Maternity Leave

My maternity leave officially ends in 2 more days. I am sad, excited, nervous, wrought with fear, anxious and jumping out of my skin all at the same time.

This maternity leave has meant so much to me. Not only did I give birth and nurture an amazingly gorgeous little girl for 8 weeks, but I also got to be so much more of a mom to Luke. I got to bring him to school every morning...with no need for before care. I got to pick him up from school everyday at regular pick up time, do homework with him, study with him and basically spend 3 - 4 hours a day with him more than what I normally ever was able to spend since I was on maternity leave for his birth.

I was able to get to know my son on a deeper level. Share more jokes. Relax more with him. Be the mom to him that all of us working moms dream that we can be even though we accept that we never can and never will.

It was exhausting. Maternity leave for Luke was filled with getting out of our 1 bedroom apartment and going for walks, shopping, meeting up with people for lunch. Maternity leave for Shelby actually revolved much less around Shelby. We got out of the house for brother's football games and practices but now with a 2000 square ft house to keep clean, the husband and the son - my days really revolved around chores, chores and more chores.

In fact, I've learned to do chores so slowly and lackadaisically now, that I fear the first few weeks of returning to work, my house will begin to house rats and other kinds of vermin. I have no idea how to rush, hurry, bust ass anymore like I used to and I'm a bit worried about that since that is the personality trait that I admire most in myself.

So this time next week, I'll be at work, making money and rushing home with kids in tow after it's already dark outside. Eating pizza rolls and folding laundry while carrying Shelby in a Baby Bjorn to multi task. I'm just ready to get there...this waiting for next week to finally happen kind of sucks. I want to just jump in and get a schedule and prove myself to myself again...and get that so desperately needed paycheck.

So thank you, Shelby. Thank you for the privelage and the honor to just be your mother. But thank you also for giving me the privelage and the honor to have more time with your brother. I love you both so very much, but mommy has to go kick some ass at work so that you can grow up knowing that you can be whatever it is in this world that you want to be, and so that brother will choose a woman who gets off her ass and doesn't expect hand outs.

Love

The only thing missing from this photo is Luke. If Luke were in it, then you would see the 3 things that I live for. Meet Ziggy, the best daddy and husband I've ever known.

Cover your Boobs!

I am very confident in my relationship with Ziggy. He is very well loved and very well taken care of physically, emotionally and sexually. I never worry over him straying or cheating and I know that even though we are technically "newlyweds", we've been together for over 5 years now, married for 2, and I don't foresee myself needing to worry in the future.

We're best friends and are both pretty confident that if such a thing as soul mates exists, then we are each other's.

However, do you have to sling your boobs in my husband's face every time you are near him? My ample size D's are plenty enough for him, but having yours in his face every time he sees you is starting to piss me off.

Also, please buy a bra that fits. Size D chics should NEVER wear demi cups outside of the bedroom. Demi cups on a D chic cause nasty over spillage that while sexy in the bedroom, it makes you look like you have a butt crack in between your boobs when they spill out of your demi cups under an incredibly tight white t-shirt.

Size D chics (and DD chics trying to fool everyone into thinking they are D chics) need full coverage bras outside of the bedroom. We need hefty straps and full support in order to look smooth and presentable. My husband is fully aware that I'll wear whatever he wants me to wear in our bedroom, but when I leave the house, he prefers that I give the appearance of being a lady...with children and a husband who can cover her shit up and not show it all to the world. He finds it more sexy that I reserve that display ONLY for him and that I'm not showing it off to every man I see.

My boobs belong to Ziggy and Ziggy alone and I wish yours would belong only to your husband as well. So while I'm not concerned that Ziggy notices or even cares about your display of boobage, I would still appreciate it if you cover your shit up, show yourself some respect and show your friends some respect. There are children around and I don't want my son seeing over 60% of what you have under there just by coming to you to ask you for a god damn Capri Sun.

Thanks.

Cheating

I have LOTS to say, but I'm going to cheat with a photo of each of my babies and I'll try to post more on Monday.

All by Myself

Today is my first day all alone with Shelby. Ziggy returned to work. Luke went to school. Just me...and her.

I planned tons of chores and projects and all kinds of things to keep me busy so I wouldn't get too sad being alone and so far so good. I have only 2 hours left before it's time to go get Luke from school and I'm almost amazed at how fast the day flew by.

I'm 10 days post partum. My incision is looking good. I'm down to about 1 percocet a day and 1 600mg Motrin. Nnot too shabby. I even took my first stab at post partum exercise today with a light walk in the neighborhood. I was really crampy after the walk, and I had a lot more blood than I've had in the past couple days...so that worries me a smidge, but I'm just going to chill for the next 2 hours and rest up.

Let's talk about weight...to hold myself accountable, I will try to post my weight at least once a week. I was 145 when I got married. In the 18 months of trying to conceive, I gained 30 pounds (thank you for that, Clomid!). I was 175 when I got my BFP and I was 180 at my first pre natal appointment.

At my pre op appointment the day before delivery, I was 199. This morning, I am 174. So I'm guessing that since I'm almost 2 weeks post partum, 170ish will be where I'll be starting from. That's about 20 - 25 pounds away from "happy weight"....my sexy playah weight.

Let's go!

Here she is!

And Then She Was Here

Shelby Renee was born at 9:02am on 9/18/09 weighing in at 8lbs 3oz and 19 and 1/2 inches long.

She is gorgeous and wonderful and all things fabulous.

I always hated it when people post ridiculously long birth stories, because really, who cares? But now that I've experienced another "birth story", I DO plan to write it out and now I feel like a goober for thinking birth stories are dumb.

I just took 15mg of Percocet, so if I made errors, don't judge me.

I came in at 6:00am on 9/18/09 for my scheduled c-section. I got my IV, I got some anti nausea drugs and I was monitored with the belly heart/contraction monitors for a while.

At 8:00am, they wheeled me into the operating room. When you're having a scheduled c-sec, they do your anesthesia right there in the frickin operating room, so while you're waiting for your anesthesiologist, you get to sit there and read/stare at every sign/tool/machine and basically scare the shit out of yourself.

The anesthesiologist came in and game me my spinal. While I'd rather never have a spinal again for the rest of my life, it wasn't all that bad. It felt similar to the epidural I had for Luke 9 years ago and took a ridiculously long time (to me, anyway) to take affect.

They laid me down and started with all their "doctor speak". I asked for my husband 10 times and I started freaking out. They had made the first cut without my husband in the room!!! A nurse ran out to get him. Ziggy said that when he walked in, the doctors already had bloody gloves and there were blood drops on the floor.

I wasn't hurting, but I could literally FEEL everything they were doing. It felt like rubber bands snapping in me. Between that and finally having Ziggy sitting next to me with a terrified look in his eyes, I had a full blown panic attack. They strapped down my arms and immediately shot me up with a drug that I would later learn was Ketamine.

Now here is finally the benefit of having an ex-addict husband. He can explain drugs to me better than any pharmacist can. Ketamine's "street name" is Special K. When abused, it is used as a hallucinigenic and yes, my dear husband has experienced it many times.

Let's just say that the next five minutes were the strangest and best 5 minutes of my life. I was high as a kite and I could have cared less if they killed me or not. Fabulous shit, that Ketamine is, and if you ever have the chance to experience it, by all means, go for it!

I remember seeing Shelby naked and being carried through the room. I remember them calling Ziggy over to see her. He cut her cord, which he swore he wouldn't do, but he did it. I remember him looking at me like he knew what I was experiencing with the Ketamine and he was so sorry and so scared to leave me. He kissed me and whispered "don't worry, it's a short high, I promise" and he left with Shelby.

I was left alone then with 2 doctors who were sewing me up and having coffee talk with me...kind of strange to talk to your doctor about her weekend plans when you know that she's stitching up your innards while she speaks. I got more shots of god knows what and was wheeled to recovery.

Once in recovery, I was shot up with Dilaudin, another lovely drug that my husband later explained to me and called it "pretty good shit". Again, so great to have a husband who once abused almost everything I was being given.

Shelby was taken for hours. And hours. And hours. Erick was being given all of the info - no one was talking to me...I guess so that I would relax? Who knows, but it took 7 and 1/2 hours for me to actually get to hold my daughter. True to his word though, Ziggy made sure that I was the one who held her first.

She had swallowed amniotic fluid on her way out and had fluid in her lungs and she was breathing too fast so she had to be monitored in the nursery for a while. It was torture waiting for her, but once we finally got her...she was ours.

The best part of this whole experience? Watching Ziggy become a father. I've never been more impressed with a man in all my life. When I say that he stepped up, I truly mean that she is 2 days old and I already feel like I could go out of town for a week and Ziggy would be just fine alone with his daughter. He's jumped right in and it's a beautiful sight to see.

So that's my birth story. I'm in the hospital until tomorrow so I need to get my butt back in bed. I was diagnosed with bronchitis Friday night after my doctor realized that even with all the drugs, I was coughing through my whole surgery(fabulous, right?). So I'm on about 9 million extra drugs for that, plus I have to do breathing treatments all day long. This was actually the really shortened version of the birth story, but no need to bother you with pages of details that are probably only important to me.

Smooches and hugs. I promise to post a photo when we get home.

Saying goodbye to say hello

Today was my last official day at work until November 16th. It was a truly bittersweet goodbye. I bitch and gripe about the people at work...A LOT. But in all honesty, I absolutely LOVE my job and for the most part, I genuinely care for the company that I work for...it's just those idiot people that I can't stand.

The older folk call me an old soul at work, because I'm one of the few in the younger generation who is a company person...I work for the company, take pride in the company and my job for the company really matters to me. The majority of Generation X'ers are only there for the paycheck and absolutely NOTHING more. They are there for their 40 hours and the second you need them to stay one minute late they are screaming, "PAY ME!" They're never happy - ever. Nothing is good enough, and no amount of pay or benefits ever makes them happy. The only thing that makes them happy is 5:00pm.

I'm the type who thinks of work and brainstorms ideas on weekends, checks my emails when I'm out sick even though I'm not paid to and feels real guilt when I've missed tons of work for personal reasons. I feel a personal need to find the money when the company is struggling despite the knowledge that our President drives a Porche AND a Mercedes and probably just got a $100,000 bonus. Many call that stupid, but just a generation ago that's how most people were. Most people worked in the same place for 30+ years and felt a part of their company. Not so much anymore.

So why do I feel this way about a company that when most people leave it, they absolutely hate it and bad talk it for life? Well, it's complicated. While I see, and for the most part agree with most of their grievances, I'm also of the sort of people who thinks - It's WORK people, shut the fuck up, quit your whining and work. Work is not there for your entertainment or to please you. We've become a country of pansy sissies who do nothing but whine and think that we deserve handsome compensations just for showing up.

Yes, my company is still a "good ole boy" company and that royally pisses me off. Sure they make me fib on tax returns, don't give me reviews when they should and they take me for granted. I watch every day as 10 men pile into giant SUV's for company paid 2 hour lunches while the women take less than an hour so that the company will keep running.

But and here's the big but - they also put food on my table, put my kid through private school, pay for the clothes on my back and afford me every luxury that I look around myself and see.

Not only that, but for the past 10 years, through marriages and a divorce, through hurricanes and disasters and personal tragedies and traumas, the one, the absolute one and only constant that I've had in my life is this very company. They've taken a college dropout and put her in charge of a $18 million dollar Accounts Receivable department. In return, I give them the best that I have to give them and I believe that for being a woman, under 35 without my official "degree", that I am paid pretty fairly although I sure would like about $10k more!

They sent me salesmen to demo my flooded house after Katrina before the mold had a chance to grow and the owner handed me a $5000 personal check under the table just to convince me to keep working when I could have just relied on FEMA and the government to take care of me while I sat in my house watching TV. They put my family in a gorgeous hotel for Hurricane Gustav and it's things like this that remind me that the grass is not always greener on the other side and that occasionally loyalty pays off.

So that's my soap box for today. Yes there are better companies out there. Shoot - there are better men out there, but I chose my husband, right? I choose this company and I'm faithful to it and honestly, it's hard for me to walk away for 8 - 10 weeks without a tear in my eye and a feeling of...so what do I do now?

Also - you may never ever hear me talk so kindly about my job ever again...it's half hormones here probably! But for the most part, it holds true - most of the people can take a flying leap off a bridge, but I would still be loyal to the company.

Crazy Bitch

I don't even remember when this all began. All I remember is that it was well over a year and a half ago...probably even longer since she was pregnant at the time and her daughter is 17 months old - probably around my first few months of Clomid.

In a two part blurry haze, my whole work world was turned inside out. Incident # 1 occurred on the day that Harry Lee's death was announced. Harry Lee was the long running Sheriff of the town I live in. He was loved or hated by many. As for me, I neither loved or hated him...I honestly gave 2 shits about him, but many people were passionate in their love/hate.

It was a WELL known fact that our Security Director HATED him. As a former police officer who worked under this Sheriff, he said on many occasions that he would piss on his grave and dance around it after he died. He had a photo of him upside down in his office. It was a deep down kind of hatred. When I heard the death notice on the radio, said Security Director was at the copy machine outside my office. I hollered out, "Hey Henry, did you hear about Harry Lee?" And Henry replied something that went along the lines of that it was a very happy day for him. We both laughed and went our separate ways. That is incident #1.

Incident # 2 occurred shortly then after. I had an employee with A LOT of drama going on in her life. In a matter of weeks, she miscarried, got pregnant again, had a mother in a coma and a grandmother dying. She would come and talk to me often about the suffering that her grandmother was enduring and how she wished that they would just pull the plug and allow her grandmother to rest. She spoke about her desire to see her grandmother at peace to me at least 5 times.

Her grandmother died and she left a voicemail on my cell phone. Thinking that I was being a good "boss", I called her back to offer my condolences. I got her voicemail. I left a message to the effect of, "I'm so sorry to hear about your grandmother and I'm happy to know that she's finally at peace and no longer in pain." That ends incident # 2.

I'm not sure of the timeline here, but shortly thenafter, perhaps even in the same week, I am informed by Human Resources that my employee has filed a formal complaint against me. The basis of her complaint? Oh it was as vast and as broad and the Mississippi River. I was mean/rude/insensitive/unprofessional blah blah blah.

Two things specifically mentioned in her complaint were that I had "celebrated the death" of a political figure...I think she even complained about me expressing my political views at work because of my celebration of the death of the Sheriff. The other specific complaint that I remember is that in my voicemail to her after her grandmother's death, she twisted my words and claims that I had said that I was happy that her grandmother had died. She even played the voicemail so that it is now recorded and probably sitting in my file for life.

Weeks of hell followed. Though my boss supported me to my face, he sat next to me in total silence while I was YELLED at by our President for not handling this employee better. She spread her sob story across the building and I could feel the glare of 50 people every day wishing for my demise. In the end, neither of us was punished per say, but I was forced to be kind to her and manage her and be her BFF to make her feel all warm and cozy inside. Gag. But...I did it. And since then, we have had not a single problem. We don't like each other, but we work well together and can even chat together without issue.

Fast forward. Things have been quiet. It's been about 6 months since she had a family tragedy...which is a really long time for her since EVERYTHING is always a tragedy and tragedy seems to seek her. Her work product began failing and we all started noticing her on the phone with personal calls all the time. She came to me to let me know...her father was dying.

FUCK!

In the past 6 months her father has been on the brink of death every second. Also for 6 months, the WHOLE building has heard of her hatred for him. A hatred so deep that her plans for his memory was that she was shipping his body off to a University for medical research against his will after he died so that she wouldn't have to pay for a burial. There was no obit in the paper when he finally died either. She would laugh and talk about shipping his ashes via UPS to some brother that he had and "letting him deal with the asshole".

She needed to leave work for half days CONSTANTLY to rush to her dying father's side and handle his affairs and then about 80% of her work time was spent gaining sympathy from everyone she came in contact with - customers, salesmen, janitors - everyone over her poor dying father.

Last Saturday morning, my phone began ringing at 6:00am. My phone rang or tweeted for text messages 10 times in 3 hours from 6:00am - 9:00am. It was her. Her father died and of course the ENTIRE world just HAS to know about it regardless of the time. My husband, who throws newspapers as a second job on Friday nights and had just gotten in bed for the night was so livid with the calls that I had to talk him out of answering and cursing her out.

I chose not to answer. I chose not to return her calls. First, I was exhausted and trying to get some sleep seeing that I am 9 months pregnant here. Second, once I did wake up, I didn't stop until that night since SIL's shower was at my house that day. Third, I was afraid to call her because I KNEW she would let it go to voicemail and then use whatever I said against me later. Fourth, I was fucking pissed off at her rudeness and disrespect of my personal time.

I called her on Monday when I got to work to verify that there were no funeral arrangements (because we send flowers if there are) and she sounded fine and everything was well.

She returned to work Wednesday and has now spend the past 2 days drumming up support for her next formal complaint. According to her, I am insensitive and evil and a horrible human for not calling her to console her this weekend over the death of her father. I've already been told by two Human Resources employees and the head Security whateverthefuckheis guy that not calling her was indeed insensitive of me.

And I know that you may be saying "who gives a fuck"...but well...I have a lot on my mind. First, I will only be at work for 7 more business days and I have shit tons of work to complete and I don't have time for hours of investigations and interrogating and being yelled at. Second, I will be out for 8 weeks, which gives her 2 months to build up her support and convince the world of how victimized she's been by me. Third, annual increases just so happen to be decided AND implemented while I'll be on maternity leave and I'm scared of this issue being first and foremost on my bosses minds and not how I've worked like their bitch for the past nine months to prepare for me being out. Fourth, I'm fucking 9 months pregnant and I'm in so much physical pain that I'm liable to throw a phone at her head. And finally, fifth, I'm already worried about my job and finances and money - I don't think that any woman goes on maternity leave feeling 100% secure with her job and money and all that.

So this is what is consuming my mind. I can't get past it, even though I know I should. Her and I are both off of work until Tuesday, so I know I should at least just let it go until then...but I just can't. I'm freaking worried out of my mind.

No formal complaint has occurred yet, but I just know...I really just know that this isn't over yet and that she will take it as far as she can take it.

We Are Ready...I think...

Well, the shower is done. Every "need" item for the first 4 months is located somewhere in this house. So to outside eyes, we are totally ready for our daughter's arrival.

So why do I feel so unprepared? Maybe it's just my inner demons reminding me of EVERY error that I made with Luke? Maybe it's my MIL's constant chatter that makes me want to remind her that though I may not have raised 3 babies, I have raised 1 baby, so maybe she shouldn't feel the need to speak to me as if I'm a retard, and that she can save that for her other son's wife who not only couldn't pronounce the word "colander" at her wedding shower, but had to ask what it was used for? Maybe it's my fear of how all these coming changes will affect my son, my marriage, my job, my sanity, my husband's sanity, my finances?

I don't know, but I just feel like the most prepared unprepared mother on earth.

I've begun having dreams where I can actually feel every second of Luke's c-section...over and over and over again. And yes, I know, women have babies every day...I'm not a jack ass, I'm just having some pre baby jitters is all so shut up and let me have them.

I planned to write much more, but I have to cook the noodles for the meatballs and I have clothes galore to fold and beds to make. I'll return sooner than later.

Screwing with your head

Someone asked me today when my due date is. I told them, "today". So now in 4/5 weeks when I'm still around, they'll be confused and scratch their heads. Since I get this question at least 5 times a day at work, my new answer will always be, "today" now that I saw how fun it was to say it as my answer once today.

I'm so sick of answering the endless stream of questions. It's never ending. Why are people so ridiculously nosey about a pregnant woman? I walked into the lunchroom quietly and unspoken to 1000 times last year. This year, I hear Mission Impossible music as I try to make it from my desk to the bathroom and to the ice machine on the way back before I'm felt up or questioned to death by 3 people.

I'm sick of people pointing out that I'm waddling. Don't you think I fucking know that I'm waddling? What, you think that I'm walking like this for your entertainment? Do you think that pointing it out to me and laughing is serving any purpose other than to elevate you from douche bag to value size douche bag?

I'm sick of people asking me if I'm planning to breast feed...while staring at my rack while they speak the question. Why are you asking me that? Are you hungry? Do you need a visual for when you jerk off? Did your mommy not love you when you were a child?

I'm sick of people asking me if I'm delivering vaginally or by c-section. WHAT THE FUCK? Do you really need to know that? Can I ask you if your husband's dick is circumcised or not? Jesus Christ, people!

I'm sick of people asking me how I'm holding up in this heat. Well. It's hot. I'm 200 pounds now or damn close to it. I've got a 4 pound transverse watermelon hitching a ride on my pelvis. How the fuck do you think I'm holding up? Now get out of my way so I can get into the air conditioning.

I'm sick of people sticking their fingers into my stomach while I walk down a hallway and then laughing in a Butthead type fashion while telling me they can't believe how hard my stomach is. OK, now can I reach down your husband's pants uninvited and let you know that I can't believe how hard HE is?

I'm sick of people watching every bite I take and making comments in baby talk about my food. "Oh baby wants banana does she?" Um, no you fucking moron. Baby just wants amniotic fluid these days. Her mother wants a banana and why do you have to have a running commentary on every morsel I put into my mouth? I enter the lunch room every day and 5 heads immediately turn to see what I'm eating and then comment on how the baby must be hungry today.

I'm taking a week of vacation next week to spend a solid week with my son before he isn't just my only child anymore and before he starts school. I can't tell you how badly I am in need of a week away from these idiots that I work with.

People suck.

Time. It flies.

Wow. 60 days left. I can't believe it. So where the hell have I been? Well, I know I suck, trust me I do. We had all sorts of things happening. We finished up renovations, I was diagnosed with low amniotic fluid and spent 2 weeks on partial bed rest (in bed right after work and all weekend), I got sick, Luke got sick, Ziggy had tooth issues, Luke got braces and I hit a slump of 3rd trimester depression, which is probably the primary reason for my absence.

I'm so huge and so uncomfortable and in so much pain CONSTANTLY between my tail bone and my pubic bone and my feet and my everything and rather than whine over it all, I just chose to hide for a while.

I guess the biggest news of the past few weeks is Luke's braces. Wow, what a trauma this has been. He's only about to turn 9, so he has braces SUPER early and because of that he lacks some of the maturity that braces require - to understand pain and that it won't last forever. He lays on the floor for literally HOURS at a time and just wails over the pain. I'm pretty sure that it's half drama and half pain since a game of Clue or a swim in the pool will suddenly take his mind off of everything and he becomes fine.

He got them so young because he plays football and he had a serious permanant buck tooth that was sticking out so far that one solid hit in a football game could sentence him to a lifetime of a falsie. Plus, he was made fun of a few times in school this past year over his tooth and that was reason enough to get the braces on and get him past this as quick as possible.

It's got me thinking a lot about my own childhood and how different Luke's is. Luke has never experienced severe emotional or physical pain yet. Yes, his parents are divorced, but we divorced when he was 6 months old and he's never seen us argue and he has pretty great (for the most part) step parents. It's a far cry from having to call 911 when you're 8 because daddy is beating the shit out of mommy...which was a regular occurance in my fabulous childhood.

For the most part, Luke is living the childhood that I always wished I'd had. His parents are involved in his life and see him as important enough to spend our time at ballparks for hours on end to cheer him on and buy into his dreams. He never has to worry about bills not getting paid (my mother REGULARLY dumped her financial woes onto her children). He has a house and a backyard and his own room and his dad doesn't get drunk and accidentally mistake his bed for the toilet.

It's a fairly charmed life. So when he's wailing on the floor, while most of me pains inside with him and just wants to sit and stroke his hair...there's another part of me that thinks, yep son, this is life, this is pain, I'm sorry you had to meet pain, but here it is, might as well get acquainted with it.

Does that sound horrible? What I'm trying to say is that while his life is charmed, I don't want him to grow to adulthood totally oblivious to difficulties in life and I wonder if maybe I'm partially guilty of overcompensating for my own suck ass childhood by making his life too easy...too cozy...too painfree.

I mean, which life is better? The suck ass life that chews you up and spits you out as an overly independant and responsible adult. Or the charmed life that leaves you naive and vulnerable and brings pain when the perfect world collapses around you.

I don't really want Luke to have either of those lives. I'd like him to fall somewhere in the middle. So while he wails, I do the dishes. I do an appropriate amount of hair stroking and catering and Motrin pushing and ice cream scooping, and then I leave him to figure this all out on his own.

I'm not sure if that's the right decision and I guess I'll find that out if/when he ever requires therapy in adulthood, but for now, it seems right so I'll just go with that instinct for now.

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone

I know that my last post was a bit depressing. Sorry about that. I shouldn't blog right smack in the midst of financial demise. Things are better. Long story, but we liquidated some assets, put in a call to a father and had a stroke of luck with an a/c repairman and all is ok, well, not ok, but livable.

Luke is having a sleepover tonight. His little friend is also an "only" child - I say that because a 28 week old fetus does not yet make Luke less of an only child at home. I thought it would be great for Luke to have a buddy to hang out with for the night (read: not leach onto mommy ALL night for all of his entertainment needs). So I set up the sleepver with another only child from his football team.

So what happens when an only boy child who loves his mommy has another only boy child over to sleep who loves his mommy? Well, you get TWO 8 year old boys following your every move, demanding every second of your attention and needing you to entertain them. They want to watch TV with me even if it's "What Not to Wear" - the Mayim Balik episode no less that I've been dying to see since I was a HUGE Blossom fan. (Speaking of which, when the hell will Blossom reruns ever start?)

On top of that, they are VERY different children. Luke gets his fill of TV, he really does. I've failed at not allowing the TV to babysit my kid on occasion. However, he LOVES to be active also. He plays basketball, swims, plays games - he does...well...stuff. If you give Luke the choice between playing Monopoly or watching the newest Disney Pixar movie in 3D, he will ALWAYS choose the board game or other activity other than TV or movies.

This boy on the other hand doesn't want to do ANYTHING other than watch TV. Hours upon HOURS of TV. He wants constant food supply (he's a bit portly) and a TV.

So I'm sitting here typing this to try and stay awake a bit longer since I guess that being the mom of the sleepover, I should technically stay awake until they go to sleep? Not too sure on that one, but I feel like I should at least.

And I feel bad for Luke. He keeps asking the kid to do stuff and all the kid wants to do is lay on my living room floor, stare at the TV and stuff Cheez Its down his throat. Oh and stick his dirty feet all over my furniture. We aren't snooty "no feet on the table" type folk - but if the bottoms of your socks are BLACK because your mother keeps a dirty house, then I'd prefer if you don't put your feet on my television screen when this is the first time that you are at my house...or ever for that matter.

So I'm trying to think of fun google searches to keep me occupied. I am so tired. I hope his parents come for him early. He's already put in his breakfast order. Ugh.

Money

March started off fabulous. Our tax return gave us enough money to pay down a good chunk of credit card debt, put a little in our savings, pay 6 months of car insurance in advance, pay off Luke's tuition and summer camp bills for 08/09 and we still had $1000 that we specifically decided to use to start renovating our 1980's house.

Fast forward to June. One credit card is totally maxed. Another one is close. Our saving's balance is about to be totally depleted and I'm debating selling my husband's semen.

How did this happen? We're used to highs and lows, but man, this is the lowest that we've come. How did we let this happen?

Well, there was $1000 for the pool (that I don't regret since we use it TONS and it keeps us from spending more money out entertaining ourselves), there was new tires for both cars, a new windshield for me, baby furniture, a renovation that had a $1000 budget and ended up close to $5000 (renovating one room led us to renovating 3 rooms and a hallway), we decided that yes we COULD afford to pay Luke's tuition for 09/10 in 4 interest free installments instead of 12 payments like we normally do, Luke needs braces, Ziggy lost a lot of income and the finale was the a/c breaking.

For Ziggy's income questions - he's delivered the newspaper on Friday/Saturday/Sunday nights for the entire time he's been sober (part of his ammends to pay off his debts that turned into a luxury monthly paycheck for us to blow that we didn't want to give up that then turned into a necessity). Well, the paper scaled him back to one day a week due to general cut backs (less people buying the paper) and bam, there goes $400 a month that we were used to having.

Anyway, I'm just throwing myself a little pity party. I know it will be ok. My dad had offered last year to help me if ever Luke needed braces, so I plan to swallow my pride and call daddy. That will help a big bit. Ziggy and I have some other ways to get cash that aren't illegal, although Uncle Sam will penalize us a bit. So it's not like I'm asking you all to send me canned goods...yet.

So that's life right now. It's all I can think about and I just want to get out of this black hole soon. I'm not sure if it's earned bad Karma, or just my turn for a shit pile to be thrown on me, but enough already. Please?

The End

Hopefully I can get through the rest of this mess of a story tonight. This part of the story is honestly SO busy and so complicated that I still have no idea how to even verbalize it properly.

So we all evacuated for Katrina. Luke went to Natchitoches, LA with his dad and his dad's family. I went to Lafayette, LA with my dog, and the rest of my family went to Baton Rouge, LA. Ziggy went to Houston, TX with his family. We were friends at this point, but not together yet and my family would have preferred that he drop dead at this point, so much of our friendship was kept quiet so that I wouldn't get regular lectures and eye rollings from family.

We expected it to be a 2 - 3 day evacuation, like normal, which is why I sent Luke with his dad - since it was his dad's weekend time with him anyway. (I say that because people often don't understand how I could "send my kid away" for such a tragedy - we had NO idea that it would be a tragedy, and a weekend with his dad in Natchitoches was actually a normal event for him).

I got regular texts from Ziggy. The phone lines were so jammed and so many towers were knocked down that if you didn't know how to text, you learned fast because it was the only way to communicate. My mother had stayed at home and didn't evacuate.

Once the horrors on the TV began, all of us 20 and 30 something year olds who had never in our life dealt with tragedy all began to grow up and start making real life decisions - if my home is destroyed, what will I do, where will I live, where will I work, how do I pay my bills if I'm not working, do I go home or just sit in this hotel, is my mom alive, how do I get FEMA help, where is the Red Cross station?

Once the damage of the area was assessed and we all knew how bad or good it was, I came home to get to work. At a time like this, your job is absolutely essential, if you still have one, and if my job had asked me to fly to the moon, I probably would have. I got started rebuilding my company and rebuilding my home (I had a little over a foot of water in my house, so everything under 4ft had to be ripped out and rebuilt). All of this Katrina mess is a blog novel in and of itself, so let's skip it and get back to Ziggy.

His job transferred him to a hotel in Dallas, TX where he worked from an office there. He quickly ran out of suboxone. The desired course of suboxone therapy is at least 6 months to 3 years, depending on the level of addiction. He had only been on it a month at most. He couldn't find a doctor in the Dallas area and suddenly his texts stopped and I lost him.

We were a state apart and I had major issues of my own. I had a destroyed home, homeless friends and family members, I was working 60+ hours a week to help keep my company from dying and I was trying desperately to get my house safe and livable for Luke to come home. His father and I shuttled him all over the state in those weeks/months to stay with family while we rebuilt homes for him - he couldn't come home until basic services were up and running and our homes had power and water and were mold free - and that took a painfully long time. My mother's job went under, my dad was totally homeless and it was just - my own personal hell. While Ziggy was important, there was enough severe trauma going on for me that took my mind off of him. He was away from anyone on earth who loved him, and before he found a suboxone certified doctor, he found a dealer.

I was shuttling to Natchitoches every weekend to see Luke (a 5 hour drive each way) and to this day, I have no idea how I made it through that 3 - 4 month period of my life - it was torture on all of us.

Once I finally got Ziggy talking to me again, I knew it. I knew he was "gone" and pulling him back when he was 14 hours away and I had so much to deal with was impossible. By time I got home from work, worked on my own house and got into bed to talk to him, I barely had enough energy to even feel the pain of hearing his slurred words and his nonsense. I began to pull away from him out of necessity - I had my own shit going on and if he wanted to kill himself, well, sorry buddy, but I can't help you right now.

By early October, I had walls again and the townhouse was disinfected enough for Luke to come home. He got back to school shortly after and our lives were full of work/school and coming home to work on the house. We did his homework on a concrete floor and I learned how to cook meals in the microwave since the kitchen was the last room finished. We watched TV on kitchen chairs and our TV was on the concrete floow. Sounds awful, but we were actually better off and more "recovered" than the majority of the houses around us. (Neighbors made fun of me for fixing the mexicans coffee every morning and offering water bottles to them at mid day, but it was my house that was done before theirs and we had the same mexicans working for us!) We finally got a sofa and a TV in November. By Thanksgiving my house would be rebuilt and normal again.

Before that, Ziggy finally hit his official bottom. An addict's bottom usually involves near death experiences or jail time or both. Ziggy's bottom was a night full of hallucinations culminating with getting his parents involved, because I just couldn't take it anymore.

It was shortly before Luke came home, though I don't remember the exact date. I still had 3 - 4 people from work living with me reguarly since my house was better off than theirs and I had lights/water back before them. A phone call came in from Ziggy.

He was in his truck and said that he was on the highway and that the FBI was after him. Don't laugh - yes this part is extraordinary, but in his mind, the FBI WAS after him. He said that he had just picked up an 8 ball of cocaine (google it if you don't know what that is) and when he noticed the FBI was after him, he had swallowed the entire 8 ball and washed it down with the only liquid in his car - a bottle of windex. He was screaming and crying and freaking the fuck out.

The call lasted over an hour. Somehow, I got him to find his hotel and his hotel room and when I hung up, he was begging for me to call his mother and said that he was laying by the door to block the FBI from getting in. To this day, none of us have any clue how Ziggy managed to keep his job except that perhaps his boss contributed some of his bizarre behavior as emotional effects of Katrina. No idea, but amazingly, he did keep his job.

To me, that was his bottom. It has much much more details to it, but for Ziggy's sake, I don't think they all need to be shared with the world. So I gave you the basics and that's that.

Within a week, we had him home and back with his parents, who now knew what was going on. He still used for a while when he got home. Bottom doesn't always equal sobriety to come next. He showed up at my house for my birthday and when he walked in and saw my house - he claims that THIS was his bottom.

I say his bottom was the FBI incident, he says it was my house. Whatever - it doesn't matter as long as it happened.

When he walked in and saw my concrete floors and my bare drywall and my doorless rooms and a "home" that he once knew in the midst of being fixed, he says that it all hit him. He hadn't been there. He had "abandoned" Luke and I for the sake of a drug. He fell to his knees on the concrete and wept like a baby. He just couldn't believe, though he had heard, what I had faced/fought/rebuilt without him. The guilt that he felt for not being the one to walk into that house with me and rip up that carpet with me and and throw away half of my life with me was more than he could bear. His parent's house hadn't been damaged and since my home was his nearest concept of home, he lost it and just freaked out over not being there to help me negotiate with contractors and haggle over tile and fight with Mexicans leaving cigarette butts on the floor. What I had been doing for the past two months hit him all at once like a ton of bricks.

He told me that he would be back very soon and that he swore that he would get better. It took a little while - first of all for him to find a doctor again, and second of all for him to save up to see that doctor. He came over often - he bought me window blinds and came and installed them. He had his doctor's appointment set, so he wasn't clean yet, but he was only doing enough opiates to keep him out of withdrawels and my god, he was making a hell of an effort to try to help me and make up for whatever it was that he was trying to make up for. And I let him. Partially because I needed my house done and partially because I knew that every hour that he spent at my house fixing my floors/walls/tiles was another hour that he wasn't getting high. He was safe at my house and so I wanted him there as much as possible.

On December 11th, 2005, Ziggy took his first suboxone and went to his first Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

I watched him get his 24 hour chip. I watched him get his 1 month chip. I watched him lead his first meeting. I watched him get his 6 month chip. I drove his parents to see him speak at his first meeting. I was there when he met his sponsor and I was there - I was there - for all of it.

I almost gave up and ran away a million times. Running would have been easier. I had met a great guy after the hurricane who adored me and fawned all over me and I could have easily changed my number and let Ziggy be and just - run. But I chose to stay and since I chose to stay, I also had to choose to learn how to deal with all that hurt and still look at him without spitting on him or punching him daily.

It was actually my recovering father, who is over 20 years sober, who gave me this advice...he said, "Sandy, if it's going to work, then you HAVE to forgive him before he begins to make ammends to you, you just have to."

FORGIVE HIM???????? Are you fucking kidding me? Forgive him BEFORE he made ammends? Are you shitting me? I was waiting for the "ammends" step like a fat kid waits for cake! I deserved it. He owed MEEEEE! I deserved a parade and a trophy and a round of applause and a song named after me and my own goddamned statue for christ's sake...right? RIGHT???

Nope. Wrong. This was Ziggy's disease. It was his triumph. Not mine, and as much as that sucks and it took me awhile to grasp, I finally did. Through a 12 step program for the loved ones of addicts, and through my own therapist and through ALOT of reading and crying and hair pulling, I finally "got it".

I forgave him. I let it all go. I NEVER forgot, but I forgave - and forgiving him actually had so little to do with HIM that it's almost funny. By March, I felt safe enough to let him back into my life and Luke's life on a romantic level. We struggled and had a lot of issues. I checked his phone religiously (and I still do when he acts weird sometimes), I dug through his car and I searched for every sign on earth. But Ziggy allowed it. Part of his eventual ammends was to be transparent. I could and can dig through whatever I want and it's ok and tolerated and accepted. I can random drug test him anytime and he can't and he won't get upset. And as the years passed, I relaxed.

Last December, he took his last suboxone. He did the full 3-year therapy that is reserved for severe addicts. I'm glad he did. There were times when I resented the suboxone. It's not covered by insurance and cost us about $350 a month! But I'm glad he did it because the point is for the addict to learn how to live and deal with life without needing drugs to cope. I'm so glad that we bore the expense of giving Ziggy the full 3 years of it because studies are now showing that 3 years is the most effective and long lasting course of action.

When he got clean, he re-entered the world with over $23,000 in credit card debt (he paid for his addiction with cash advances from cards after his paycheck was gone). I resented him for the debt that "we" were in. But eventually, we paid it off and the debt we now have is our own and not drug related in any way.

We don't talk about the bad times often. I ask him every few months or so if he's been struggling or thinking about drugs or craving anything. 99% of the time he tells me "no". Recently, he once answered that he had thought about it, but he thought about it just as a memory and not as something he wanted. He has the life that he wanted - it's not perfect, but what he wakes up to now is what he wanted - the house, the yard, the wife, the kids, the normality. And honestly, if you ask him, he will honestly tell you that if he went out and got high ever again now, he would have to shoot himself right after, because everything that he would lose would be worse than death for him.

He regrets the end and how awful it was. While I sometimes think that I am the reason that he got so bad so fast, since I was the reason for the unhealthy attempts at quitting and since I was such an instigator in his life, constantly pushing his buttons and driving him to get high, he sees it very differently. On the night that he proposed to me, he told me that he believed that I saved his life. I told him that I wasn't even there for him at the end of it all since I was so busy with the recovery of my own life, and he always says, "precisely, Sandy". He says that it was when he lost me and I was too busy for him that he finally fought his way to get back to me.

His parents have told me stories of the actual final withdrawal - the one that happened under doctor supervision - the one that I wasn't there for. I witnessed, unknowingly at the time, at least 100 withdrawals, or the beginnings of withdrawals, in my own home, but the final one - that very last one was with his parents. According to them and according to his sister, he spent about 12 hours writhing in sweat and painful agony and screaming out one word. The word was "Sandy".

And that, my friends, is our love story. Conventional? No. Romantic? Not particularly. Insane? Most definitely. We fight and we argue and he's an asshole and we even sleep in separate beds occasionally, so we aren't two star crossed lovers living in bliss. That's almost hilarious. We're just normal people with normal crap going on all the time who happened to have a wild beginning.

Chapter Three...Maybe

Before I get into Chapter 3, I wanted to answer a few reader questions posed to me today. Also, Luke is home for the weekend from his dad's so I may not have the hour and a half that it normally takes me to post this serious of a topic - so Chapter 3 may go on hold...I'll see what I can crank out before The Clone Wars and Yugio cards get too boring for him.

How did you get found out? Well, we began getting too sure of ourselves and too sloppy. My townhouse was on a fairly major road in my town. Ziggy began using his own car to come over or spend the night and a salesman who was supposed to be our friend began telling people at work how often Ziggy's car was at my house. As the rumors began, he began job hunting. He was still in control of his addiction - it wasn't out of hand yet, and he easily found another job making more money elsewhere.

Before he found another job, our boss asked him flat out about our relationship and he did come clean. We were able to spend about 2 months "out of the closet" at work and the consensus was a general happy one for us with a whole lot of "it's about times". Ziggy was offered a management position in another department that had just opened up, but he declined it and thought it better for us to make a fresh start.

It was hard for us to be apart at first. We were genuinely a team at work, both of us needing the other to bring out the best (so we thought at first), and we both struggled. However, his leaving finally opened doors for me. I was finally noticed for my own brains, and instead of being in his shadow, I finally was able to shine.

Where was Luke when things got bad? Well, Luke was there. He was protected from the horrors - I'm not some triflin ho that you see on reality TV. When Ziggy's moods became extreme at the end, Luke was shielded properly. Luke was told that Ziggy was sick or that Ziggy had gone on a fishing trip - or other white lies to keep life normal for him. He wasn't exposed to the horrors and to this day he does know that Ziggy had an addiction, but he has no horrible memories and he genuinely loves Ziggy. When the hell ended, Luke had just turned 4, so he's already lost a great majority of his memory of this time.

So there's the answers. Back to the story.

Chapter 3:

The break up was harder on me than any break up I'd ever had. Later Ziggy would say that it was because we were soulmates being ripped apart - I'm not sure about the whole soulmate notion, but it makes for a good thing for him to say to get laid nowadays.

Not knowing yet what was wrong, I struggled with guilt that it was a physical or mental illness that I should stick it out for. My mother had abandoned my father when he came clean and gained his health. She couldn't handle how hard it was to go through the hell, so I guess maybe subconsciously, somehow I knew deep down and I didn't want to do what she had done? I don't know, but that was one therapist's theories.

I tried my best to move on. He called ALOT - to cry - to yell - to be crazy. My friends begged me to change my cell phone number, but I couldn't. Was I too weak, or too strong? That's up to you to decide. At this point, it was probably weakness. Later, it would become strength.

I began hearing bizarre stories through the grapevine - people seeing Ziggy acting crazy and sweating like a nutcase at a wedding - people seeing him walking down Bourbon Street alone and confused - people seeing him wearing the same clothes to work 2 days in a row. The stories were outrageous...and yet they were true.

The behind the scenes story was that Ziggy knew that his addiction to opiates was killing him, so in his sick and twisted mind, he tried to switch to cocaine. He truly believed that he could never be addicted to cocaine like he was to opiates and that the cocaine would help him get through the withdrawals so that he could kick it all and get better. Crazy right? Sure. Hell yeah, but to him it was his only answer.

So the sweating, the weight loss, the general craziness was a body addicted to opiates adjusting to massive amounts of cocaine. For those lacking knowledge of drugs, the two substances act on your body totally differently and he was swapping a numbing/sleepy type drug for a speed/adrenaline type drug.

He was literally killing himself. The same loud mouth salesman may actually be responsible for partially saving his life, because it was him who finally blew another secret and helped me "get to" Ziggy.

Now before I go on, please please don't in any way think that I am actually so vain as to believe that I saved Ziggy's life. Not the case. A handful of people saved his life, including God and himself. I however, only get the credit for being the first one to reach out the hand and go a little further to put the boots on and walk through the shit to get him. It's not much compared to what he had to face and what others did for him.

So it was this salesman who came to me and told me the story of Ziggy acting nuts at a bachelor party and he asked me, "Sandy, do you think it's drugs again?" And I was like...AGAIN??? WTF? You gossipping piece of shit, what do you mean? This salesman knew Ziggy in highschool and knew Ziggy to be a bit of a pot head and hang with the "druggie" crowd. Total news to me. I was in shock and in about 5 minutes it all came together in my head.

I thought about my move very carefully. Very nervously, I sent Ziggy a text message that simply said, "I know". That was it...just that I knew. Later that night my phone rang and through tears he said that he would tell me, but not tonight. He would stop by the next night when I didn't have Luke. He didn't call the next night and I thought again and sent the text, "I'm telling your parents". Within seconds the phone rang.

For over an hour he came clean...well, he didn't get clean, but he came clean. He told me everything - what he did, how he did it, how he got it, how much he spent on it, how bad off it was, where he hid it - everything.

He didn't ask for help. He didn't say he was quitting. He just said that he was sorry and that he could do nothing more this night than tell me. Being the selfish human I am, I attempted to yell at him for what he did to MEEEEEEEEEE MEEEEEE WAH WAH WAH and I was boldly stopped. He very calmly said, "Sandy, I've been clean for 12 hours now and I have no idea how long that can last. I know what I've done and I'm begging you to please just not make me face that right now, please."

And so I didn't.

The options for opiate addicts are small. You can detox in your sleep at a clinic (they literally put you to sleep for up to a week and you wake up detoxed) and while that sounds ideal, that would mean coming clean to his parents and possibly losing his job. You can go to rehab, which has a very low success rate for opiate addicts. You can quit cold turkey, which we know doesn't work, or the worst, you can go on methadone. Methadone is what heroin addicts take to get clean and methadone is now known to be just as addictive as any other opiate. Ziggy had dozens of "friends" addicted to methadone and he refused it.

At this point, he couldn't even achieve "high" anymore. He was so deep into it that all he was doing was enough to maintain a level in his body that avoided withdrawals. He was spending almost $1000 a week, if not more and he couldn't even physically get high anymore - withdrawal was just that painful and that scary.

Enter George W. Bush. Now a hell of a lot of people hate that man. Ziggy and I however, love him, because he gets a small portion of the credit for saving Ziggy's life. There was a drug being used in Europe for years called suboxone. It is specifically for opiate addicts and about 90% less potentially addictive than methadone. It was George W. Bush who got the drug to America and in the blink of an eye, millions of opiate addicts actually had hope and possibility of a life without being addicted to methadone.

The drug is hard to find and you have to be specially trained to distribute it at this point in time - it's very new in America. In 2005 you may have only been able to find one doctor in a major city who was certified to distribute it. I won't bore you with details of the drug, however, if you have an opiate addict that needs help, research this drug, please, and find a doctor in your area that distributes it.

We got Ziggy an appointment and he began taking the pills. I agreed to be his friend and walk with him through this as much as I could handle. I can't explain how hard it is to take the hand of the monster who destroyed your life and your heart and your dreams and help them get up and walk again without being able to even begin to express to them the hurt and the pain and the trauma that they caused and were still causing. There's a saying in 12 step programs that goes along the lines of "I stayed sober today and for today, that's the best I can do". And while that sounds like a cop out - at this point, it was true. I couldn't mumble a peep about MY pain and MY hurt and MY MY MY - if I was going to do this, I had to keep that all in and save it for later. This was no shit life or death for Ziggy at this point and so I shut my mouth the best I could (I'm wasn't perfect with it though).

The first time I saw him again after the night from hell where Chapter 2 ended, we met at a Subway near our jobs and I can't even describe how close to death he had come. He had gone from a healthy 36/38 waist to a 29 waist. His skin was pale and clammy, his movements were slow and strained. It was heart breaking just to look at him. But I put on my happy face, hugged him and bought him a friggin footlong and forced him to eat the whole thing. As we walked out, he looked at me, almost crying and said, "My God, I can't believe what I've done to you - I will make this up to you, I swear it."

This is where Chapter 3 must end before Luke kills me for the computer. However, I will leave you with this...this is not hell yet. Hell was about to begin. That lunch at Subway was in the beginning of August 2005. On August 26th, the entire southeastern portion of Louisiana began to evacuate for a bitch in the Gulf named Katrina. Katrina pushed Ziggy into a hell that we hadn't yet known. It threw him a state away from his doctor and into a world where even now, almost 4 years later, he will begin to shake and fight back tears at the very thought of. On August 29th, 2005, Katrina would change all of us and a hell began for us both that was bad enough to deserve its own fucking sound track.

And I promise that we'll get through the hell and begin to see some light...next Chapter.

Chapter Two

This is where I have to choose words wisely, and cautiously decide what to divulge and what to refrain from spilling. There is a delicate balance between seeing Ziggy as a monster and therefore seeing me as a pathetic co-dependant wuss, and seeing Ziggy as someone with a help-less disease and me as someone strong enough to trust/love/forgive. I don't want either of us to come off as self righteous heroic super humans or wastes of the human space either.

And so, here we return:
When Ziggy called that Saturday morning, I was excited, but I honestly had NO idea whether or not this was a date, or just a friend from work trying to cheer me up with a night out. I was still in my one bedroom apartment at this time. I slept on a futon in the living room and the bedroom belonged to Luke. Even though he was only about to turn 2, I wanted him to have everything normal that he could possibly have, so the room was his except for my dresser. I was saving up and had my eyes on a townhouse down the street that I would buy just 6 months later with the gift of a down payment from my dad.

So I was embarrassed for Ziggy to pick me up - I stupidly placed him on a pedestal from day one and that is where I wind up being partially to blame for part of his need to hide his dark side. When someone has you up on a pedestal, the last thing you want to do is disappoint them by having to step down in front of them. A year later, I would learn that I had no reason for the embarrassment, but having no idea what neighborhood he came from or how he lived yet, I thought that he would find my dwelling to be shocking and pathetic - as if I was looking for a superman to save Luke and I, when the reality was that I was doing better than he was and just didn't know it yet.

I went to Target and bought a brand new outfit that I can still remember to this day. We ate at Roadhouse Grill and then saw Bruce Almighty afterwards. We struggled through conversation at dinner. We'd known each other and worked together for so long and amazingly were both shy and awkward. In the middle of the movie, it happened. His hand grazed my knee and just as I thought it was accidental, his hand found mine. Oh. My. God. HE LIKED ME! In the car he explained that while he knew it wasn't the best timing, that he saw the window open and he knew he needed to jump in fast since I didn't tend to stay single very long. That still goes down as one of the nicest things he's ever said to me. He actually saw me as this unattainable person with a line of suitors a mile long.

After that we had several other small dates. Nothing progressed really, and I soon learned that Ziggy was very green in the relationship department. Though he had lost his virginity in high school on the floor of a Subway bathroom (no friggin lie, he was a sandwich artist and lost his virginity to an older co-worker at work), he had actually never been in a relationship. Being painfully aware of his physical features, he was often called Alf or Dr. Evil by friends, due to a small resemblance, or what they thought was a resemblance to both characters. In fact, his own real nickname given to him by friends in high school, Ziggy, came from the size of the cartoon character's nose. Personally, I found his prominent nose and cleft chin to be painfully sexy and he reminded me of my life long crush, John Travolta.

A few months later, the young work crew was pulled into a meeting and literally yelled at for our cavorting and friendships and we were warned that we all needed to grow up and realize that this was work and not 90210 - there was a whole lotta messin going on other than Ziggy and I. That night Ziggy did not call. I was crushed. My thought was that the meeting was about the triflin ho's and had nothing to do with the budding relationship that we had hidden so well. We only went out in his parents' car, and we would go 50 miles out if we chose to be in public - it wasn't us that had been caught.

The next day was Valentine's Day and I didn't hear from him. A few months later he called and told me that he had pulled away from me specifically because he knew that I needed my job way more than he did, and that he was afraid of jeopardizing it, because after the meeting, he was pulled in one on one with our bosses and told something that would keep us apart for a long time...he was being promoted and would become my official boss in less than a month.

I was devastated over a good thing ending so suddenly. I was devastated about him getting promoted and not me. But time passed and we got back into our work groove. I began dating again and we went our separate ways outside of work.

I would hear from him on the phone every now and then. He normally called late at night when he was sad. Amazingly, we would have some of the deepest conversations on those nights discussing everything from religion to death to love and childhoods. These were the nights when I learned how desperately he wanted to have a relationship, and more specifically, one with me, but he loved his job and he knew I loved mine and it was almost as if we were just stuck. We hung up at 6:00am just to shower and head in to work on many a morning, our cell phones scalding hot and slimy from sweat from six to eight hours of continuous use.

About a year later, we decided to throw caution to the wind. We began dating again - very cautiously. We only went out in his parents' car. We went as far as Slidell and Baton Rouge for dates. We decided to allow the relationship to finally just happen and if we found ourselves serious at any point, then we would discuss options for work. At work, we were absolutely amazing. Being my boss, he wound up being harder on me than anyone and we pulled the wool over every one's eyes. We still got comments about how great we would be together, but no one actually suspected us together. Later on, we would get sloppier about it and a loud mouth salesman would bust our cover, but for now, everything was going great.

He was so funny and so sweet and so innocent. Though he had been laid before, he had never been loved and never had the opportunity to love in return so everything was new to him. It was precious. He appreciated the tiniest of things - simple kissing, hanging out and being close. He secretly let me always keep one of his toe nails painted pink for months, just so that he could be reminded that he actually had a girl in his life. We had secret codes at work. Secret "work" words that meant "I Love You". We took weekend trips to anywhere we could go where we could be outside and a normal couple without worrying about being caught.

A few months into the relationship, I noticed strange behavior. I won't string you along or foreshadow, I'll just lay it on the line. Ziggy had experimented with every drug on earth. You name it, and he's tried it with the exception of heroin and crack, that is. Of course I had no idea. I've never in my life (honest to God) even tried pot, so I just figured he was like me and if he had ever experimented, I never imagined it was more than pot. I wasn't a goody goody, I was just raised with an addict father and an addict sister and the stuff just scared the shit out of me, so I didn't touch it. Towards the end of college, a friend handed him a Vicoden and that's when his love affair with opiates began.

Sure he was moody, but you did hear me mention my family, right? Moodiness = normality for me. Nothing seemed askew.

By the time we were dating seriously and "in love", he was crushing and snorting oxycontins about 2 - 3 times a week. Now enters his side of the story for a moment here, as it was once told to me by his own sponsor on a night when I almost threw in the towel and gave up on him. When we began dating, he wanted desperately to have that relationship and to be clean and just start a new life. Have you ever been fat and tried to diet unhealthily? Have you ever tried to quit smoking cold turkey? What happens? For the majority of us, we attempt to quit with no help/support/assistance and a day or a week later we are failures stuffing twinkies down our throats or smoking pack after pack like a chimney. Now take that experience and multiply by the strength of an opiate. Every attempt to quit was doing nothing more than increasing his addiction and he became absolutely powerless against it.

And so that was his life. His growing addiction was hidden from family, work and even his best friends. He was embarrassed and ashamed and desperate to be sober. He would quit cold turkey, hit the withdrawals (opiate withdrawals are as difficult, if not worse than heroin withdrawals) and then the next day he was using twice as much as before. The cycle continued for over a year and this is now where we are in the story.

He's sick all the time. He's constantly either sweating, or puking or having leg cramps. I'm constantly begging him to see a doctor, thinking that he must be dying from some kind of stomach cancer. He's spending so much time with friends instead of me that I'm convinced that either I'm fat and ugly or he is gay. (I would later learn that all that hanging out with buddies was really just him going to dealer's houses - his friends even had no clue what he was really doing...in fact they all hated me for taking him away from them, or so they thought).

He's almost 100% impotent at this point (opiates are notorious for this fun side effect), which increases my worries of either his homosexuality or my fat/ugliness ten fold. He's constantly broke. I made about $30,000 by this time and he was at $40,000. I was raising a kid and owned a townhouse. He lived with his mother and was always broke. I began thinking that he was gambling or a million other things that I just couldn't bust him on. I'm waking up at night to find him balled up in corners crying his eyes out and begging God for help...I'm scared shitless. This perfectly great guy is turning into a maniac right in front of my eyes. I'm afraid of him and yet I feel so bad for whatever "illness" this is that he's battling, that I can't just walk away from him.

I. Never. Considered. Drugs. Ever.

Ziggy was too immaculate, too clean, too polished and shiny to be a drug addict. I began checking his phone, digging through his over night bag when he slept over, rifling through his car while he slept looking for any clue on earth that would tell me why this wonderful friend and lover was turning into this monster. But he was a master at hiding it all...and skilled in turning it all around and blaming it all on me - a skill that most addicts are capable of.

And then it happened - the end. In a final attempt to get him to just TELL ME WHAT WAS WRONG WITH MEEEEEEE, I forbade him to leave the house. With one fell swoop, he took me by the head and threw me across the room and stormed out of the house.

The next day, I got a prescription for Prozac, I began seeing a therapist and I very slowly began life without him, determined that whether he was gay, a compulsive gambler, addicted to prostitutes or whatever it was, that it had to be HIM and couldn't be ME and that I would get myself out of this situation and find my health and my sanity again.

And this my friends is where Ziggy's hell truly begins.

To be continued.....

As promised...

As promised, I wanted to do a little something to honor Ziggy's 3 and 1/2 year sobriety anniversary. With our 2 year wedding anniversary only a week away, I guess it's also fitting to maybe type out the story of us, per say.

I'm thinking this won't all fit in one post so I was thinking the hook up may be first, then the decent into hell and then finally the rising above the ashes. We'll see how it goes though.

The Beginning:
In August of 2000, I was 8 months pregnant, married to a man who was really only ever just my friend, making $8.50 an hour, living in a 1 bdrm apt and scared shitless about what was happening to me. But damn it to hell, I was determined to make it all work somehow.

I had been at my current job for a full year and I was about to turn 23. I began as a "utility clerk" which was what my boss, Mrs. Anal, titled me. In that first year, I had clawed my way into being noticed by the Accounting Department. They would give me odd jobs to do and I would amaze them with my shy manner of correcting the errors of those who were paid much better than I was in a way that made me needed rather than a threat. In time, I had my own daily set of Accounting tasks on top of being Mrs. Anal's filing, coffee making, plant watering bitch.

In walks Ziggy. He was hired as a favor to a big boss and he was unwelcomed in the Accounting Department. A department filled with non-degree carrying, hard working mothers didn't take kindly to this degree toting prissy boy. I would later come to respect his own fight for respect in that crowd, but at the time, he was nothing more than a threat to me and to all of us. I was to give HIM all of my Accounting duties to handle while on maternity leave and I laid awake at night sure that all of my hard work to get somewhere in this company was being stolen by him.

Needless to say, I loathed him. He asked a million questions and was a perfectionist to the nth degree. He was absolutely nothing more than a nuisance and I literally prayed for his demise, because I knew that he would hamper my rise to the top - I just knew it. If you had told me that I would one day carry this boy's child, I would have laughed my ass off for a week.

By time I returned from maternity leave, he was beginning to gain mild respect for his brains and his uncanny ability to take a task and completely dismantle it and then return it reassembled in a much more streamlined manner. While the women still feared him, they began to accept him for his sense of humor and they even began to mother him as their own little boy of the group. Nauseating!

It wasn't long before we became a team - him constantly the thinker and me constantly the one who brought his ideas into fruition and made them work in the day to day work that he had no concept of.

We spent a year as almost a brother/sister team. His penis and his degree helped him rise faster - this was still a good ole boys company (it still is in many ways, but it's come a far way in 10 years). He was able to stay late and be noticed as the only person in Accounting left in the building after dark. I had an infant to rush home to. He could go to lunch with the big boys because he made $30,000 a year and lived with mommy. I was on a budget and in constant fear of not being able to pay the bills and I packed bologna sandwiches.

I'll grant him that he was brilliant and did take that department from 1970 to at least 1990 in a matter of his first year, but I don't admit that to his face. To his face, I remind him that if I had a penis, a degree and was not a new mother going through a divorce, that I would have risen beyond him easily.

Years later, our boss and mutual mentor told us that she believed us to be the perfect brains/brawn team and that it was a shame that I was always labeled as the brawn when I had my own brains to show off. God, I loved that woman. Hats off to you, Ms. Carolyn.

The Accounting Department had morphed in the year that had passed. I had been officially stolen from Mrs. Anal and placed full time in Accounting (HALLELUJAH!) and the department went from an average age of about 45 to an average age of 21 in that year. I was 24/25 at the time, and Ziggy was 7 months younger than me. We were the two oldest in the group and we found ourselves with young chics beneath us to actually teach and groom. They all looked up to us and commented regularly on "what a great team" we were and how we "would make the perfect couple" - all comments that we shrugged off. I had begun a new relationship with a Born Again Christian Cuban since my divorce and I was in lurve. He was flirting with ironically, the Cuban chic in Customer Service.

As young people often do in these situations, we found ourselves at a local bar almost every Friday night. Friday night was mamma's night off from Luke, so I was free to be young and go out and drive home dangerously tipsy and dance and be nuts.

It was on one of these nights where Ziggy actually graced us with his prescence. He was obnoxiously cautious about his job and he always acted too good for us, as if he already had WAY too many friends to be bothered with the likes of us. It was on this night that I saw Ziggy let loose a little, I heard him laugh a real laugh for the first time and I noticed that his eyes were blue. Having squinty eyes and never seeing him out of the office, I had never noticed how blue his eyes were. He isn't sure of the exact date, but I know that this was the night he first noticed me as more than his teammate from work. Long after the bar closed, we remained in the parking lot, just talking, for hours.

From that night on, there would be moments when I absolutely hated him, wished him dead and hoped that he drove off a cliff - but I never, not once, ever stopped loving him.

A few months later, I broke up with the Cuban for reasons that had nothing to do with Ziggy. Our moment was not forgotten, but booze wears off and you get back to normal life on Mondays. I cried in his office the morning after the break up, which was strange behavior for me. He had no idea what to say and I could tell that he was really uncomfortable with it. However, very early the next morning (a Saturday), my phone rang and for the first time, it was Ziggy's voice that I heard. He nervously pretended to be calling to ask something absurd about work and then finally in a stuttering and stammering way, he asked me to go to dinner and a movie that night. It was the summer of 2002.

To be continued...

Vagina

Well, it's official folks, we have a vagina. Well, "we" meaning me and the fetus. You may or may not have a vagina, so I don't want to assume anything.

She finally raised her ass above the placenta for us today and showed us her girlie bits. We were happy and shocked and just so god damned relieved to know what it is. Since ultrasounds are so good these days, you would be shocked if you went to a baby store and actually tried to purchase one full gender neutral outfit - it's nearly impossible.

Her name is Shelby and that is her real name. I share it with you since I love you. I don't know why I worry over this anonymity online thing since Shelby and Luke are real names - Ziggy is not - that's a nickname, but oh well.

I had planned to post tonight about my husband's 3 and 1/2 year sobriety anniversary. And I still will try to do that tomorrow night, because there was a lot of healing things I needed to get out - more for me than for you, but you know - it is MY blog after all.

The vagina thing blew all other news and stories out the water. So how are we doing with the news? Well, we're almost in awe.

My parents had 3 girls between them. Between us 3 girls, there are 5 grandSONS. No one has had a girl in this family in 31 years. So this girl is anxiously anticipated. Sister # 1 (the one closest in age to me with the twins) expressed sincere excitement and happiness for me and for us and for the family in general. While she may long for a girl, we both know that at 35 and with twins, her baby making days are probably over and she's ok with that and just happy at the chance to have a baby girl around either way.

Sister # 2 (the eldest who lives in Miami with 2 sons) didn't seem too jazzed. If anything, I almost detected a bit of jealousy in her - as if her have two boys is any more my fault than me about to have a girl. She's the girliest of us all and would probably be the best at raising a girl, whereas I will most definitely be the worst!

Mom and dad were both thrilled. Dad seemed a bit nervous and has decided not to meet her until her Christening (he lives states away), but dad is dad and I'm fine with that. Mom is crossing her t's and dotting her i's and probably sending out shower invites as we speak, god bless her.

Auntie M was by far THE MOST excited of us all. She has no kids and so she dotes on our kids as much as she doted on us and I swear she's been saying daily novenas for one last chance to buy dresses and tap shoes.

Ziggy's sister, the godmother, seemed honestly excited. All I got from his mother was an emailed "yahoo". Just like that. Not even in caps or with an exclamation point. Fuck her - that's a whole other blog to talk about her nonsense lately. Long story short though - apparently middle child syndrome carries on to the middle child grandbabies even though they are the first grandbabies.

And then there is Ziggy. He spent the walk to the car and the drive back to work kind of in a daze. I was worried that he was upset, so I kept talking about how much daughters love their daddies and blah blah blah. He wasn't upset at all. It turns out that despite my growing belly, despite the furniture, despite the ultrasounds, none of it had become real until that moment when he learned that he had a daughter. He was just in shock of it all.

After work Ziggy and I went to Babies R Us to scan pink and purple items that were left off the registry thus far - towels, burp cloths, blankets, bibs, etc. We picked out a couple of sleepers and onesies - the basic staples that you need regardless of how many you're blessed with at a shower. Then we made our way to the little sundresses section. We picked out 2 sundresses that we both loved and then we came home and just sat in awe for a little while at what we'd done.

It's as if I have no other child and the wonder of it all is on us like scared 20 year olds. I'm seasoned. I know all this junk and yet, I'm scared shitless. Being a basic tomboy most of my life, femininity was something I always had to work VERY hard on - it never came natural and it still doesn't. I can't style my own hair let alone a toddler's. It's so scary, and while my god, I am so blessed to be able to raise one of each gender, this gender in particular has me petrified.

So that's the news. Sorry this post isn't funny or poetic - just informational is all. I'll be back sooner than later - promise.

Ball Hairs and General Updates

It's official, Luke has nut hair. As horrifying as that sounds, experiencing it is even worse.

We've noticed him "fiddling" ALOT more with his man parts. And when I say ALOT, I mean that if he doesn't have pants on and is in his boxers, then his hand is on his weiner. We've begun discussing appropriate behaviors and how some intimate fondling should be reserved to our bedrooms. We've also installed a TV in his room so that some of his rest time/fondling time can be done in private.

Last month he announced that when his "bird gets bigger, there's a big blue vein in it." Then he announced to me in the car a couple weeks ago that he has nut hairs. Just a random, oh by the way, type of notification on both occasions. I was half proud that I've obviously done well thus far at raising him to feel comfortable telling me ANYTHING, and half mortified that he chose me to share this with. He asked me to look at it for him, and although I admit that I was SOOOO curious, I left this one to his father. (And shut up, because you'd be curious too!)

Via text message on Sunday night, I got the confirmation from ex that our son's once silky smooth sac, is indeed, now covered in peach fuzz that is of a thicker nature than leg hair. He says it's blonde and slight, but definitely there and a noticeable difference than the sac of 6 months ago.

So I frantically consulted Dr. Google. (Side note, if the FBI ever confiscates my computer, I will probably be incarcerated now due to my vulgar Dr. Google searches.) See, my little boy is only about to turn 9. This is not supposed to happen yet, right? RIGHT??

Nope. It's totally normal. According to Dr. Google, the average age for boys to begin having wet dreams is now as early as 10, with 9 being considered normal also and 11 being the median. Girls are beginning to menstruate (I said, menstruate...haha) as early as 10 also with some spotting beginning at 9. GAH!!! Are you fucking kidding me? A chat with a pediatric nurse I know of confirmed it all for me also.

While I'm comforted to know that my son is not some abnormally maturing freak, I'm still appalled that we are here in this place ALREADY. So this is what prompted us into trying to encourage him to seek out a little privacy. We are asking him to start closing the door when he uses the bathroom and I'm not sitting and chatting with him during his baths anymore (he takes showers now anyway, sniff sniff - and he even asked for man shampoo this week, and I almost cried while buying him a bottle of Erick's brand instead of his normal Johnson's kids' foam wash).

While I miss our openness and feeling of joy while prancing around naked all over the house, I know that it's healthier and better for him to not be stroking his pecker in the living room next to me while we watch Spongebob, even if he still doesn't know the meaning of it all yet - it's not cute boy fiddling anymore - it could lead to a goal VERY soon, if you know what I mean and his mother should NOT be next to him if/when he figures out the goal.

So other than my son's nuts, lots is happening. The baby's room is DONE! Ziggy finished all of the furniture tonight and it's all set up and we catch ourselves just walking in there to stare at it all. Ziggy never had a baby, and I lived in a one bedroom apartment when I had Luke, so the actual nursery is new for the both of us.

We made a big decision to save $300 on a ridiculous crib bedding set that the baby never uses anyway and we're using Luke's that I meticulously packed away, so it looks like new anyway. I chose his theme before I knew his gender, so while we both feel that the theme is maybe a bit masculine for a possible girl, for the sake of not wasting $300 and also making Luke feel special over his stuff being used for the baby, we've opted for the hand me down since everything else thus far is brand new. Many of my new mom friends don't "get" this concept. My seasoned mom friends normally shout an "amen, sistah" at me when asked about the bedding choice.

I bought a bottle of Dreft to wash Luke's set tonight so I could put them on and take pics, even though I know after sitting for 12 - 15 weeks, they'll need another washing prior to the baby actually using them. Let me tell you, when I opened the bottle of Dreft and took that first sniff, it was like...oh my god...it was like I was transported 8 years back and Luke as an infant was in the next room. The scent of that stuff is powerful. I don't recommend sniffing it unless you are really prepared for the emotions that come with it...seriously. A year ago, I may have slit my wrists from the scent and the fertility issues and the longings and all that jazz.

So that's the happenings of the moment. Lots else going on with in law drama and work drama and renovations drama - but I'll get to that later.

23 weeks? Are you shitting me?

It hit me today, hard - I'M 23 weeks! HOLY SHIT! That's like 3 weeks away from viability...not that I want/plan to have a 26 week old baby, but still - if it did happen to fall out for some reason, in only 3 weeks, it would probably survive. That's freaking amazing.

I also noticed that I'm more than half way finished in the boxes above - that's weird and freaky too, expecially since it felt like FOREVER just to get out of the first box.

So what's been happening? Well, the 1/2 house renovations are almost done. Our house is a great shell of a house, but it SCREAMS 1980. We could only afford to start renovating half of the house right now, so we chose the guest room (future baby room), Luke's room, the living room and the hallway...well that's really about a 1/3 of the house, but by time this baby is in high school, we should be done!

So I demanded that Luke's room be the first done so that he wouldn't be displaced long, so his room is finally done. The baby's room is about 90% done. Ziggy just needs to caulk/spackle/paint the baseboards. Then the living room and hallway are last. It's been really hard having furniture all over and nothing in it's place - especially for someone like me, but I'm dealing.

All of the baby's furniture is in and is just awaiting being unboxed and put together. Things are moving along...SLOWLY, but surely.

Ziggy is doing much better, thank God. My theory of the early onset of his normal June depression seems to be true and we've entered June almost in the clear, so May just sucked the way that June normally does. He's returned to his normal bubbly, joking, dancing around the house obnoxious self and we are so happy to have him back. I've been trying my best to applaud his return as the experts say I should and let go of the anger of his departure - that is also coming along...SLOWLY, but surely.

Alterior placenta be damned, this baby has become a kicker. I'm not sure if the placenta is migrating, as the doctor hoped it would, or if he/she is just strong enough to now be felt through it, but good gawd I'm feeling some kicking.

Sometimes I sit and just gaze at Luke - his fingers, his toes, his nose and I think, I MADE THAT - I made every cell in his body and here I am, blessed enough to get to do it one more time. And when I say, "one more time", that is exactly what I mean. This is it for us. I have no desire to have a litter. I want as many as I can afford and be comfortable and love adequately while hanging on to my career and I know in my soul that this is it for us and I'm ok with that. We've decided against getting "fixed" until we are 35...just in case we win the lottery or have a major change of heart, but in our minds, we know we are done.

So that's a generic update of life in general. So much else is going on...growing twin nephews that are HILARIOUS, Luke being with his dad for the weeks during the summer, stress and anxiety over our growing debt and worries over Ziggy's physical health lately (we are suspecting possible diabetes), my crazy mother being crazy again and me being scared about being out of work for 8 weeks - but we'll catch up on all that jazz later, I promise.

Call on the saints?

I have a problem. It may seem silly, it sure does to Ziggy, but it's a real problem to me. Here it is:

I am deathly afraid of the baby's room.

No kidding. Since the day we moved into this house, I have been afraid of that room. I hate going in it alone. I hate walking away from it with my back turned against it. I hate walking down the hallway with the lights out - I HAVE to be able to see the doorway of that room.

I can't nap in that room (It's been our guest room for almost 2 years, so there is a bed in there). I can't go in there AT ALL when I am home alone.

I have no idea what the reason is. Nothing bad ever happened in there. The family before us lived here over 20 years and raised 2 daughters in that room. Nothing evil ever occurred in the room. I'm not normally one to believe in haunts or spirits. I have NO IDEA what my problem is.

No one else gets these feelings in this room. No one. Ziggy naps/sleeps in there all the time when he gets kicked out of the bed for his snoring.

So what is this? A sixth sense? An intuition? I have no idea. How do I get rid of it though? I keep thinking that the more it transforms into the baby's room, the less I'll feel like this, but it's actually getting worse. Last night I had a thought of having to go into that room at 3:00am to change diapers and soothe a baby and it freaked the hell out of me.

What is my problem? I've thought of maybe doing some kind of prayer in there or hanging a crucifix or something. But I'm not even sure if that would help or not.

Any suggestions?

Just a few words...

My son called me this afternoon to tell me that he was bored at his father's house and that his dad couldn't bring him home until 7:00pm, so would I please come and get him because he wanted to come home.

Do you know how fast I got there?

Exactly.

It was a good day.

Nuff said.

Why are you here?

My mother did something this afternoon that is in the top ten most offensive things that you can possibly do to me.

Being an intensely introverted person with probable borderline social anxiety, I like to be alone. Nay, I LOOOOOVE to be alone. Alone time for me is better than sex or chocolate cake or massages. A day of quiet aloneness is a treasure to me.

My husband had just gotten in his truck and pulled out of the driveway for a two hour trip to run various errands, and I walked back into the house in anticipation of 2 full hours of quiet alone time. It was a glorious feeling and I was giddy to find something on TV that had no cartoon characters or detective story plot to it.

While peeing, I heard my door quietly open and shut. It kind of scared me because there was no reason for my husband to be coming back so soon. I picked up my cell phone and called him really quickly rather than calling out in the house to ask who was there, because I honestly was scared and had a weird feeling about it.

He answered and I whispered, "are you here?" When he said no, I dropped the phone and felt panic. I got the baseball bat that I keep under my bed for this very purpose and I began slinking down the hall.

It was my own god damn MOTHER! She had come over to my house 100% totally and completely unannounced and had not knocked or rang the bell or anything - just let herself right in.

This is so intensely offensive to me. Unnanounced guests are of the devil to people like me, much less guests with keys to my house who just let themselves in.

My old neighbor, Kevin, would very often come knocking on our door completely unannounced rather than calling first - during dinner - during baths - during whatever, and I actually taught my kid that when a door knocks and you aren't expecting anyone, you go into another room and sit very very quietly until the knocking stops. Seriously, I find unannounced visits so offensive that I will rarely even humor you by answering the door if you do it. Kevin did it so often, that it is ingrained in Luke's brain to look at me for direction on what to do whenever a door bell rings.

What if I was naked? What if I had been using adult toys in the living room? (I'm just saying is all.) I mean, just waltzing into someone's home completely unannounced is so brazen and ballsy and really just rude.

Her story is that she came to help around the house since I was sick...which is nice and all...but any good will that could have come of it was flushed out the door by her method of entry.

She said, "well, I talked to Ziggy earlier." Um, yeah, you called while I was asleep and told Ziggy that you would CALL after you finished cooking your pot of beans to see if I wanted any help around the house. Is that what happened? No, I didn't think so, since I have no missed calls on my phone.

So then, in her usual martyrdom way, she immediately shifted into abused child mode of no one loves her and no one appreciates her and why does she even exist.

I told her NINE times that I was just really still sick and really dopey on meds and that I just wasn't in the mood for company or cleaning today. She then followed me around the house for a half hour explaining to me whatever it was and almost begging for love and approval.

I hate this shit. I didn't ask for her help. I may have wanted her help if I had a little time to prepare myself for it (it takes at least 10 minutes of mental preparation for a visit from my mother). So now, I feel like shit for being ungrateful, and I feel like shit for making her feel bad, and now I'm stuck with her here for at least two hours alone while my husband is out running those errands that I purposely orchestrated that he go out and run specifically so that I could be ALONE and now by time she leaves, he'll be returning and UGH!

Ziggy is a whole other issue - he walks around like a lost puppy when I'm sick and wakes me up 9 million times just to see if I'm feeling better yet and it's like he paces around until I finally get up and am normal for him again. He freaks out when I am out of commission.

Anyway, so that's my day. Now with the whirring of the vacuum in the background, I have to get up and go fold the laundry that my mother insisted that I let her wash - because I'd prefer for her NOT to fold Ziggy's underwear or my granny panties.

Fabulous. Good times.