A Surprisingly Sane Blog

How on earth did I get that major bruise on my ass? Owie!

A friend of mine recently told me that she is trying very hard to find one of her foster children a permanent, loving home.  She has a wonderful, diverse family full of kids of all ages, and prides herself on setting a warm, moral example in her household.  They are one of the most incredible families I know, and I have a mountain of love and respect for them all.

But then she said something that has really been bothering me for days on end, and I finally decided to just put it out there on my blog because holy crap, I just don’t get it and it’s been eating at me.

“To be honest, if I meet a potential adoptive family and it happens to be two women sitting at the table, I’m just going to cry.”

I didn’t know what to say, and I still don’t.

I understand that a lot of people are not comfortable with same-sex relationships, but I am not one of them.  I understand that she is not comfortable with it, and I respect that as one of her boundaries.  But it really got me thinking.  Seriously, what would I prefer in that situation?  A “moral” family of heterosexual parents that may not be the best fit for my foster child, or a loving, gay couple that has the child’s best interest in mind and will provide a wonderful home?

For me, it’s not what they look like on the outside, it’s the intentions on the inside.  I love living in Seattle where I see gay couple out grocery shopping just like everyone else.  I rarely saw that in Tucson.  I have many gay friends, but most of them feel like they’re constantly having to prove to society that it’s okay they’re gay.  And that just sucks.

I don’t believe you can help your feelings or change them.  If you have attraction to someone, well dammit, that’s not in your control.  Chemistry is a natural part of life, and what does it matter who it’s with?  Why is it such a big deal to some people if others are in a loving relationship with someone of the same sex?  Just because they’re the minority doesn’t mean they’re bad people.

And honestly, something tells me that if Christ walked into my neighborhood, he would be just as loving to the lesbian couple with kids up the street as he would to everyone else.

Personally, that’s the example I would prefer to set.  Is that just totally weird?

Current Mood: Angry

Maybe the fact that you split your big toenail last night (on the same foot with the broken toe) is a sign to let your damn foot heal before dancing on it again.

Anyone wanna take bets on whether or not I’ll actually stay off of it?

I had this dream last night that I was trying to breastfeed Lil’ Fang again after a month-or-two-long hiatus.  Yeah, not the best dream I’ve ever had.  I woke up grabbing my boobs to make sure they were still firmly attached to my chest.  They were, thank goodness.

Then it dawned on me that while I’ve said the word VAGINA a time or two on my blog along with all sorts of horror stories related to birthing kids out of it, it’s been a really long time since I said anything about my ta-tas.  Oh boy oh boy… lucky you!

So you wanna know why you rarely hear about my breasts (well, in comparison to my va-jay-jay, anyway)?  It’s because they really don’t give me any trouble.  Yeah, my poor twat and the rest of me have been to hell and back, but I lucked out as far as boobs are concerned.  I don’t have anything to complain about in that department (yet), which is nothing short of a miracle.

My grandmother died of breast cancer when she was 36 years old.  Yes, you saw that right- thirty-six.  She was much too young to die of cancer, and I’ve had to be very careful to check for signs of abnormalities because of my family history.  When I was a few months pregnant, my midwife found two lumps in one of my breasts and sent me for further tests.  The ultrasound showed no sign of abnormal cells, thank God, but it was enough of a wake-up call to scare me into checking for lumps every month.  So far, so good.

Well, so a couple days ago I was getting out of the shower, feeling the goods for any weird bumps or lumps, and I caught sight of my reflection feeling myself up and I was like… damn, for breastfeeding two kids, my tits look really good still.  Yes, I actually thought that.  And yes, it was one of the first times I actually took a good look at them in the mirror since I weaned April. I avoid looking in the mirror if possible.  I’m too critical of myself to walk away feeling good if I do.

If you’ve ever breastfed and weaned a baby before, you know what a shock it is when your boobs suddenly shrink from those porn-star titties into a sad, pathetic shadow of what they once were comparable to nothing other than fried eggs.  Not pretty.  After pregnancy, they’re just never the same.

I was pretty certain, given the fact that I’ve dealt with tearing, stitches, scarring, stretch marks, yeast infections, surgery, three types of prolapse, pelvic floor rehabilitation physical therapy, and severe postpartum depression bordering psychosis that my post-baby breasts would be no exception to the rule.  I expected to look in the mirror after nursing two kids and turn away in utter horror before running to James and begging him to be my sugar daddy and pay for a boob job.

Somehow, that’s not the case, and I’m so proud of that.  So yeah, the rest of me is a fucked up mess, but BY GOD, I still have perky, decent-sized breasts even after two kids and being groped on a daily basis by my husband’s adolescent-hormone-controlled hands.

Ladies and gentlemen, FINALLY, something I can’t complain about yet!  Yeah, so they’re not the perfect silicone tits in James’ Playboy collection, but I am proud to announce that I still have very nice breasts, and I actually LIKE them.  I know I won’t always be so lucky- someday, my boobs will fall to my belly button before dragging on the ground like most do, but dammit, right now they look great… and that makes me happy.

Woo hoo!

Current Mood: Happy

A few weeks ago I was freaking out because we’d booked some company to transport my car from Tucson to Seattle.  It seemed like a much better option than trying to drive my old junker halfway across the USA, a trip that I knew would probably run my car into its grave.  And I like my car, so I don’t want to get rid of it yet.

But the darn place didn’t pick my car up.  Bastards.  Here I was, freaking out because they were supposed to get it Monday (or whenever the hell it was), and it was a few days past the date without any word from the company. We kept trying to contact them, left messages, emailed, etc., and they never responded.

To make matters worse, they’d already cashed our deposit money.

Several days of no word had me about 118% certain that we’d just been scammed out of a couple hundred bucks that we really didn’t have to spare.  All I was thinking was those pieces of shit, now we have to choose which kid we love more and want to send to college all because that company stole a few hundred from us… and now I have to DRIVE all the way up the coast with two miserable, screaming kids while my eyeball twitches and FALLS OUT OF MY HEAD.

That didn’t happen, though.  Instead, I left my car parked at my parents’ place while I flew up to Washington because I didn’t want to chance deliberately coasting my car off a cliff and into the ocean. Plus, the plane tickets were already booked and paid for. 

Well, finally, more than a whole flippin’ week later, James got a phone call from some guy with a really strong accent.  He said he had just gotten orders from the scam company the evening before and he was scheduled to pick up my car the next morning.

Phew.  I was really relieved.  Like I said, I like my car.  And besides… James’ Saturn kind of smells like sour milk because he spilled half and half all over it, and I didn’t want to get stuck driving it around smelling like shit with two monsters ripping out the interior while trying to shatter my eardrums.  Not cool.

So just a couple days after moving into our new house, I got a phone call from James telling me that some dude was going to drop off my car and that he needed to be paid in cash.

No big deal, right?  Wrong.

James had driven his car to work that day, so I was stuck without transportation to somehow miraculously shit out the rest of the money we owed.  Chances looked grim that a cash machine was going to magically appear in my front yard to cough the bucks out for me.

Just as he was calling to tell me this, a massive semi-truck thing pulled onto our cute little street and this really big guy stalked out and walked up to the porch (where a neighbor and I were watching our kids play together) to tell me in a thick Ukrainian accent that he was here to drop off my car.

He wanted his money right then and there.  I explained that I didn’t have any cash on me and asked if I could pay with a check.

The look on the guy’s face almost cut me a new one while he told me it was company policy to only accept cash and that wanted the money I owed him now.

“Just a second, let me call my husband.”

At this point, I called James halfway hysterically and told him to get his ass home before this dude on the porch squished my head until my brains popped out with his bare hands.  My neighbor looked about as scared and I felt.  AND YOU KNOW WHAT MY HUSBAND SAID?  James had the nerve to tell me he couldn’t come home because he was in the middle of a meeting.

Um, excuse me?  This guy is breathing fire down your wife’s neck, but since you’re in a freaking meeting IT DOESN’T MATTER?

At that point, I told him he didn’t have a choice but to come home if he ever wanted to see me and his kids alive again.  A threat to which he seemed to understand, so he sighed and said he’d see what he could do about leaving.

Car-tow-er-guy was happy enough with James’ answer to get the hell out of my front yard and begin the process of removing my car from the big semi-truck thing.  And as he was doing that, my neighbor said he wouldn’t mind if Julie joined him and his daughter at his place for lunch while I ran out to get some money.  Phew. James was much happier with that arrangement, so I went over to let Mr. Don’t-Make-Me-Rip-Your-Guts-Out-And-Eat-Them-For-Dinner to let him know.

And you know what he did then?

He stomped toward me, turning red, and yelled in that thick accent, “I thought you said your husband was bringing the money!“.

This is where I shat myself and my knees started to shake in a bad way while I hugged April tightly to my chest and explained that he was having trouble getting off work and would he please just trust me, I swear I’ll be back in ten minutes with his money.

Then he got in my face, smiled this scary-ass grin showing a bunch of messed up teeth and not a pinch of kindness and said, “Okay.  You have ten minutes.  I’ll be waiting RIGHT HERE for you.”

By this point I was shaking so badly that I could hardly drive my damn car or remember my pin number, but I was back in just under ten minutes because I had a feeling he could track me by scent if I didn’t come home.  I only hit a few pedestrians and a rabid squirrel along the way.

When I got back, Mr. I-Hunt-Babies-For-Breakfast was sitting on the curb in front of my house eating a dead crow raw and clubbing baby seals.  I parked my car and thrust the money in his hand as I was opening the door and asked if he had change.  He didn’t.  I told him to keep the extra, then yanked April out of the backseat while he counted the bills.

And boy, let me tell you, I have never been more relieved to run like a pansy, lock the door, and hide upstairs in the closet as I was in that very moment.

Note To Self:  Never EVER owe a big-ass-motherfucking Ukrainian guy money again.  You might not escape alive next time.

Current Mood: Alarmed