There's no hiding in my memory..........

There's no room to avoid. -- Genesis -- The Carpet Crawlers -- 1974



Hey girls----thanks for the good wishes for my Sadie! Mrs. C., here is a picture her in her hand-made collar, after her last surgery. My Mom made it for her because she couldn't get through the goddamned doggie door with that cone on her head. She kept nearly decapitating herself!

It's a pretty cool collar. It allows her to see all around, run and play, but doesn't allow her access to her injuries. The cover is removable and washable, the inside is a comfortable reinforced foam. There is a cut-out for her chin to rest on. That Mother of mine is a pretty crafty chick.

Sooooooo....... now on to the not so happy news. My Vet is very concerned about the lump that she removed from my girl. In her exact words " it was not at all what I expected, so it's been sent off for a Pathology exam". Not really what I hoped to hear. I'll have to wait 5-7 days to get the answers. My Vet suspected, at first, that it was a benign histiocytoma. That was not what she found yesterday. It could, in fact, be cancerous.

That bit-o-news hit me like a fist to the face. You see, I am a worrier when it comes to my kid and my dogs. Especially the dogs. We have all seen how well my kid can take care of herself. The pups are helpless.

Show me a cut, I see a staph-infested, festering wound breeding a blood clot to the lung. Someone is limping. Must be a cancerous limb. A flea! oh my frickin' god there is an infestation and they are being eaten alive!! Somebody check for Anemia!!

However, with this little lump, I was oddly unconcerned. It seemed innocuous enough. Simple to remove. She's just a baby. 2 years old. It couldn't possibly be that bad. And when my Vet originally told me what she thought it might be last week upon exam, my friend Google and I settled in for a long, lazy afternoon of knowledge. Ack......it was nothing. A piddly little lump that would come off with a quick flick of a scalpel.

Except that it wasn't. And it didn't. Sadie has a BIG incision in her armpit. I know the shot is blurry. Sue me. I'm stressed.

What if it's not benign? What then? She's only 2.

So Internet friends, I have a favor to beg of you. For the next few days, couldya' keep my girl in your thoughts? Keep sending her some good Karma. If you pray, couldya' add a short tag line in there for Sadie?

I'd sure appreciate it.

You can sew it up ...........

But you still see the tear -- U2 -- The Sweetest Thing -- 1998





My Sadie girl is probably under the knife as we speak:







She has some kind of cyst in her armpit. It came out of nowhere. One day it was a small, pinkish swelling, like a little irritation. Within a few days, it was a big, angry, fluid filled cyst that needs to be removed. So keep my tough girl in your thoughts. She is only 2.5 and she has had so many things done to her poor little body in that short time:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/11/there-must-be-some-misunderstanding.html

and:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/12/be-running-up-that-road-be-running-up.html

She is a tough girl, but I am so sad when I have to again leave her, frightened in the hands of a Vet.

I go to pick her up this afternoon, and even though I don't pray, I am hoping and wishing and making all sorts of deals with fate or karma or the rulers of the universe that this lump is not something bad.

Please.

Right track wrong train..........

I'm not to blame -- Right Track Wrong Train -- Cyndi Lauper -- 1983


Uh-huh. You read the title correctly. Remember my little post from yesterday, extolling the virtues of riding the train after delivering my Princess' repaired auto to her? Well, here are a few rules of thumb in case you should experience any days like that.......offered free to you from your beloved Avalon:

1. ALWAYS trust your own judgement. If YOU have looked up the train schedules, YOU have downloaded the departure and route times, YOU have printed out the station information...........STICK TO YOUR PLAN!! ASSHOLE.

2. Directly on the heels of #1.......DO NOT ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE DISSUADED FROM YOUR FINELY CRAFTED PLAN. By a 23 year old. One who has proven herself to be, uhhhhh, maybe a *bit* confused, possibly delusional, in the past:
http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/11/all-you-do-to-me-is-talk-talk.html

3. DO NOT allow aforementioned delusional spawn convince you that she checked and downloaded the schedule for a station closer to her house. Closer by 1.7 minutes. Easier for HER to find. DO NOT.

4. Do NOT allow said individual to drive you to the station OF HER CHOICE, leave you there to run to an unattended platform to catch a train.......with NO WRITTEN SCHEDULE for confirmation of what Delusional Dollie has shared with you. SHE MAY HAVE A MEMORY OR PERCEPTION PROBLEM. And again, you are an ASSHOLE.

5. DO NOT hop onto the very first train that seems to be a little close to the vague-ish time that the crazy girl might have told you is a possible route home. MISTAKE.

6. DO NOT blithely ignore the announcements from the conductor once you settle your fat and cold ass onto a train seat.....because you are too busy talking to your family on the cell phone......crowing with pride about how you managed to get onto the RIGHT TRAIN WHAT-A-PERFECT-BIT-OF-PLANNING-THAT-WAS. The fates do not like braggarts.

7. DO NOT ignore that niggling feeling of doom when all of the other passengers suddenly disembark the train one station after you got on. That feeling....it may actually mean something. IDIOT.

8. ALWAYS, ALWAYS wear a winter coat. When it is winter. And you might, somehow, have a screw-up in plans or communication or DNA or brain wiring that will cause you to have to wait 55 minutes in the frigid cold at an outdoor, unattended train station for the next possible connecting train to get you home. Warmth is an underrated commodity. STUPID.

9. ALWAYS be certain to call Delusional Dollie several times to repeatedly remind her of her mistake. She insisted that this was a direct ride......AND IT WAS NOT!! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TRANSFER. Continue to remind Dollie that this mistake that nearly caused her Mother to lose a few digits from frostbite. It will be highly effective for many hours and Dollie will feel embarrassed and regretful. RIGHTFULLY SO.

10. Next time, stay home and let the kid take the train to pick up her own goddamned car thank you ever so much.

This has been a public service announcement brought to you by the letter A. For Avalon. Or maybe ASSHOLE.

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round.........

I really love to watch them roll -- Watching The Wheels -- John Lennon -- 1980

The Princess' car----he's-a-fixed! Well, sort of. They couldn't really fix him cause' they couldn't really find where he was broken. Whatever. It only cost me 68 dollars for a 3 day, all inclusive stay at their automotive chalet....and a lube job. DOES ANYONE HEAR ME COMPLAINING??? I didn't think so.

But, now I will begin. Because I have to drive the car up to the Princess at school. A 1.5 hour drive this afternoon. I am leaving work early in the hopes that I will not hit too much commuter traffic in NY.....on a Friday-fuckin-afternoon. NOW I AM COMPLAINING!!

I hate to drive her car. Don't get me wrong, it's a cute enough little car and she adores it. It's actually her dream car. A Volkswagen New Beetle. It's my nightmare. I drive an SUV. To drive her car, I must contort myself to get very, very low to the ground so I can get in. Then I have to crane my neck for the entire ride to see over the mud flaps of the cars in front of me. I have to deal with the snarky glances from other drivers, clearly thinking that I am either a faded hippy or a lesbian ( not that there's anything wrong with that) for driving such a vehicle, and then, the ultimate indignity, some people actually play " punch buggy" as I whiz by them.

The only good thing, in my opinion..............German engineering! That little car is friggin fast. And I likey the fast.

So I will take the car to my girl, she will take me to the train station, I will take a train from there to Grand central and from Grand Central to home----because, of course, there is no direct train from the Princess to home. It's A-OK with me. I don't mind the train. No dogs, no Heat Miser, no bloody hand wounds. I'll bring a book to read as my cover, and then I'll spend a few hours marveling at the complete lack of human evolution as evidenced by the cretins who ride the rails.

It should be fun.

Catch ya' next week.

Sometimes I feel the need to move on

Move On -- David Bowie -- 1979



A solemn promise from Avalon. This will be the very last post to mention the terrible injury suffered by my Princess. Unless, of course, her finger should become horribly infected, fall off into her bedsheets, necessitating another emergent call home for advice. That would be too good NOT to Blog.



Otherwise, I thought you all might like to be let in on the most interesting tidbit to emerge from this entire insane, but true tale.



The Bagel that the Princess was cutting when she slashed and gashed herself............PRE-SLICED!

You heard me. Looky right there on the top of the label. In bright yellow. Bold.

It was a Thomas' pre-sliced Bagel. The dumbass never even needed to cut it at all!


Now do you all understand why I am cranky? Please, have pity on me. It's not easy being her Mother.



Aside from that, our stellar mechanic cannot figure out what is wrong with the Princess' car, so I can faintly hear the whispery sound of money slipping out of my wallet and into his hands. The poor kid had to take 2 trains back to NY last evening because she still has no car.



I have little else to share. Between this weeks vet bill for Maisie, my Poodle girl with a multitude of health problems, and the pending repairs to the Princess' car, I figure I should be about 600 bucks lighter. Can I tell you just how much that will improve my general mood?



I'll leave you all to play nicely amongst yourselves. No fighting!

We'll send a card and flower.....

Saying it's a mistake -- It's A Mistake -- Men At Work -- 1983

It's big. A big, gaping slash in her finger. It needed stitches. Really.

It's healing now, but I was shocked when my Princess took off the bandage yesterday to show me. Ugly. And she probably did see bone. And stars. It's very deep. There will definitely be a scar.

I had to apologize, and then take her to Walgreen's to buy proper bandaging supplies.

Poor kid.

Mean mother.

the girl's alright with me..........

you know the girl's alright -- The Temptations -- 1964

I think we have passed the critical " possible deadly infection of the heinous finger gash" period. Officially. Although, according to the Princess, she may be suffering from a bit of PTSD:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-traumatic_stress_disorder

No joke. The poor kid cries whenever she has to look at the wound. She is psychologically undone by this cut. She says that sometimes, she plays it over in her head and she is SURE that she saw bone. And that makes her all gooey and fainty-like.

So tell me, how do I go about securing an appointment with a Psychiatrist for my Princess? Imagine that call:



Good Morning, Dr. Head Fixer's office.

Me: Uh, hello. Um, I have a daughter and she's uhhh, having some difficulty coping with a stressful event. I think she may need some help.

Them: OK, can you give me the information on the patient? Name, age, insurance. You know, the usual things.

Me: Uh, OK. Her name is Princess and she is 23. Ummmm, the problem is that she doesn't have any insurance. Because she's 23. But we will pay off the bill, I promise.

Them:Wellllllll, ummm, it would really need to be an emergency for Dr. Head Fixer to see a patient with no insurance. Usually, indigent patients have to go to a state facility for care if they have no coverage.

Me: Oh, no. She doesn't need to be hospitalized!! She just needs A LITTLE BIT of help. For a short time. Not long term. She isn't craz........ Ohhhh, sorry.

Them: It's OK. Why don't you let me talk to Dr. Head Fixer and get back to you. He can decide. Just let me know what the issue is so I can share it with the Doctor.

Me: Well, you see, it was an injury. A grievous injury. A near-death experience actually. Her finger, oh, my Lord, her poor little finger. A gash. A terrible disfiguring slice. Ohhhh, I'm feeling faint. I'll have to call you back.


So, here I was worrying about Lumpkin being a head-case, and it's me and my Princess who have flipped our wigs.

Imagine that??

And she has to come home today to have her car fixed. It will be my very first inspection of the terrible injury. Maybe I should have an ambulance parked out front for the two of us.

All she needs is an old knife scar!

Rip Her To Shreds -- Blondie -- 1977


The Princess called last night.

Yes, her finger is still attached.
No, it doesn't appear infected.
Yes, she still gets a bit queasy when she looks at it.
No, she is no longer concerned about going " into shock".
Yes, we will be buying her a little bagel guillotine.

In other news, Lumpkin is supposed to be coming up to visit her for the weekend. A late Valentine's Day celebration.

THAT thought makes me queasy. It may even put me into shock.

Quick, somebody get me a bagel!

If you catch me trying to cut it up near my neck........next to my jugular.....you will understand why.


BTW........I really HATE having to go to - fake/happy/we all love you so much - office birthday parties. They are stupid and NEVER a surprise.

Have a nice weekend.

Baby I know the first cut is the deepest..........

When it come to being lucky she's cursed -- The First Cut Is The Deepest -- Rod Stewart -- 1976

OK. Here is a conversation you never want to have with your 23 year old child who lives in another state and currently HAS NO MEDICAL INSURANCE. Ready?

7 pm {{ring, ring}}

Me: Hello.

Princess: Uh, um Ma, Uh, I think I may need to go to the Emergency Room.

Me: What happened?

Princess: Uhhhh, I sliced my finger open. It's pretty bad Ma. It won't stop bleeding. I tried wrapping it up but it bled all the way through the bandages. It just won't stop. I think I need stitches.

Me: OK ( drawing on my extensive ER and EMT training, and praying that this kid doesn't need to go to an ER in Expensive County, NY because I will have to sell my car to pay the bill). Where on the finger is it cut? And with what?

Princess: Well it's near the end of my finger, like where your fingerprint is. But it just won't stop bleeding. I cut it with a knife and I think I saw bone when it happened. It's near the very tip.

Me: OK, hold some light pressure on it while we're talking and see if that slows the bleeding down. Don't squeeze to tight. I doubt that you saw bone if it's at the very tip of your finger, and there are no major veins or arteries that far up...mainly just small capillaries. It should stop bleeding with some direct pressure. How's it doing?

Princess: Ummmmm, I'm kind of afraid to look. Oh no, it's still bleeding, but maybe not as much as before.

Me: Good. That's good. Keep holding pressure. Steady gentle pressure. You want it to start clotting off.

Princess: OK. You don't think I need to go to the ER and get stitches? It looks pretty awful and it seems kind of deep.

Me: No honey, I think it will be OK if we can get the bleeding under control. If we can do that, then I want you to see if you have any SuperGlue in the house.

Princess: WHAAAATTT???? SUPERGLUE?! You don't actually think I'm gonna SuperGlue my finger! You're kidding , right?

Me: No, actually, the ER uses a form of SuperGlue for clean edged slices all the time. As long as the bleeding is controlled, it helps seal the edges of the cut. How is the bleeding?

Princess: Wow! It's much better. Just kind of oozing a little.

Me: Good! In this weather, if you had to go to an ER, you'd probably sit there for several hours. Everyone who crashed their cars, fell down on ice or had a heart attack shoveling snow will be a priority over your finger (( discreetly never mentioning the lack of insurance thing)) Plus, the driving is going to be very dangerous with all the ice and sleet. If you can avoid going to the ER, you will be much better off.

Princess: OK. Thanks Ma. It's much better now. What should I do next?

Me: Get some gauze. Wrap the finger up tight....not TOO tight and call me in an hour to see how it is.

Princess: OK! But, uh, Ma. I'm feeling kinda woozy. Ya know, like I might pass out.

Me: Sit down!! Are you sitting? Have you eaten anything?!?

Princess: Uhhhh no. I was cutting a Bagel for dinner when this happened. I'm sitting now, but I got kind of lightheaded when I thought I saw bone. My roommate had to help me. I was walking down the hall yelling " Sarah, I cut my hand" and she had to tell me to wrap it up. Ma, I think I was in shock.

Me: ( trying not to fall on the floor laughing at the idea of going into shock because of a 1 inch finger slice). Sit for a few minutes until you feel better, then eat something....BUT NOT A BAGEL OR ANYTHING THAT NEEDS TO BE CUT, and call me in an hour. If the bleeding gets worse before then, call me right away.

Princess: OK. Thanks Ma.



So the Princess survived the initial injury. She called an hour later to say that her finger was barely oozing. She was no longer shocky. She was feeling much better. She had eaten something. I gave her directions how to care for the wound. All was good in our world.


About 40 minutes later, another phone call.

Me: Hello?

Princess: Ma. Uhhhh, there's a problem.

Me: What? Your finger? is it bleeding again?

Princess: Uhhh not exactly.

Me: What's the matter then? Are you OK??

Princess: Well, I have hiccups and they won't go away. Do you think it's because of the stress of my injury?



The kid was serious.


It was very hard to restrain myself as she hiccuped away in my ear. I managed to be patient and assure her that she would be fine, but it was tough.

Right after I hung up, I turned off my phone and went to bed.

Maybe I was shocky from the stress of her injury.

Stupid Cupid keeps on calling me.......

But I see nothing in his eyes -- Fast Love -- George Michael -- 1996


So what, it's fuckin' Valentine's day. SO WHAT????

{{Bitter often?}}

No much happening here. The pups are behaving themselves the past 2 days. Feeding them more than once every 14 days has done wonders for the countersurfing shenanigans.

We are having a snow/sleet/ice extravaganza here in my lovely state. This is what our local news station said in the latest forecast:

A major east coast storm will be delivering quite a variety, and by the time is over, we could be looking at quite an ice storm. Very cold temperatures near the ground will be tough to move over, and we'll see only a slow change to rain in southern Ct....possibly not change in central and northern portions. The ice will cut snowfall amounts, but not reduce problems.
TODAY: Icy mix with very slippery conditions. Snow, sleet, freezing rain. Then, rain on the shore. Potential for serious ice storm interior sections.
TONIGHT: Clearing, cold. Lows in the teens


Yipppp--friggin--eeeeeee. As I sit here at my desk, I can hear the ice pellets pinging off my window. This, of course means that the Heat Miser DID NOT go to work today. She probably will not even leave the house. The danger of imminent death is too real. Remember this?

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2007/01/stop-pressuring-me.html

Snow is bad enough. Add in ice and sleet and wind. She's probably huddled in the basement surrounded by candles and rations, shovel and scraper at the ready. Likely sobbing. Or requesting to be medicated. Maybe trying to locate Arizona on a map. With a flashlight.

I can't even bear to call home and see what she's doing. It will make me tear a bald spot into my scalp.

The Princess is better today. She was in a rather foul mood when I called her last evening to warn her about the storm and her car. NO-----I am NOT turning into my Mother, thankyouverymuch! She just NEVER watches the news, drives a Volkswagen Beetle that is approximately .25 of an inch off the ground, and has never lived where she has to park outside during a storm. She picked up her phone and said " yesssss, I already took my shovel and ice scraper thingy out of the car". Sarcastic bitch. Must take after her Father's side.

She did send me a very cute V-Day card in the mail ( as I did for her....she's the only one who deserves such sentiments....sometimes), and then sent me a sweet e-card today. Must be kissing up after being such a bitch last night on the phone.

Lumpkin apparently saw the Psychiatrist last week who immediately prescribed an anti-depressant, and he immediately forgot to ask if there was either a generic or a less expensive alternative, and then also immediately called the Princess to say that he couldn't get the med because it was over 80 dollars .......and since he DOESN'T WORK, and his parents don't know that he has gone a bit wonky and is seeking help ( because they are stubbornly anti-help), he can't ask for a mysterious extra 80 bucks a month, so he has no meds. The Princess is NOT happy and may finally be starting to see the pattern of Lumpkin's self-sabotage. According to her, before the appointment, she coached him all about asking for an inexpensive, generic or sample of the drug to start off.........none of which he did.

That's all the news that's fit to print. Comment away, even you lurkers cause I know you're there. I do have a Stat Counter you know.

Just don't wish me a Happy Valentine's Day. I will shoot a poison arrow right through your heart.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ABC_(band)

Don't make me over..........

I wouldn't change one thing about you -- Don't Make Me Over -- Dionne Warwick -- 1963


Hope everyone had a splendiferous weekend. I won't bother to bore all of you with the mundane details. I think the pictures, at least the first bunch, will give you an idea of what I did with my weekend. We can start here:

And continue on to here:


Multiply that times 5 and you get the idea. The finished product is here...........and obviously very happy about it:


And here is what the basement looks like when I am done. Pre-cleaning:

Here are a few photos of all the beautifully coiffed pups after being fluffed and buffed:

Now, this last handsome face that you see above, well, let's just say that he almost lost a limb or two last evening. He nearly faced the grim reaper. In the form of my Mother ( the Heat Miser). He was a very, very bad boy.

I was in the basement finishing the last of my grooming jobs. Between the noise of the washer/dryer running to clean Poodle bedding, the clippers, the radio and possibly a Poodle whimpering to be saved from my scissorhands.....I can't hear much that goes on upstairs. On one of my "drop one off/pick one up" to be groomed trips upstairs throughout the day, I noticed that the Heat Miser was in a cooking mood. She was whipping up all sorts of delicious smelling things in our kitchenette. I paid little attention as I had work to do.

I came upstairs between dog #4 and #5 to have dinner. The HM had made a quick sauce for pasta.....bacon, onions, tomatoes, etc. It is delicious. One of our favorites. We ate dinner and I proceeded back to the torture chamber to finish grooming. The HM was cleaning up from the meal. It was about 5 PM.

I suddenly heard the distinctive voice of the HM, yelling. "Trevorrrrrrrr, WHAT DID YOU DO???? GET IN YOUR BED!!!!"

I came upstairs to find this:

See that dish above? Well, at one time, that was a dish filled to the brim with leftover Bacon sauce. For lunches this week. It was cooling on the counter. It was a heaping bowl. At one time.

Until Trevor. Apparently, while the HM was in the other room, Trevor took it upon himself to make his own dinner. The HM heard some noise in the kitchen, but foolishly thought that Trevor was getting a drink. Very foolishly.

She did not realize the truth until, after calling his name, Trevor made his way into the room with her, licking his chops the entire way. Then he came up good and close, probably to thank the HM for such a wonderful and delicious dinner. When he got close enough, the HM was overcome by the distinctive smell of Bacon Sauce on his breath.

He ate almost the entire bowl. Remarkably, he was fairly neat about the process. If you look closely, there is very little spillage. I guess he didn't want any to go to waste.

The HM chased him into his crate, and then she and I officially began our mourning phase for the lost leftovers. Trevor has upped the thievery ante. This is a full-on war between the Poodle and his people. Butter stealing is one thing, but when he starts to touch my REAL food........game on!

I am leaving work today to buy some mousetraps.

In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be

Ten Years Gone -- Led Zeppelin -- 1975

I have alluded to a family story in the past. Here:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/12/switch-off-mind-and-let-heart-decide.html

I had detailed the entire sad story in a moving, prize-winning piece of literary art. On Blogger, of course. And then this happened:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/09/if-you-made-your-way-here.html

So, to sum up the tale in as short a manner as possible:

I had a male cousin, 4 years younger than me. We were friends as kids, teenagers and adults. He got a girl pregnant when he was 24 and she was 20. They married. My aunt and uncle ( his parents) never liked her. Treated her poorly. Made her feel less than them. She was from another state and had no family nearby. Over time, she became very close to me, my mother and my daughter. We liked her for the person she was, and treated her as such. My aunt was apparently jealous of the relationship, but never made any attempts to improve her own relationship with her daughter-in-law.

My cousins wife had the baby, was home alone all day with no car while her husband worked skeighty-eight million hours to avoid being a husband and Father. She started to become closer and closer to my family. She spent weekend days at our house, we drove her wherever she needed to go , shared lots of time together....tried to make her lonely life more bearable. She only lived about 5 minutes away, so soon, she was at our house, or vice-versa.....all the time.

My cousin and his wife have 2 more kids over the next 7 years. She is a very involved mother, he is a very immature and distant father. Their marriage is not a happy one. The wife spends more and more time with the kids at my house. For all intents and purposes, the kids are like ours----become my neices and nephew, my Mother's grandchildren, my daughter's siblings. My Mother treats my cousin's wife like another daughter. She becomes like a sister to me. My daughter adores her children, especially the last who is born when my daughter is 16. That baby becomes my daughter's heart and soul.

My aunt apparently harbors more and more jealousy over the close relationship we have with her daughter-in-law, but stubbornly continues to refuse to accept her and treat her with dignity. My aunt wishes ( not so secretly) that her DIL will just go back home to her own family and leave the kids with their father.

My cousins wife, in her loneliness, forms an online relationship.......with another woman.....and admits to her husband that she is a lesbian. We know nothing about this as she is apparently ashamed. She goes to meet the woman ( in another part of the country) and comes back to tell her husband that she wants a divorce and custody of the kids ( that he had never shown much interest in). He says OK. She can have both. He wants his single life back.

Cousins wife continues relationship ( long-distance) with lesbian girlfriend. Over many months, she makes plans for new life in new state. She suddenly starts to pull away from us, but we have no idea why. My cousin tells her to get settled in new state so that the kids will have a home ready. He promises that he will send the kids to her by plane after she moves into the new home. The day she leaves, cousin and his mother ( my aunt) file order of abandonment against wife. They get a high powered lawyer and claim that she deserted the kids and refuses to come back. She is settled in her new home with her girlfriend, waiting for the kids to come. She has no idea of what my cousin and his mother have done until she is served with the paperwork. They never send the kids to her.

The divorce is final. My cousin gets full custody of kids. He and his Mother refuse to allow us to see them again. Cousin's ex wife is not allowed contact unless she flies back here to see kids. They allow her to see the kids very rarely. A few times a year.

We have not seen the kids for over 3 years. Ever. Their Mother is still fighting for some type of custody. Cousin and aunt have plenty of money to pay for attorneys. They continue to drag out the battle in court, hoping that she will give up.

3 kids have lost their Mother, my entire family, and their Mother's extended family. They were left with a father who is apathetic at best, and a Grandmother who uses them as pawns.....to win.



Fast forward to last night...........my Mother gets a call from a mutual friend of the family to say that my cousin got remarried. The new wife has a child of her own that she brought into the marriage. Together they now have 4 kids. The cousin who was never truly interested in his own children is now the father of 4.

I guess it should make me a little happy to think that my cousin's 3 kids have someone else in their lives who hopefully cares about them. It should. But it doesn't. I have images of the kind of stepmother who prefers her own child to her husband's. And after all they have been through in the past 3 years, I am worried that they are probably troubled children. They may no longer be so easy to love.

That call dredged up a sore spot. A wound that simply cannot heal.

Please, please, just let her be kind to them. They have suffered so much already.

They are 13, soon to be 10 and 6. They are missed every single day.

If looks could kill they probably will

Games Without Frontiers -- Peter Gabriel -- 1980

( Stuck in the 80's music much?)


I am a part of several online groups or lists. Mostly about dogs and dog-related activities. Sometimes the subjects stray, and this week, one of the the topics veered off course into a discussion about tattoos.

There was the typical " I love them", "I hate them" type of debate. Nothing new there. Several people admitted to having a tattoo or two. I admitted to having 6. And planning to get my 7th.

Suddenly, the tone of the conversation seemed to change. 6 tattoos?!?! What was I, some kind of carnival sideshow member?! A biker chick?!? A punk?!? A freak?!?

I mean, who the hell else would have 6 tattoos?

Me, that's who. I don't travel with a carnival. I do have a motorcycle license but I don't have enough money to buy the friggin' bike. I was big into punk for a lot of years, but that was pre-tattoo. Still have the Doc Martens. Freak....... well depending on who you are asking, the answer could be yes or no. Yes is the most likely response from family.

My problem is this. What the fuck business is it of anyone to judge me on the fact that I have 6 tattoos??? Is 5 acceptable but 6 assigns you to outcast status? Are 4 OK? Maybe just 1 is cool enough, but beyond that.... a person is irredeemable? Who sets the limit and with what parameters? Why, suddenly, do these people who have been conversing with me, sometimes for years, have a different opinion of me based on this one little disclosure? Does ink change who I am? I don't know. Maybe it does.

I know all the shit about " not judging a book by it's cover". Yep, I've heard it, I've preached it to my own kid. It's bullshit. You know why? We all do it. We form opinions on what we see. On the outside.

No one can see my tattoos unless I choose to expose them. Most people who meet me in my daily life have no idea about the tattoos. I have one on my upper chest, but it is easily covered by my work clothes. One on a thigh. Two on ankles, one on my calf, and the newest on my upper arm. All discreet enough for a professional work-force, but obvious enough that they hang out with pride in shorts and a tee.

So what are people judging? And why? If most people I meet can't see them, and they form an opinion about me without knowing that I have tattoos, why should exposing my tattoos change they way they feel? And what do 6 tattoos say about me as a person?

At work, no one knows unless I tell them. When I do, usually there are looks of shock, some smiles and nods in admiration, and then come the inevitable comments about the general disdain for tattoos. As if I would comment to another co-worker on the fact that I hate colored highlights after she proudly shows off her new hairdo. Who am I to judge? Even worse, who am I to comment? Especially when my comments might hurt someone else. I may think it, I may even admit to my feelings when asked, but why just offer my opinion? Who the fuck really cares what I think?

So, all of you, keep your ugly stares to yourselves when I am tooling around this summer in my shorts and tee shirt. I don't tell you to pluck that hair hanging out of your mole, or fix that broken tooth. I haven't commented that your toes look like parakeet claws, so you should wear some closed-toe shoes. I don't gape at your cellulite. OK, maybe I do, but I try to do it discreetly.

If you hate my tattoos, I don't really give a shit. You don't know what's underneath.

Our house is a very, very fine house

Our House -- Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young -- 1970



I had to buy a new friggin' card reader. I am still mad about it. Really mad. Pissy mad.

So here are the long awaited pictures.

Don't sit there all smug, waiting to be entertained with a fancy story to go along with them. You're lucky I am even sharing the pictures after all the aggravation with the computer and the whining from you kids.

Use your imaginations to come with an appropriately funny story. I will collect it in book report form on Wednesday. Double spaced. Late papers get an F----in red pen.

My bedroom. 4 dog crates.

My bedroom. 1 dog bed.

Living room. 4 small dog beds.

Living room. 1 large dog bed.

Dining room. 3 small dog crates.

Dining room. 1 small dog crate.

( Don't dare blame me for the dark picture. It was Nigel's choice. He really goes for the dark, moody Englishman image)

Dining room. 1 giant dog crate.

Kitchen. 1 small dog water bottle, 1 large dog water bottle.

Kitchen. 1 small dog water bottle. 1 large dog water bowl.

1 large dog wanting toy. 1 small dog wanting toy.

1 small dog after kicking 1 large dog's ass and winning toy.

That picture is the only part of this entire stupid thing that makes me happy.

I got a bad migraine that lasted 3 long years

Time Will Crawl -- David Bowie -- 1987



Headache. Head. Ache. For 2 days.

Added to a busy weekend with a busted shower. In my mansion, of course. I could have called upon the multitudes of staff to fix it, but I do NOT want to become spoiled, so I made the repair myself. Took me 4 hours, 3 skinned knuckles, one slice to the palm, and 73 filthy, perverse or otherwise disgusting utterances.

The shower is fixed.

Maybe the extra water pressure beating upon my tender skull is causing the headache. The headache that will not go.

Send help.


Or a neurologist.

Say a prayer for the pretender

The Pretender -- Jackson Browne -- 1976


Well kiddies, since I still cannot get my damn card reader to work, and I have a story to tell, I am going to improvise. This will require some mental gymnastics on your part, but I promise it will not kill you. Unless, of course, you have a preexisting condition, such as a bulging aneurysm in your head, and that could never legally be considered my fault if you drop dead from thinking too hard.


Onward and upward. I had taken some pictures of my house to share with my devoted fans. I wanted you to understand me a bit better. Feel closer.

Ewwwwww, not in that way you sicko!


So, instead of my pictures, I am offering you some comparable replacement photos. I have spent a lot of time trying to find images that are almost exactly representative of my life, but there may be some very minor differences. I will try to make it easy for you by detailing any tiny discrepancies.


Ready?


OK, here is what my house generally looks like on the outside ( please pretend that I did not post a photo of my real house a mere few days ago. Wipe that image out of your mind. OK?):



Differences:

1. My real house is red.

2. My lawn is not quite so green.....but, of course, it is winter where I live.

3. I don't have all those porches.

4. My Mother's curtains are nicer.......Irish Lace!


Otherwise, exactly the same. Exactly.

Now, for my bedroom:

Differences:

1. My real bed is cast iron and is white. Much better than that chintzy wood.

2. I only have one bedside lamp. Since no one sleeps on the other side but me.

3. My ceiling fan is prettier. And brighter. Isn't that a speck of dust on the one in the picture? None on mine.

Now on to my Dining Room:

Differences:

1. I would never have a mirror in my dining room. Tacky, tacky, tacky.

2. My plants would be real.

3. I don't have a door in my dining room. Someone might want to break in and steal my plants.

My bathroom ( get ready!):

Differences:

1. I prefer a tumbled tile look.

Otherwise, identical!

My dogs:

Differences, from the top:

1. Willie: He would have a smaller butt, lighter color and wagging tail. Or he would be napping.

2. Maisie: Pretty much spot-on, including the tiara. Just add some grey and white curls.

3. Annie: Add black curly hair. And a Frisbee.

4. Sadie: No changes. That's her. Well, OK, maybe Sadie's tail is a tiny bit shorter.

5. Trevor: Curly dark hair and a ball in his mouth. Or a stick of butter. Your choice.

So, that's some of my life in a nutshell. Are you all feeling like you know me more intimately now? I mean, you have all been given a insider's glimpse into my life, my home, my most personal images.

What? What's that you say?? A picture of me?? Oh, of course. I nearly forgot. Here is the closest approximation that I could find. It really is eerie. You know how they say everyone has a twin?? Well, here is mine:

Please don't miss this train at the station........

'Cause if you miss it, I feel sorry, sorry for you -- Love Train -- The O'Jays -- 1971

The Princess just called. She is safely ensconced on the train to go and spend the weekend with Lumpkin. I have such mixed feelings, still, about this relationship. We have detailed the Lumpkin saga here:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/10/dont-worry-about-thing-cause-every.html

and here:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/12/now-youre-on-your-own-who-cares-about.html

Lumpkin has been seeing a counselor at school. Regularly. The counselor immediately recognized what everyone, except for Lumpkin and his family, already knew. The kid is depressed. Score one for the crafty counselor!

After several sessions, the counselor kindly suggested that Lumpkin might fare better with a referral to a Psychiatrist. For meds. Lumpkin was not crazy about that idea. Lumpkin is petrified that his very old-fashioned, anti-therapy, in-full-blown-denial family would have successive strokes if he even told them about the counselor, nevermind the Psychiatrist.

However, the Princess encouraged, nagged, threatened her Lumpkin into accepting the referral and scheduling an appointment. The first visit is tomorrow and the Princess rearranged her schedule to visit Lumpkin, I am sure, to coincide with the visit. For moral support. Cause he's a big, depressed, unmotivated, immature baby. And again, I mean that in the most loving way possible.

I do NOT dislike Lumpkin (crazy as that sounds). For all intents and purposes, I don't even care if he has "issues". Issues can be fixed. Usually. If Lumpkin truly suffers from depression, my heart goes out to him and I sincerely hope that the correct meds can help him. However, aside from the depression, Lumpkin has also spent a lifetime being coddled. Babied. Taken care of. My worry is that he doesn't know how to work....to achieve goals. He has never been taught to go after what he wants. I think that the depression has masked a LOT of that innate inability. Or, even worse, has been an excuse for it.

What is going to happen if, after Lumpkin has been medicated for a while and ( hopefully) is feeling better..........nothing happens? That's my fear. That my Princess has all her hopes pinned on the fact that meds will make Lumpkin magically better. That the meds will perk him up and send him racing in search of his goals. That they will allow for the two of them to live happily ever after.

What she doesn't yet seem to acknowledge is that Lumpkin's abilities have been stunted.....be it from depression or coddling or familial dysfunction. Whatever.

At 23, how do you teach a young man the lessons he should have been learning his entire life long? Especially when the people who should have been teaching him don't see their own failures?

Who will teach him?

Has the formative time expired?

The time to learn about independence, surviving on your own, mapping out your own life. The time to separate from your family and become your own person. The time to form friendships and alliances. The time to consider who you are and what you want to be.

What if he has missed out on all of that? Can he get it back? Can he learn it all now? Will he ever be better than he is at this moment? And if he isn't?? What then?

What does that mean for my Princess? While I want her to make her own decisions.....live her own life, I also want to know that she is not involving herself in something that will have long-term ramifications for her life. And not in a positive way. I want her to thrive. I want her to follow her dreams without fear. I want her to enjoy life.

I want her to be happy.

And right now, the way things are, she spends more time in this relationship feeling unhappy. But she keeps holding on, hoping that things will get better. What if they don't?

How do I help her to let go? And if she can, how do I help her to pick up the pieces? How do I fix her heart?

How did this all get to be so damned hard?

I'm having a nervous breakdown...........

Drive me insane! -- Communication Breakdown -- Led Zeppelin -- 1969

%#@*+!~ !!!!!! Card reader still will not work!!!! I have a lifetime worth of pictures to share. Scintillating , incredible, soul-searing stories to share. I am under so much pressure because I know, deep down, I KNOW that the world is barely spinning as it waits. For me. And my stories. And pictures.

The pictures...they complete me.

Ohhhh the pressure.

{{Actually, they are just a bunch of pictures of my house and my dogs, but I know you are all waiting expectantly.....right?!?}}

Please, please, controllers of all evil technology. Smile upon me kindly and send help.

I'm begging here.