Usually, when HDHusband isn't on weekend call, we will plan things to do: go to the park, check out The Childrens Museum, make dinners (okay, well, HE does this and I usually handle the wine - hard job, I know). Today, we thought we'd go check out Body World exhibit.

The day took a different turn of events.

HDHusband had operated on a patient last week, and the attempted fix, well, just didn't fix. "A poor outcome", they say. For the last few days, they tried whatever they could do to remedy what was going on, and nothing was working. Today, HDHusband had the task of going into meet with the family and tell them that there just wasn't anything more they could do.

The family asked that HDH stay with them and be there as their loved one passed away. HDH had to turn the dials and manage the meds so this person could die peacefully. He sat and listened as the wife talked about how much she loved her husband, and how much he had meant to her. And how they truly believed my husband did all he could to save him. And how they all had the greatest faith in my husband, and knew he tried his best. And this man - this otherwise strong and healthy man - hung on for an hour - for his family. His wife finally told him he could go, that she would be fine, and it was time he go to the other side, to the relatives that were waiting for him there.

And after a situation like this, how can you not think about your mortality? I've been thinking about how I didn't get to say goodbye to my dad, and how he died, really, in a reclining chair in my childhood home with the Wall Street Journal still in his hands. And how I wished I would have said more to him when he was alive. It's a silly wish, really, because I know he knew I loved him very much. And I hope he knows I still love him.

Or how I watched my grandpa die like this four years ago in a hospital room in New Mexico, and how sad I was for my grandma - who had loved this man more years than I'd been alive. And how it all came down to this last hour in a hospital room. I listened to my grandma tell my grandpa how much she loved him, and how she'd do just about anything to make it all better for him. And she fixed his sheets and she rubbed his feet and she stroked his head and said his name over and over again.

What would be on your lips to say to your loved one? And what is stopping you now?

HDHusband has no hair.

HDHusband is currently being subjected to HDToddler brushing his head.

When HDToddler is asked where his daddy's hair is, he looks very earnestly at my husband's face and says, "Eye?" --- and points to his eyebrow, and keeps on brushing.

Highlights from my day with HDToddler yesterday:

1. Dusting the table: I gave him a dust rag, I had a dust rag, and I sprayed Pledge all over the table. Instead of wiping it up like Mommy, HDToddler opted to try and lick up the Pledge. The imaginary called to Poison Control was enough ... "No, really, he LICKED THE PLEDGE off the table!".

2. Doing laundry: I was letting him help move wet clothes into the dryer, and this was fine for a bit. I turned around to do something else for a minute, and then heard this whimpering from the laundry room. I came in to see my son had gotten him stuck in the front-loading washing machine. He looked like a contortionist. A very scared one, anyway.

3. Watching the 14,000th installment of Pooh's Heffalump movie: HDToddler in the big chair, with blanket and sippy cup. Talking along to the movie one minute, and the next, asleep and falling over, twitching and completely out cold. Right during the song, "don't grow up so fast, soon soon" ... which made my heart just burst open, of course.

My Neighbor has this new fascination with birds. She set up all sorts of bird houses and has been a frequent visitor at the local bird store for the last year.

And in the last year, our house has been a convergance of pigeons, mostly. Apparently, she's aching for Goldfinches. Not the pigeons, and certainly not the Starlings.

She's been talking to the Bird Shop Lady about the Starlings, as they have hatched in her bird box - the one that should be attracting the Goldfinches. The Bird Shop Lady told her to get those little baby eggs out and, "You know, um, do SOMETHING with them!".

While out in my backyard with my son, she motions me over and wants ME to climb up her ladder and take out the egg. I will not. She wants me to flush it or do something with it for her, "unless you have a moral issue with it".

WELL , OF COURSE I DO!

As my husband pointed out, "Does she not know you?? Of everyone in the world I know, you are more altruistic on accident then she is on PURPOSE. Why would she try and involve you in this Joseph Mengele bullshit?".

And this is a good point. I am the one (living on a farm and ranch growing up) that tried desperately to save cattle from slaughter. I'm all about eating meat and I'm certainly not one picketing for PETA, but I just can't flush a baby bird egg away.

So, she was forced to pull the nest out on her own. And when she did, she disovered not one, but FIVE BABY EGGS. They are beautiful, tiny little things. She put them in a pan and they are housed in a tree not far from the house.

They will still die.
They will still die.
I know this.

My attitude would have been to let them hatch, enjoy the baby birdies, and once everyone had flown off, start over. Do all the protective measures the next go-round. Something about popsicle sticks and nail guns. I don't know, but letting them hatch would have been good.

All I know is that I'm not thinking about what's happening over there, and concentrating instead on how many insults we can hurl her way. If you have any to offer, I'd love to hear them ...

REALLY SAD EDIT: It's raining pretty good today. And the momma bird is flying around over there, freaking out. I'm disgusted, to say the least.

For computer purposes, mostly, but I'm liking'em!

This is a riveting post about my birth control. I forewarn any guy who isn't all that interested in said topic to go ahead and move along now. And for those that are man enough to read it, you'll learn a bit more about what we women go through in order not to have your stinking babies all the time:

I used to be on The Pill. This was when I remembered things. After having my son, I was so sleep-deprived (up every two hours feeding him or nursing him back from another ear infection - for months and months) and worn out, that I could not remember to take a single pill every day at about the same time. It was too much for me.

I went to my OB/GYN and asked for a change. She recommended The Patch. I would apply it to a fatty part of my body (not hard to find) and apply it every week until it was time to, you know, BLEED. This was working out for the most part, except I would get these wicked headaches and be sick for at least three days of starting or ending the stupid thing. I was going to be a trooper, though, and use it to avoid remembering every fucking day.

The Patch stuck to my clothes. It crinkled up on me in the shower. I couldn't fake tan or I'd have a white squared spot on my ass. By the end of the week, they were blue or linty from whatever I wore that week. And the headaches. Did I mention the headaches that started at the base of my neck and traveled up behind my eye, that no Advil or anything of the sort could make better?

Finally, I changed it up again. My OB recommended The Ring this go round. Now, when she was telling me about it, I was immediately sold. Far, far less estrogen then the other two, especially the HeadacheInducingPatchFromHell. I only had to do it once a month, and I didn't have it showing on my ass. I would have a much less dose of estrogen (11 to 40 something), but would have to do a bit more in order to make The Ring work.

Which brings me to this past Sunday.

I got The Ring from the pharmacy, came home, and told HDHusband I was going upstairs to figure this shit out. I looked at the directions - and lo and behold - there were pictures to go along with. I felt like I was 12 again trying to use the damn tampon. Do you want to lay down? Stand up with a leg on a chair? Squat? So many choices.

I will tell you I tried them all.

And I will tell you that sticking a strange thing in your hoo-hoo is a bit odd. When I asked my provider if it was easy to do, she said, "Sure, if you know ... yourself well". How many of us just stick fingers up there for fun? Poke around and say, "Oh, nifty! My Cervix!". Maybe YOU, but not me.

So I futzed around for about 30 minutes trying to make sure it was right. I would take it out, try it again. I finally gave up and figured if it wasn't right, the shit would slip out sometime while I was standing in line at Albertson's waiting to pay for my groceries. I have that sort of luck.

I came out of the bedroom and stood in the loft, looking down at my husband, totally naked.

HDH: Uh, did you get it to work?
HDW: I'm not sure.
HDH: You're not sure?
HDW: Um, no. You have to stand on your head and bark like a damn dog to make this shit work.
HDH: Oh.
HDW: So really, if I did this and that, then the cervix should be right here right? (using my hands to try and describe what I did)
HDH: Yah. Do you want me to look?
HDW: FUCK NO!!! ..... but I do feel like singing a song. "Getting to know meeeeeeeee, getting to know all about meeeeeeeeeee".

And I walked off, with HDH shaking his head.

So, The Ring sits and hasn't moved yet, or that I know of. I have no idea of you can feel it during sex. I don't want to stick my finger back up there to find out.

If anybody out there has or is using it, I'd love to hear about it. Truly.

An early evening Colorado hail storm ... and flowers with petals still, which makes me happy. This means tornado season is close, and that - my friends - has me shaking in my fip-flop's already.

Bah.

Today would have been my Grandy Don's 80th Birthday. This is one of the last photos I have of my grandpa and I together (note the hot sex porn hair, ugh).

Grandy Don, wherever you are, may you have a big glass of Crown with a coke back, some Winston cigarettes, a good George Strait CD, your best friend at your feet and a picture of your favorite girl by your side.

We miss you and we love you.

If you are in the Denver area, this is one of the coolest and best things about Denver - I think. I love this bookstore! After having my son and getting to take my first 'mommy break', I didn't pick the hair salon or a spa treatment - I picked up a big book at Tattered Cover, found a big chair to sit in back in some section on the 3rd floor, and read. Absolute heaven.

Yesterday, I went again ... and I wandered around and found a few new books to keep me entertained for a bit:

The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of the Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl (by Timothy Egan)

(It was recommended in the Atlantic Monthly, sounds really interesting, and of course, will hit home as I grew up in this area and have heard both sets of grandparents speak of it. One grandma remembers using a rope to get from the house to the barn and back.)

A Stronger Kinship: One Town's Extraordinary Story of Hope and Faith (by Anna-Lisa Cox) and Saturday (by Ian McEwan)

I also bought Marley and Me for my girlfriend in New Mexico. I haven't read it, but have heard great things about it - and hopefully it will be something she will enjoy.

This is the lamest post ever, but dammit, I'm a Book Worm and it's my blog!!

So there!

It doesn't happen often, but it has today: a hangover.

We had a 'business dinner' last night hosted by a big-time name in the medicine world, and the waiters kept the glasses full. I truly have no idea how many glasses of wine I had, but I'm sure my guess is waaaaay off from the actual.

I drank water, too. A lot of that, in fact. At altitude, you really have to pour the water down anyway. We ate some incredible food, too. I think the risotto had crack in it; it was so good I would have bargained my soul. Honestly.

And yet, I wake up today with a kickin' headache.

And a toddler who is hell bent on making lots of crazy decisions and noises. I rarely have hangovers anymore. With a baby to wake up to the next morning at oh-dark-thirty, it's not fun to have, well, THIS. And it's been worse, by far.

This is just an irritation, actually. Right? Right .....

And here's something that has nothing to do with anything, but cracked me up:

My son locked us - both he and me - out of the house tonight, right around 7:00 pm.

He has a thing about shutting all doors - so as I was putting his sweatshirt on and had the phone in my ear, trying to talk to my friend, ElHeffe, about a cow butting him in the head - HDToddler shut the door.

But ... I have my phone.

So, I call HDHusband is waiting to get into operate, and won't be home for at least another hour. I head over to my neighbor's house and they graciously ask what kind of wine I want: red or white. I answer, "Fast". With a glass of red in hand, I wait for my husband to come home and let me back in the damn house.

(you would think I had a key hidden, but NO! That's LOGICAL!)

I listen to ElHeffe's story about the cow (after I call him back, laughing my ass off - and freezing my ass off). Apparently he taunted a cow that wouldn't get in the pen, as a joke to his buddies, and said to it, "Come on, come and get me you stupid sonofabitch!" and the cow headbutted him. And in some random turn of talk, he tells me how a mutual friend used to take a van with 6 guys in it and bang one girl - just driving it around Moffatt County. This, my friends, is news to me. I'm hoping I can use some Brain Bleach and make this news go away. Makes my crotch shrivel just thinking about it ... but I digress ...

Back to me being cold and standing in 50 degree weather with a toddler who is saying to me, "Momma, 'side! (for inside):

I had been cooking homemade sloppy joes, and had already whipped up some potato salad. And there it sat ... in my house ... not getting eaten ... and getting overcooked. HDHusband ate some when he got home, and he didn't say anything but good things, either. Damn straight, Skippy.

Be looking for me at Home Depot tomorrow morning. I'll be the one finding something special to hide a key in, and making an extra for my neighbor, too.

Sigh.

I love Statcounter - I really do. It's been fun seeing who reads my blog, who skims over, where they came from and how many visits. It's great.

And many times, it's fun to see the keyword searches. People look for some crazy and interesting shit, you know. Someone recently found me by typing in something about happy apple people.

But - in the last two days, I've not liked my Statcounter. I've had hits for things that make me ILL. I don't like to think that there are creepy fuckers out there like. I know there are, but I don't like thinking about this. I like thinking everyone searches for the name of the movie they can't quite remember, or the friend of theirs from college they've lost track of and are trying to find.

Certainly not THIS shit:

(SEARCHES REMOVED, BUT THEY WERE REALLY GROSS AND ABOUT INCEST)


I wish I were kidding - and even then, this shit wouldn't be funny. And these are all from seperate parts of the United States, except one in Macau, Macao.

Y'all are sick fucks. Don't stop by this blog anymore. You are not welcome here.

I'm going on a CRUISE in May.

I'm giong with the lovely and beautiful Fyrchk. It should be a grand time, especially for yours truly. I will be far away from stinky diapers, the word, "NO!". It will be me, fruity alchoholic beverages, the sun, a boat, and a great time with friends.

What's the catch, you say?? I will tell you.

I have known Fyrchk well over a year now. We've chatted on IM, email, phone, and everything short of face to face. We've exchanged holiday cards and presents at birthdays, Christmas, and Valentine's Day. She's a real human being and I love her to bits and pieces.

"Of course she is, you dummy", you might be saying.

I know this. YOU know this. But my husband's face-picker does not.

This woman ... we'll call her BigBowFacePicker (or BBFP) ... has been working on faces on our street for years, apparently. She is cozy with my neighbor, who introduced us to her. I went a few times when I was pregnant, and my face looked worse than when I went in. I stopped going, and I stopped buying $300 worth of crap for my face that just didn't work anyway.

HDHusband still goes, and because he truly DOES see the benefits of the face-picking, he continues to go. And because HDH is BALD, this is as close as he comes to having a hairdresser ie: someone you blather on and on to.

He blathered, and a bit too much.

HDH told BBFP that I was going on a cruise.

BBFP: With who?

HDH: Some girl she met off the internet. (nice, that sounded REALLY NICE)

BBFP: OH NO!! That is NOT okay! YOU HAVE TO TELL HER NOT TO GO!!

HDH: Uh, why?

BBFP: BECAUSE!! Because ... this 'friend' of hers knows that you are a DOCTOR, right?

HDH: .... I think so?? ...

BBFP: Well, then she's probably going to KIDNAP her and hold her for ransom!! And she doesn't even KNOW HER? Oh HDH. You have to tell her not to go. Absolutely forbid it.

HDH: I don't tell my wife what to do.

BBFP: And she might not even be a she! She could be a HE! She could be masquerading as a SHE just to lure her in ...

And so on and so forth ... and this conversation is recreated every damn time my husband goes in to see her. I finally said, "Why don't you tell her this is NONE OF HER BUSINESS?? If you don't, I will."

I mean, come on, people!! I realize that crazy shit happens (the she vs. he stuff), but I'm not a dummy. I am the one that started talking to HER on a previous board. I found HER, not the other way around. And anyone that knows her or reads her blog, even, knows Fyrchk is a fantastic and lovely person. And she is NOT a man. She has the sexiest voice alive, people.

And why is it you tell someone you met a friend 'over the internet' or 'on a blog' and immediately, they recoil. I've met Kath in person, and she's lovely. She didn't try to whack me over the head and take me away (yet, anyway).

The bottom line is this:

HDH had another appointment with her a weekend or so ago, and she started in on this diatribe again. He finally said this to her:

"Look, I trust my wife IMPLICITLY. If she feels it is okay to do, then it is. She knows best."

And I hope to hell that woman drops it ... I'm getting really, really annoyed.

Fyr, make sure to tell us what bills to have ready on this end. You know, pesos, yen? Let's get it all ready to go beforehand.

SHEEEEEESH!

SIX THINGS YOU REALLY DON'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT ME:

1. I can bend my thumbs back on both hands. And I'm double jointed in my elbows. (made me really suck at volleyball when the ball would go waaaaaaay off to the right)

2. I know all the words to "I've Been Everywhere" by Lynn Anderson. This really means nothing, and it has never served me well. But I know the words, so there!

3. I believed as a child if I only ate on one side of mouth, that I would only grow on that side. I catch myself still doing that to this day. Strange habit.

4. I've been on a cattle drive and I've pulled a baby calf.

5. I can recite every line - front to back - of the Goonies movie. It defined a summer for my brother and me. I watched it a few weeks ago and felt 10 all over again.

6. Finally, I can make this wavy thing with my tongue:

I'm supposed to tag a whole lot of you, but I refuse. So, if you like it, do it!

EDIT: I TAG LAURIE! GO, GO, GO! (ahem, cause you know, you seem to have already ...)

I am so sick of bras. SICK OF THEM!

I bought some not long ago, thinking they'd be good and last a good long while. They measured my cup right, not the inches bit, so I had to go back in and have them all exchanged. Got home, all happy, and realized they'd given me a size down in cup, so now all the bras are sneaking back up and making me REALLY uncomfortable. And of course, past the exchange time. Figures.

(As I'm typing this, I see one laying to the side of the computer. I must have had a manic moment not long ago, but I can't tell you when - as I haven't missed that damn thing.)

I have resorted to the cami's with the built in shelf-bra.




Much, much better. And better for summer, anyway, or at least that's what I'm telling myself. I ordered a whole bunch in different colors, and they arrived yesterday.

Conversation with my Husband last night, as I'm getting into bed:

HDH: What's with all the new bras? I've never met anyone in my life who has more bras. Didn't you just buy some?

HDW: They aren't bras, dummy. Did you even look inside the box?

HDH: Well, no. But I saw straps. I saw a lot of straps.

HDW: They're kind of like tank tops. They aren't bras, you freak.

HDH: Oh. That's better. Because I hadn't met anyone with such high-maitenance tits before.

But ladies ... you KNOW that shit has to be comfortable. A good bra feels like, well, nothing. You forget you have it on, right? These were sneaking up and trying to take my nipples hostage. Not gonna happen.

So ... ladies ... give me suggestions on your favorite bras. I'm all ... ears? boobs? something.

HDToddler and I battled yesterday.

By the end of the day, it was:

HDT - 4millionbazillion
Mommy - negativeazillion

Longest. Day. Ever.

The hours were going so ... very ... slow. He was whining (a lot). My head was hurting (a lot more). Essentially, the same story that is echoed the whole world over about moms and kids. Especially the Ones who stay home and choose this sort of ... punishment (because sweet jesus, it felt like it yesterday).

When my husband walked in the door last night at 5:30, I handed HDT over to him.I did not look back. I did what any good mother would do: I told him I was taking a Mommy Time-Out.

I poured (averybig) glass of (veryalcoholic) red wine, went upstairs to our bedroom, and I locked the door behind me. I turned on the music ("In The Deep" by Bird York) up loud and got in the bathtub. I poured an unusually high amount of bubble bath in, dimmed the lights, sank down, closed my eyes and just relaxed. And I finished the rest of "Amsterdam" by Ian McEwan.

I spent an hour by myself. It was ALL I needed.

I came down ready to go again with this man-to-man defense stuff. My son wanted to ride his 'cah' in the garage, and he insisted I get on his trike.I actually FIT on his trike (not all that comfortable, but ...) and we sped around the garage. He'd park behind a desk we have out there, giggle while I said, "WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU HIIIIDING?", then whip that puppy out of the parking spot and speed off again. Just plain funny.

I am oh-so-ready for my cruise in May. HDHusband said to me last night, "You are burned out; you need a break". And it will be JUST the right amount of time away to come back happy and refreshed again.

And I can't wait.

Overheard on the radio this morning:

"Love is biting your lover's toenails for them".

Not toes, toeNAILS.

And I turned the station right then, because really, I don't need to know anymore. Oh, and I'm not sure I love anyone enough to do that shit for them either.

Lately, I've been in the cleaning mood.

And really - to know me - this is not normal. If you were good friends, you'd hop on the nearest flight to make sure I hadn't been abducted and replaced with this ... person who is organizing everything. It's not right, and it's certainly not normal. My motto has always been: Organized people just don't know how to look for things.

Today, I decided I would clean out the garage - or at least 'my half'. On 'my half' of the garage is the tandem space ... where the elusive third car would live. And because we have no third car, we shove a bunch of shit back there. (We meaning ME.) HDHusband has skis, boots, a bike, and golf clubs. Everything else in that space is old baby gear, three diaper bags, a bunch of empty boxes.

Around 11:00 a.m., I had a Starbucks Chai Tea in one hand, and garbage bags in the other. I turned on the music and went to work. NOTHING --- I repeat, NOTHING --- was sticking around that space unless absolutely necessary.

What did I find? Glad you asked.

I found these pieces of clothing that my mother made for me in the bottom of the box.

(Note the get-up on the right: It's fair to say that with short short hair, and boy name anyway, I was mistaken for one constantly - and this outfit didn't help me in the least. The local drugstore owner called me "Fred", just because she could. Lovely.)

As crazy as my mother is (and she is), I have to say that she was an incredible seamstress. We lived 10 miles out of town (from age birth to 4) - and without my baby brother at that time - so she had a lot more time to do such things out in the middle of nowhere. My earliest memory is of being outside in the yard, in a playpen, and having cattle sniffing me and the dog growling at them.

Years ago, I made my mom promise that when she moved from the ranch to the condo, she wouldn't throw away things I really, truly wanted - like the old records we would listen to. When she brought me the stack in 2002, I didn't go through it, just put it back in the Black Hole to be looked through later.

I don't care if these records are worth a cent - I love that I have them. Taking them out of the sleeves today and smelling that familiar record smell ... made me think back to singing along to the songs in front of the fireplace with my microphone (read: hairbrush, whatever). I'd sing to the Carpenters, Crystal Gale, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt. She a mighty collection of Beatles albums, too. They aren't in my pile, so she best had saved those ...

I don't remember being into Elvis then, but she gave me a few of the albums she had (including the Christmas album - yeehaw!). Here's an Elvis ablum, with a plethora of gospel songs:

I specifically remember listening to this album with my mom and aunt - a lot. I cried big ol' tears when I saw this in my pile:


My cousin and I have talked about listening to the Highwaymen with our mom's, drinking sweet tea from the blue cups. We lived a half a mile from each other on a dirt road, but I digress ... (see how all of these things are conjuring up old memories?)

After my dad died in 1995, my mom put away all the videos of him. Too hard to see/hear. I dug a few out about seven years ago and 'stole' them. I would take them out every now and then just to hear my dad's voice again. Once, when my brother couldn't remember anymore what our dad sounded like, we turned on the confiscated tapes and cried in the dark.

And in this box, way at the back of the garage, I found more in the box with the old video camera (the thing about as big as a Buick). I have memories of my dad lying on the floor in front of the TV and VCR, trying to transfer sound and images. He hated it, but he was meticulous in his note keeping.

And it was bittersweet to see his handwriting, too. I found myself tracing and retracing his words with my hand, hoping I could just transport myself back to the minute he was writing them. Reach out and tell him how much I really love him. Instead, I brought in the video of me in Swing Choir circa 1994 and plan on viewing it in the next few days. Gads. It should be humorous. And most definitely blog-worthy.

So, all in all a very productive day. Feeling good about getting rid of the clothes I know I'll never wear again and feeling good about reconnecting with myself again.

(Also happy to accomodate Frank Galvin who likes to say (often), "Update Bish!!" when he feels you haven't adequately posted. Apparently, my note that MTV was coming to down was sub-par ... bish.)

..... coming to a LoDo near ... us!

MTV The Real World Coming to Denver

This is a great website, and I encourage you to check it out. Pass it along to people you know -- with kids, without kids.

This is important to know!

The other night, HDHusband, HDToddler and I were in HDT's room, messing around. HDT was in his crib, and HDH was throwing stuffed animals at his head.

Odd sounding, I know (and I um, actually 'invented' this game with him months ago - who knew) ... but they were having a grand time. Laughing, squealing, throwing the Bob the Builder doll at each other. Everyone was having fun until Daddy decided to go all nuts at toss it at Mommy's head. Daddy threw it at such force, Mommy's head whipped back. It actually hurt.

So, I pretended to get upset about it. Fake sobbing, fake crying, "boo-hoo Mommy".

That was until my poor son demanded he get out of the crib ("No, mommy. Nooooooooo!"), giving Daddy the ol' STINK EYE, and put his head on my shoulder all lovey-dovey.

He then grabs my face with his two hands, squares me away, gets an inch from my face and says, "HAPPPPEEEEEE? HAPPEEEEEEEEE?"

Just melted my heart. I have no idea where he picked up "Happy", but he did. Mommy needed to be "happeee" and she was.

It's truly those little moments you live for as a mom.

My flower planter just blew over (and broke our cheap little Easter decoration) ...



... because of this storm rolling in. And you will note just how DEAD everything on street is:

After my ohsopleasant rant the other day regarding the phone calls we keep getting for Mr. FALIHAX by this collection agency, I was told by Frank Galvin to call our local Consumer of Affairs. I landed at the Attorney General's website, poked around a bit, and found a number to call.

Left a message, expected a reply, like, at the second hand of twelveth of NEVER.

And I was wrong!

Good ol' Tony over there called me about 15 minutes ago with instructions. After verifying the party wasn't mixing up our last names (no), asking me for their number (then got the company name from this), got back on the line and told me:

To write a letter (with the address he provided) to said credit agency with the details of the situation, adding to say "cease and desist". (ha, I love it)

To send the letter certified mail and get a return receipt.

If they continue to call us after receiving the letter, to call the Atty General's office back and a whole other kind of action will be taken.

Ha! So there! Stick that in your nose, CreditAgency. And to Mr. Falihax ... HONESTLY. You must really be a pile of poo. And your wife, too.

Pfffft.

Off to write my letter when Mr. Galvin is freed up from actually WORKING today ...

I feel like this today! I can't keep track of anything and I feel all disconnected. I'm sure it will get better as it always does! But until then, I believe the clown might just be talking to me:

STUPID PEOPLE!!!

We keep getting calls for this dumbass who hasn't paid a bill, apparently, since Reagan was president!! And I'm getting REALLY PISSED OFF!

We get these recordings of, "This is not a telemarketer. We are needing to speak to you about an urgent issue. Please call this number."

So I call.

Every time.

And I tell them that there is NO ONE by the name of MR. FALIHAX at our house!! I would kick him in the balls if he were here, because he'd be the shithead with a shitty credit report fucking up my life!

Because I'm SMART (unlike the damn credit agencies that still call going on five years now), I tell them that there is a listing for this shit-for-brains in Castle Rock, CO. In the White Pages and on Switchboard.com. He spells his name differently, but the same tool.

Please. HOW DO I GET THEM TO STOP CALLING US?? Can I report them to the Do Not Call list?

Oh, and A BIG SHIT LICKING FUCK YOU to Mr. FALIHAX.

It must be hard being a dad, especially a dad to daughters.

I was hardly a rebel in school and was too afraid to do anything wrong. My dad was the school board president, member of the bank board, very involved in the church and the community. He was also a very cool guy. He loved Scotch and sodas, he was a diehard football fan, had an incredible moral compass and tried to install all of this on my brother and me. My brother is another story.

With all of that said, I remember when it came time to shave my legs for the first time. We had foreign exchange students at our house - a beautiful girl from Finland named Mirjia. She had the Joshua Tree album and shaved legs. I was in AWE. I remember listening to U2 and lying on the floor of her room, dreaming about this big world I'd never seen. Plus, I wanted those damn smooth legs, of course.

Next up was the great issue brought forth by Margaret - as in, "Are You There God, It's Me Margaret" - Margaret. As in, The PERIOD. We young girls read the book and we waited, and we waited, and we waited. And nothing. Finally, for me , it came. Nothing really monumental about this except mom was so elated, she told me I didn't have to finish mowing the lawn. Worked for me. Pissed off my brother - even better.

But ... there came a time when I needed, um, 'supplies'. And mom's sanitary belt-boat napkins just weren't cutting it for me anymore. And ... I should add ... we lived about 2 miles from town. And I needed a ride in to the drugstore, and the only adult at the house was ... my dad.

My poor dad.

I told him I really needed to go to the drugstore - that it wouldn't take long. We load up in the pickup, and he says, "We can drop off the movie we rented after you're done". Fine. I go into the drugstore, all secretive, and buy my tampons. The clerk brown bags my purchase, and I go back to pickup.

Conversation with my dad down Main Street to Movie Store (all of two blocks):

Him: What's in the bag?
Me: Nothing.
Him: What's in the bag??
Me: NOTHING! LEAVE ME ALOOOOONE!!! GOSH!!
Him: silence

I see now, in retrospect, my poor father must have thought something was up. You know, I must be buying condoms or something. People, TAKE NOTE: if I had proof of just how ugly I was then, you'd know (just like me then) how impossible this feat would have been. Big ol' teeth, bad hair, bad skin, bad clothes, and not a chance in hell of a kiss goodnight anytime soon. (and it would be years before the infamous County Fair kiss)

When I finally excised myself from the situation and dropped off the movie for him, I came back to the pickup to find my dad, red-faced, and the brown bag mostly unrolled and obviously violated by my father's prying eyes. I was humiliated. I remember screaming and crying and totally over-reacting (uh, nothing new now, either). I remember him apologizing, too. And I remember telling him, "IF THERE IS SOMETHING YOU NEED TO KNOW, I WILL TELL YOU!" But I meant it - and I kept my word.

I was a really, really good girl in high school. I didn't drink until I went to college. I had decent grades. I felt the Lord's Wrath if I lied or cheated. I played the piano for every church service and accompanied the choir. I taught Bible School. I believed in the Fire and Brimstone. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I still have the world's biggest guilt on my shoulders. I will feel guilty about ANYTHING. Therefore, I can say with certainty: I did NOT sneak out once.

I had the option my senior year in high school. Two boys from my high school class (we had a class of 19, with A LOT more girls than boys, mind you) showed up late, late one night at my bedroom window, begging to 'come inside and just, you know, TALK'. Well, the one did anyway. The other guy passed out in my mom's flower planter.

I told Jackass #1 to wait a second, that I had to make sure my parents were asleep ... then went upstairs and woke up my 6'5" 240 lb daddy. He met said Jackass with a shotgun, and told him to leave right that instant. He did. And told me last year at our class reunion just how scared he was that night. In truth, my dad was harmless. He was a good, honest man and he was trying to keep me honest, too. And he did. I told him the truth and he was on my side, always.

You know what they say: Daddies can own their daughters hearts. The rest of the guys? Well, they just rent space there ...

The usual, boring keyword searches of:

"How to make a green apple martini" ...

And then:

"Indian as fuckers"
"Indian wife fucks around"
"painted the car and get laid"

Say WHAT???

The summary of my weekend:

1. I keep cutting or burning my hands. It's disgusting. And painful. And I've managed to re-slice a just about healed-up cut, and that REALLY hurt.

2. We watched The Constant Gardener last night and I'm still sorting it all out in my head. (Except for the part where the bad guys pillage a village and kill children. I put the pillow up to my face then. HDH told me we'd never go to Africa, mostly because I would have to help every last person that needed it. And I suspect that is entirely accurate.) Damn my bleeding heart.

3. I kept making HDHusband laugh last night with my impersonation of my favorite line from Harold And Kumar Go to White Castle ("Daddy will not come on anyone!!"). I bet he's reading this and laughing, too. What can I say? I'm funny like that.

4. My son ran after a leaf blowing in the yard, yelling, "COME-HERE!" as it would blow away. Very funny.

5. My neighbor told me the kid with the collection of buddhas and deities has a family history of collecting bizaare things. She referred to their home as "a trip around the world of crazy shit". Including an entire room dedicated to all the Beanie Babies their dad collects. Apparently, you look in the door only as there isn't any room to walk around.

And last but not least ...

6. I cleaned. I went on a mad cleaning spree yesterday morning to rid my mind of a HORRIBLE HORRIBLE VERY BAD dream I had had the night before. I cleaned out under my bathroom sink, purged the bedroom stuff out, boxed up good will clothes, cleaned out the hall closet, and all before 11:00 a.m. Last night when I went to get the new birth control out (because we don't need no stinking babies right now), and it was GONE. I spent 20 minutes digging through the trash in the garage last night - still no go. So much for organization!!