Do You Realize?

Photo Hunt Saturday--Original

This week's theme is: Original. I was just talking over lunch to a girlfriend who was commenting on the challenges of raising three children who are so incredibly different at their core. Every child is different, I know, but I honestly cannot think of many who are siblings who are as disparate as mine. And so, here's to my little Originals: my kiddos.

This is my daughter, taken just a week ago, during Spirit Week at school. It was Twisted Tuesday. And...

These are my two sons, taken in October 2004 in San Francisco.

Talking Head

Okay, I really was not going to tell another tale about my ex-husband, C, who was a pathological liar. I'm still not. But I do want to talk about another one (liar, not ex-husband...hehehe).

I was just reading my daily dose of Internet, and a story caught my eye (mostly because it was called "Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire"). Apparently, a woman named Tania Head, who was, until a few days ago, the head of a 9/11 survivors' support group, has been lying the whole time.

Her basic story is/was/has been this: She was in one of the towers when the planes hit. She woke up on fire, and a man (who later died) saved her life. As she was then crawling out of the building, she came across a dying man who gave her an inscribed wedding ring, which she returned to his wife a few months later. She had a fiance in the other tower, named Dave, who died.

Here's all the weird stuff. She has told several versions of this story to various members of the survivors' group, and I guess no one thought to compare stories because it would seem morbid or something.
To some people, she and Dave had just returned from a trip to Hawaii, where they held a commitment ceremony. To others, they had only been seeing each other for a short time & were keeping their relationship a secret. Dave's family (he was indeed a real person, and really did die in the other tower) has never heard of her. They said his computer contained no emails or any other evidence of her existence. She will not reveal the name of the man whose wedding ring she returned, and no one has come forward to verify this story. No area hospitals have any record of anyone with her name in the days following 9/11. Merrill-Lynch, where she claims to have been working, has no record of anyone with her name ever having worked there. She claims to have gone to both Harvard and Stanford, but neither school has any record of any alumnus with her name.

This woman has been giving tours of Ground Zero, traveling to make inspirational speeches, the whole enchilada, for FOUR YEARS now. It seems to me that either: (a) this is a very emotionally disturbed, delusional individual who needs psychiatric treatment, or (b) this is a woman who maybe has some sort of amnesia and needs psychiatric treatment, or (c) this is a sad, pitiful woman so starved for attention she would construct an intricate web of lies for four years who needs psychiatric treatment. See a pattern here? Haste! Get thee to a shrink!

She kind of makes C seem kind of, you know, normal. Scary.

All Apologies

All my loyal readers are probably wondering if I'm dead, but, no... that's not the case. I'm just herding cats all day right now (isn't that a great term?). It's getting to me... I'll write a good & proper post tomorrow, hopefully. I just want sleep...

Another Crazy Gene Story

Another story, short but sweet this time.

C (my first husband, remember?) refused to drink milk. And he refused to admit he just didn't like milk. He was allergic to milk.

About the third time I caught him chowing on half a box of Froot Loops with soy milk poured on top, I finally asked, curious to his answer since he could really pull some interesting stuff out of his ass, "I thought you were allergic to milk. So, why is it you can eat all the kids' cereal with milk with miraculously no ill effects?"

You know what he told me?

He actually responded, "Because when the sugar in the cereal mixes with the milk, it chemically disables the lactose in the milk, and I can have it then. Swear to God, learned it in Chemistry. But not anytime else. Because I'm allergic to milk. By itself, I mean."

Photo Hunt Saturday

This week's theme is: Paper. I took this photo in July of this year at the Portland Japanese Gardens (a big thanks to Molly for recommending the visit before I left). The photo is of a conceptual art project by Yoko Ono. One writes a wish on a slip of paper & then hangs it in the Wish Tree. Yoko says she remembers writing her wishes at the temple gardens in Japan and the trees there looking like they were filled with delicate white flowers. (Yes, I wrote a wish & hung it in the tree. Duh.)

*Some of you have inquired about how to participate in Photo Hunt Saturday. Visit TNChick.com and she will tell you.

Those Crazy Genetics

I know that some of my three or so readers come here for my sometimes humorous takes on my family's foray into more environmentally conscious living. Others come for the varied content of the blog. And still others come in hopes of one day finding content relevant to... something... which will be inevitably disappointing for members of that last group.

To the first group of people, I must apologize in advance for this post; there is nothing in here related to environmentalism, just our mental environment. Since the Crazy Chaos That Is My Household has been careening precariously on the precipice of madness lately, I haven't even had time to water the houseplants, much less with grey water collected from the shower. To those who come for varied content: HOORAY! This post's for you.

As Child #3 edges closer to his teens (now just a few months away), and as his medications start bringing him closer to social behavior more befitting his age, in addition to the Bipolar issues we face, we now have a child that is more like a pre-teen. Meaning, he is now manipulative, testing boundaries, and lazy. Because all these traits, combined with his limits on rational thinking and his physical attributes, lead me to think of my first husband (his biological, ummm, contributor), I thought I'd share a story with you today. Like V over at Violent Acres, I'm sure there will be some who don't believe it, and if it hadn't happened to me, I might not either. But after the story, I think you can figure out from whence some of these personality traits and crazy genes of his came.

C and I had been married for a few months, my whole family had feelings for him ranging from distrust to distaste to disgust, and I was desperately trying to stand by my man in good times and bad like a good Christian woman should because the Bible tells me so. We lived in a trailer that my sister helped us finance set up on part of the family acreage right next door to my parents, and C had blown through 4 jobs in 3 months.

Anyway, one day my father mentions to me that a gallon-sized pickle jar full of change was missing from his closet. And, by the way, would you keep an eye out for a mysterious monetary windfall that my C might or might not valiantly bring my way. I was livid. My parents thought that my husband would walk into their house and steal something?  I was not quite ready to believe this, although I had seen some delusional behavior on his part so far.

A few days later, my mother mentions that, in addition to the big-ass jar of change missing from my father's closet, a .45 was missing from his dresser. It was one that my uncle had fitted with a hand-carved bone handle, not worth a lot of money, but the sentimental value was high. Now I was starting to feel a particularly nasty constant nausea. Something just was not right. My parents did not like C, but this was a little too much for them to suddenly invent.

It just so happened one day that same week, that I went to the car to look for something in the diaper bag in the trunk. Lo and behold, there was a gallon-sized pickle jar full of money. God must have been listening after all when I was talking about how we needed some money or for C to get a fucking job. Never being one for planning and seething at the same time, I confronted C. And this is what he told me.

First, he told me that some unknown thief must have broken into my parents house, been startled by something and stashed it in our trunk (which happened to be sitting open for some inexplicable reason). When that excuse didn't fly, he tried a second. My parents hated him; they must have planted that jar in there, conspired to blame him, and convince me he had actually done it. Could my parents be any more pathetic, he wanted to know? Was he fucking kidding me?!?!?! I might have been going to church on a regular basis, but I didn't believe all fictional bullshit thrown my way.

I'd like to tell you that this was: (a) the end of our marriage because I now knew he was a liar, (b) the last time anything this surreal and ridiculous ever happened in our marriage, or (c) that I had hired the Mafia to conveniently dispose of him for me. But, like I said, I was going to church again, and the Bible did tell me that when I got married I was supposed to "leave my own family and cleave to my new one" or some such bullshit. So, like Tammy Wynette before me, I stood by my man. With often ridiculous results that might have been funny if they weren't so fucking weird. And with final results that will haunt me the rest of my days.

C never did claim responsibility for that jar of money that had found its way mysteriously into HIS car trunk. I returned it, and then went about the business of trying to patch together a crazy quilt of a marriage. I never did find that .45, but a friend of C's mentioned he saw one show up at a pawn shop one day while he was there, and that shortly after, C was bragging about adding an Uncanny X-Men #3 comic to his collection, despite his mysterious lack of gainful employment. 

In Limbo

Homecoming Week with a Homecoming Nominee, and Medication & Madness Week with a Bipolar Kid are both culminating into one hell of a week to try to do anything but try furiously to stay afloat... sorry there is nothing interesting that I have time to write about. Stay tuned.

Photo Hunt Saturday--Plastic

This week's theme is: Plastic. I took this photo in July 2005 in Downtown Disney. They had some of the most fantastic creations made of Legos.

Dear Barack:

My Mini-Meez over to the left is my tentative endorsement for you for POTUS. There are a few things we need to find common ground on, though, before I can put a bumper sticker on my car. 'Cause, you know that's a commitment and all.

My biggest beef with you? No, it's not that you're a smoker, although when we go out for lunch, I will make you sit in the non-smoking section. It's that, regardless of all your good looks and brains, you still seem to succumb to stupidity and illogical thinking when it comes to corn-based ethanol. I've already pointed out just a few itty bitty reasons that's a bad idea. Don't you read this blog?!?! Heh.

Anyway, you're going to have to grow a spine or a set of brass balls & stand up to the lobbyists who are pressuring you from all sides to give in to the hypnotism of corn-based ethanol. It's just bad. We'll talk about our other differences soon. I don't want to put too much on your plate right now.

Hugs & kisses,
~L.

P.S. You might catch my Mini Meez on a day when she is doing something other than holding her campaign sign, but she'll periodically return to being your bitch.

Open Letter to English Grammar Abusers

Dear Gramatically Challenged English-as-a-First-Language People,

Please stop using the phrase "I could care less about (sub your personal pet peeve of the moment)..." Instead of showing how cool you really are by blithely not caring about (X), you're wearing a blinking neon sign above your head proclaiming, "Dumbass!" Okay?  Here's the lesson. Listen up.

Let's pick something to not care about. Your feelings, for example. If I were to say, "I could care less about your feelings," it really means I DO care, because if it is possible to care less about something, it indicates that there is a baseline of actual caring. I might as well say, "I care about your feelings, but today, at this moment, I care just a little bit less than I usually do."

Say the phrase, and listen closely. I could care less. I COULD care less. I COULD CARE less. Got it?

The phrase you are unsuccessfully reaching for is, "I couldn't care less." I couldn't care less about your feelings. This phrase means that it is not possible for me to care less than I already do, because I don't give a rat's ass to begin with.

Now say the phrase. I couldn't care less. I COULD NOT care less. Think about it.

Yes, it's true. I could care less if you use correct grammar in front of me, and I couldn't care less if you sound like an ignorant dipshit. Figure those out.

Hugs and kisses,
~L.

P.S. If I sound grumpy and snarky, I am today. Don't act surprised. I warned you once.

P.P.S. Make note that I am NOT directing this toward anyone for whom English is not their native tongue. Their case is understandable.