJvsG-5SAsl7OhHCR-J2wr227TO7Z8PTSByRZTaaZBqD4Nsw/s1600/j0437629.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8ILyq2198GN16jPbur2BcUoO3Wt3KousjVrw4AwnUmc7ZO7wqNzXfsBgk9_qvBGG468A1mmxCb3arMDzAncL6py04aNaJvsG-5SAsl7OhHCR-J2wr227TO7Z8PTSByRZTaaZBqD4Nsw/s1600/j0437629.png" /></a></div>
Of late I've decided to get greener. My family and I moved recently from Washington to Montana. In Spokane, we were delighted to have recycling containers beside our city garbage bins. We didn't know exactly what we could recycle, but if we didn't know we'd just toss it in, and if it remained after pickup day, we knew we couldn't recycle that. But we could recycle plastic 1 and 2, glass, phone books, cardboard, and batteries. And aluminum, of course.<br />
<br />
When we got back to Montana, I felt like shit every time I threw a plastic or glass container in the trash. I thought Montana didn't have plastic recycling facilities, but it turns out we do! It's called <a href="http://www.earthfirstaid.com/" target="_blank">Earth First Aid Curbside Recycling</a>, and the prices were reasonable, $14 a month, and they take glass. So I do plan to do that, but until I get that going, I started collecting my plastics in garbage bags in the garage. Then I found out that Wal Mart has a plastic recycling bin, right by where the plastic bag recycling is. (I hate Wal Mart, but sometimes I'm forced by time or money constraints to shop there. At least they recycle. Although I had the thought that they just take the bin and dump it into their regular dumpster. Gah!) So the other day I loaded that sucker up with two garbage bags full of stuff. <br />
<br />
So I'm trying stuff. I'm growing things! I've got a tomato plant, a few different kinds of peppers, strawberries, cilantro, basil, and chives. My cilantro is totally kicking ass and as soon as those peppers and tomatoes grow I'm gonna make salsa. I've also got a bunch of flowers that I'm in love with. Every day I fondle my plants, clucking over them. I check their greenness and assure them they're doing a great job.<br />
<br />
And, I've made my own shampoo and rinse! I decided this is an easy way to cut down on some of the toxins going into my body, and it would save me money. But mostly, I did it because of my itchy head. I've had an itchy scalp for decades. Not dandruff, just itch. Then, last fall, my daughter brought home head lice, and the whole family got it. Trust me when I say after you have head lice, you will NEVER EVER be able to itch your damn head without wondering if they're baaa-aaack. So my scalp's always been sensitive. Recently, though, it got bad, to the point I was sure the lice were back or that it was a sign my hair was soon going to fall out in chunks. So I did some online research, looking for ingredients, how folks liked it, what it made your hair feel like, etc. I shower about every other day, and if I go longer than that, my head really itches and my hair feels greasy. I wanted to avoid both of these things. I asked my new bloggy friend,<a href="http://funkylittleearthchild.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> Funky Little EarthChild,</a> a bunch of questions about what I'd learned in my research, and she gave me tips too. So for the last 10 days or so, here's what I've been using for hair care:<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Dr. Bronner's castile soap mixed half and half with water. I got it at Target, and the one I got is almond scented. Smells like Christmas cookies on my head. mmmmm. I put it in a spray bottle because it's a thin mixture. It lathers nicely, though. <br />
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After that I rinse with diluted apple cider vinegar. Blondes are supposed to use regular white vinegar and redheads red wine vinegar. I started out with straight AC vinegar, two capfuls of it from my old mouthwash container. Then after it went down a little I just kept diluting it, and it looks like piss now, as my husband says. I leave it on for a few minutes like I would my conditioner and then rinse. My hair just looooves to be tangled, so I was nervous that brushing it out wouldn't feel as smooth as it did when I used conditioners, but nope. It was like buttah. I can still smell it on my hair when it's wet, but when it dries it disappears and smells, get this, like just plain clean hair! Not only that, but after a week and a half, my scalp is about 90% less itchy. Big deal for me. <br />
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I also bought some coconut oil (got it at Wal Mart in the cooking oil section), which I started out rubbing into my scalp before I got in the shower. But I read something about it last night and decided to do it when I can leave the coconut oil on for an hour or so before I shower. I've also been using the coconut oil as lotion. Yesterday my kids came home from their grandparents dried the eff OUT. Papa and Grams have an above-ground pool and instead of chlorine they use salt, which seems very cool. I'm not sure which one dries out skin worse, but my kids looked like a desert. I rubbed just a litte oil into their faces and on their arms and backs, and it didn't sting like lotion on the excoriated spots. Plus, when I was done they absolutely glowed bronze. I've also been using the coconut oil for lotion, and I'm pretty much in love with it and with the glass jar it came in, which I can definitely use for something. <br />
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So my first big step on the journey to Crunchytown worked out great! I'm not sure what thing will be next, but I'm very interested in:<br />
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Composting<br />
Natural toothpaste<br />
Homemade laundry detergent<br />
Family cloth<br />
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Have any tips on natural hair care? Want to go to Crunchytown with me?<br />
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<br />Besshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01422228819887965146noreply@blogger.com0