After 3 X-Rays and 3 hours in the local ER (2 of which were spent reading a book while we all waited for the Radiologist to read the damn films), my foot is not, in fact, broken.

What I have is termed “a really ugly sprain”. This is technical medical jargon used by my Doctor in the ER, who was really cute with curly brown hair and he kind of reminded me of Wayne Rogers as Trapper in MASH (Google it if you don’t remember it, youngsters). Sadly, Dr. Trapper was about as interested in my greasy-haired, flip-flop wearing, unwashed self as he was in shoving hot forks in his eyes. Not that I was interested. Because I’m married. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been interested in me, and then I could pretend to be all “Who me?” coy and nothing would come of it but I would still feel pretty hot. The moral of the story thus far, lovers, is always shower and change out of your baggy yoga pants with a ketchup stain on them before you go to the ER, because sometimes, you do get the cute doctor.

Where was I? Oh, right. The foot. Anyway, I asked about the snapping bones thing and Dr. Trapper was all “Oh, those were probably torn ligaments you felt.” Which, you know, is less reassuring than I think he meant it to be. Because as the clumsy veteran of several ill-advised years of childhood gymnastics classes, let me tell you sprains = torn things that heal slowly and painfully and often re-injure! Multiple times! It’s the gift that keeps on giving!

He also nodded thoughtfully when I mentioned the “30 Day Shred” workout and its precipitate arrival in my life just prior to The Great Foot Debacle of ‘09. “Don’t do that workout again until you’re pain-free,” He told me, and since he’s a doctor, it’s really like he’s prescribing me to lay on my ass until way, way after Christmas. Hello, it’s doctor’s orders, Jillian! Phone THAT in, you workout fascist.

So what was the end result, you all ask? No cast, no das boot. I got a really ugly post-op shoe, but despite its fashion-backward appearance, der Schuh is worth its weight in gold because it keeps my foot from flexing, which means I can actually walk without my foot swelling to the size and shape of a regulation football. Also? I got some really good drugs, so at least when I’m awake at 2 AM feeling The Foot throb, I may not get much more sleep, but I will no longer care.

Now, as to whether or not I will recommend the workout and/or continue it myself once I’ve recovered from The Foot Debacle – all kidding aside, I am going to give it another whirl, because it is a great workout and the odds of anyone who is not a Level 10 Spaz like me injuring themselves is probably little to none. Even if you think you’re close to a Level 10 Spaz, I still say go for it.* Here’s what I’ll do differently: Despite Jillian’s strict orders to do the workout every day, I will start more slowly, like every other day, until I get my endurance up and a little bit of strength. This will undoubtedly not get me massive results in 30 days, but again, my main goal here is to get in decent shape in a minimal amount of time per workout, not to look like Jillian’s Amazons. Also? I will buy myself a new pair of workout shoes and wrap my ankles for the first few times I do this. Finally, if I do re-injure myself, I will not stupidly shove my foot in a shoe, keep working out through the pain, and do further damage. 

Of course, me being me, I will most likely end up injuring some other body part before I ever get a crack at it. My ass seems simply fated to be the size and shape of a movie screen. Pass the fucking eggnog.

*And I may or may not be saying all of this just in case Jillian Michaels really is the Bellatrix Lestrange of Personal Trainers. Crucio!

You all remember my vow to get my sorry ass in shape by working out to Jillian Michaels’ “30 Day Shred”, right? And in my post I may have ranted on about Jillian’s fave catch phrase a little bit and ragged on her two Amazons.

Well, as it turns out, you shouldn’t give Jillian any shit, even on a semi-anonymous blog, because apparently, she has evil magical powers.

Let me give you an example. Two weeks ago today, as I told Moonspun, I woke up with what looked like a half a purple boiled egg on the top of my left foot. Well, I was bound and determined not to miss my workout, and I figured I probably dropped something on it, as I am wont to do as The World’s Biggest Klutz, so I shoved my foot into my shoe and did my workout. So the egg flattened into a large creeping bruise and it started to look ugly. Then, it swelled. I wondered if maybe it was a spider bite; there was a bite-y mark in the very middle of the worst of it. We have a freakishly high Black Widow population here, and despite what you’ve read/seen on the SciFi Channel (oh, SyFy, sorry), their bite is painful but almost never fatal. I didn’t feel sick, my breathing was fine and I didn’t have any oozing skin necrosis or anything. So I took some ibuporfen, iced it down, and figured it would go away on its own soon enough.

You: “Coco, why didn’t you go to the doctor?”

Me: “I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a big bruise. Or maybe a bite of unknown origin. I’m FINE.”

So I resigned myself to an ugly foot, and for a few days, I kept doing my workout.

Except the foot? Was not improving much. It swelled. It began to feel weird and tingly sometimes. There were two small but painful lumps on the top of my foot and when I tried to wear my cute boots, or my cool black clog shoes that are ugly as hell but will last forever and are completely comfy, my foot actually screamed “Oh no you don’t, motherfucker! YOU WILL NOT PUT THAT SHOE ON ME!” (My foot has a serious potty mouth, doesn’t it?)(Probably from too much Pulp Fiction)(But you have to admit, the use of the word was warranted here)

That was last week. I stopped doing the workout to rest my foot a little, and figured it would improve.

You: “Coco, for the love of God, please tell me you went to the doctor at that point!”

Me: “I don’t need a doctor! It’s perfectly normal for your feet to scream in agony when you put on your super soft shearling-lined slippers! I am FINE.”

This week, something popped in my foot. Which, can we all agree, is never a good thing? And now? I can hear bones snapping if I walk too fast. Also, if I stand with too much weight on it, I can literally feel the bones giving way. While you, dear readers, are undoubtedly squirming just reading that and wondering at the state of my mind if I’ve dealt with this for 2 weeks now, I must point out that I have a super high pain tolerance – and except for the occasional semi-agonizing ping when I stepped wrong, or the shoe thing, the numb, tingly thing has me more concerned than the pain. Also, as exhibited here, I am incredibly, stupidly stubborn.

Based on the amount of bruising, swelling, bone grinding, and the length of time the foot has not improved, I am beginning to suspect I have a stress fracture in my foot. And what causes stress fractures? High impact workouts, lovers. Jillian Michaels and her butt kicks broke my foot. See what I mean about her having voodoo magic? It’s like she knew I was talking smack about her!

You: “Coco, damn it, will you please go to the doctor NOW?”

Me: “Yes, Internet, now I will.”

If I end up in a cast or surgery, I swear to God I’m billing Jillian for my co-pay.

On the bright side, I can lay around and tell my husband “I’m supposed to rest my foot! Bring me ice cream and put on the ‘V’ marathon, damn it!”

I’ll keep you posted, Internet!

A series of letters to people who have annoyed me this week.

Dear Punk on the freeway this morning, going too slow in the fast lane, yakking on the Bluetooth AND texting while weaving erratically and frighteningly into my lane,

Put your fucking phone down before you kill someone, you moron. You’re driving a crappy little Honda covered in primer, so I know the fate of the free world does not rest on your shoulders. You are not important enough to endanger my life because you want to sext your girlfriend while you’re on your way to your job at the Burger King drive-thru.

Thank you,

Coco

Dear Neighbors Behind Us Who Let Their Dogs Bark and Bark AND BARK All Hours of The Day And Night,

You are obviously not capable enough to care for a cactus, let alone two large dogs. Are you a household of Helen Kellers over there, that you don’t hear your out of control animals making enough racket to wake the dead? Really, I’m not kidding, I think corpses have actually begun to reanimate at this point from all the damn noise. If there is a zombie apocalypse, I will feed you to them straight away, because it will be YOUR FAULT. Dudes, do you seriously not hear them or are you just too high to care? Take your fucking dogs inside, train them, or get rid of them. And lay off the Mary Jane, you half-wits. You clearly can’t afford to lose any more brain cells.

Warm Regards,

Coco

Dear Homeowner’s Association Nazis:

There is nothing wrong with our front yard. You are not improving the beauty of the neighborhood by sending us these useless form letters admonishing us to “rake the bare spot at the back corner of your front landscaping so the rocks cover it evenly” because that spot is only visible if you come on our property and literally stick your nosy face into a shrub. You are, however, proving that you are a bunch of self-righteous busybody douche canoes with too much spare time on your hands. You need a hobby. Have you thought of skydiving? Perhaps competitive bitching. In any event, if I get one more pointless letter I’m going to take my rake and shove it up your collective left nostrils.

Happy Halloween,

Coco

What’s pissing you off this week, Internet?

Monday while Badger was safely at school, I finally got to watch “30 Days of Night”. Ya’ll know I love me some vampires, regardless of whether they’re scary or sexy (although if I were ever to be attacked by a vampire, I much prefer the sexy, kthxbai), and “30 Days” was about the scary kind. I’ll spare you a complete plot rundown because, you know, it’s not infused with any deep meaningful metaphors or anything. Lots of blood and creepiness about sums it up.

Anyway, there was this one scene, where a group of survivors are holed up in a hidden attic while their neighbors and friends are being systematically chowed down by the vamps (who are very messy eaters). As the screams and gurgles taper off a bit, the attic people hear a girl calling for help and at first want to rush out and save her, but Sherriff Hottie (Josh Hartnett) points out the vamps on rooftops already surrounding her. She’s bait; if they attempt to help her they will be discovered and all of them will be vamp chow. The Attic People can only watch in horror as, after determining that she has failed to bring out any new entrees, the vamps slash her and then chow down on her, too.

What’s really creepy about this scene is the looks on the faces of the Attic People. Their only two choices are equally gruesome in that situation, and they are obviously reduced to a state of utter despair, abject hopelessness and sheer misery. They are waiting to die.

That, my friends, is exactly how I felt after completing Jillian Michaels’ ”30 Day Shred Workout”. (Notice how similar the title is to “30 Days of Night”. Coincidence? I think not, young grasshopper.)

After hearing my girls Lola, Becks, and Juicy comment on how hellish good a workout it was, I picked up a copy on a whim at Target. I figured, hey, it’s only 10 bucks, and I was intrigued. I’ve been neglecting my bod for over a year and it shows. I don’t give a shit if I ever look like Jillian does, because I am not cutting out wine and chocolate and cheese for nothin’, but I really do feel better when I am working out and strong. Lately I’ve just been feeling strung out, sleeping badly, no energy, short of breath…none of this is a good thing anyway, but with a perpetual-motion Badger in the house, it’s exponentially worse.  I don’t have the time or inclination to join a gym, and my workout time is limited to 5:15-5:45 AM because that Badger I mentioned? He FREAKS when I work out. I think he thinks I’m dying. And after The 30 Day Shred? I might be. Like I told Juicy & Lola, that bitch made me cry. Now she’s made me cry twice.

Lest I frighten the uninitiated away from ever trying it, let me tell you what I like (besides the 20 minutes long thing) about it. First, I like Jillian. She’s just tough enough to make me mad at her, which stirs the tiny bit of competitiveness in my soul so I must beat her, but not so tough that I actively hate her. Much. And she’s not perky. I can’t stand perky. It makes me homicidal.

Second, I like that the workout, while being extremely hard, is actually comprised of basic moves that anyone can do. Yes, you too. Jumping jacks. Push-ups. Squats and presses. Butt kicks. I’ve never been able to follow those stupid dance-y step routines where the overly perky instructors (who already make me feel homicidal, remember) are up there chirping ”OK, now a triple axe four leaf clover left step together crossover grapevine and we’ll move on!” while I am merely trying to keep from falling off the fucking step and everyone else is gliding around like a drill team. So if you’re like me, you’ll appreciate the simplicity of The Shred. Note I didn’t say “ease”. Because it is about as easy as doing dental surgery on yourself with a chainsaw not easy.

Third, when Jillian promises results in 30 days? I am inclined to believe her even at this early stage of the game. In 20 minutes, she crams a powerhouse workout in. I’m not too proud to admit I couldn’t walk yesterday without some serious wincing. I am literally shaking with exertion and begging for death 5 minutes into this thing. By the time I finish it, I’m sweating like a pig, my legs are on fire, and I am barely able to crawl into the shower. In 20 minutes.

“Wait,” you’re saying to yourself, “this doesn’t sound like fun. It sounds awful.” And it is. I ain’t lying to you. But here’s the thing: I don’t care what anyone says, all exercise is awful if you are a lazy ass like me. Yes, even yoga. Even pilates. Even belly dancing or Hip-Hop dance  or ballroom dancing or whatever the hell people say they do because they just love it. I hate exercise, but I recognize and respect that I need it. I hate the gym. So I want something I can do at my house that works and works fast and hard so I can get back to being a lazy ass the rest of the day. This is it, lovers.

I mean, about halfway into it, even though I still want to die, my body begins to work. It hates me, but it is moving easier and I am getting though it. I AM BEATING JILLIAN. I know that every day, if I just keep going, it will get less horrifying, and I will get stronger and pretty soon I will be kicking Jillian’s ass and taking names. So I push myself through it.

Of course, I don’t want you guys to think I’m all crushy over Jillian. There are a few things that annoy me about this workout. For instance, Jillian uses the phrase “phone it in” excessively. Like “don’t phone it in, get deep into that squat” and “if you want to work out for 20 minutes you can’t phone it in”. I don’t really want to rip her tongue out or anything, but it is an irritant. Also, I can’t stand the 2 girls she has working out with her.  I don’t know why, because they never say a word, but really, Jillian? You had to get 2 amazonian supermodels to work out with you? Bring me some short girls with pudgy thighs like me and show them kicking this workout’s butt. But that could also just be due to the general hostility I feel toward all 3 of them as I wonder if my heart might actually explode. I’m sure they’re both perfectly lovely human beings. *snort*

So there you have it, sports fans. I’m going to keep you posted on my progress (not every day because most of the posts would be essentially the same: “Today, I still hate Jillian. I cried all through the squats.”) and if you want to join in, let me know and we’ll all compare notes.

P.S. If you are in really poor condition like me, take my advice: start with 3 pound hand weights. For the love of God.

Yesterday, I stood on my front porch with a brand-new Thomas the Tank Engine backpack, holding the hand of a very excited little boy. You see, yesterday was Badger’s first day of special preschool, and he was going to ride on a real yellow schoolbus for the very first time.

Since one of his first words ever was “schoolbus”, and he points them out in ear-splitting screeches whenever we happen to pass one, you can imagine this was the equivalent of meeting all three Jonas brothers AND Edward Cullen (and/or Robert Pattinson) AND Zac Efron to your average tween girl. Yeah. He was thrilled.

“Mom, where the schoolbus?” He asked, approximately 38,247 times. As luck would have it, the bus was nearly half an hour late, and my son was filthy and hysterical by the time I made the third phone call. Fortunately, my tone of barely repressed desperation seemed to sway the Bus Gods slightly, because just as Badger was tearfully accusing me of faking the whole thing (“The bus is not come! I go inside! You a bad boy, Mom!”) the bus arrived in all its yellow, shiny glory and I was redeemed (“Oh! The BUS! The bus is HERE! OH MY BEAUTIFUL BUS!” accompanied by much gleeful clapping and dancing).

I expected a couple of tears, at least. But no. After a moment’s hesitation, the siren song of the schoolbus won him over. He bounced up the steps and sat down like he’d been riding the bus since birth, smiling and holding his backpack.

“Bye Mom!” He waved to me as the driver buckled him in. I descended the steps and blew him kisses and waved.

He looked so very small.

They were driving my baby away.

I made it until the bus exited the gate and then, as predicted spot-on by Heather, I lost it. There were tears and snot and very noisy sobs and a semi-hysterical phone call to  my husband where I may or may not have unfairly speculated that Badger would end up wandering the deserted playgound alone, crying because he didn’t know where to go and it was a huge mistake for me to have let them take him and he was too little and…then I calmed down enough for my husband to ascertain that our house wasn’t being firebombed by aliens after all, but that I was merely having a breakdown over an everyday event like I normally do. Bless his heart, he soothed me and was very patient because he knows me so well.

About 5 minutes later, I felt better. Near the end of the day, I called his teacher Miss J, and she told me that he had a good first day and played nicely with two little girls (note to self: e-mail Miss J about what happens when the honeymoon period wears off because danger: wild badger).

I was almost OK with this whole deal.

Until drop off time came.

And went.

Within the next 30 minutes, I had made four phone calls to the transportation dispatcher and two to the school. I called my husband again and threatened to have everyone who worked for the bus department in a four-state radius fired. Again, bless him, he humored me and did not a) laugh or b) try and use logic on me (i.e. “Aren’t you overreacting? It’s just not possible for you to have everyone fired, you know.” which would only infuriate me and elicit a rambly, delusional response like “YES IT IS because I am the Angel of Death and I own this hellhole planet! Off with their heads!”). Finally, an HOUR after Badger was supposed to be home, the bus arrived at last. I all but rushed the poor driver, who was a substitue who got lost and who was such a nice man that I forgot all about being the Angel of Death and I just wanted my wee son back safely.*

There he was, in a seat by himself, backpack sitting neatly next to him. He was still smiling.

He still looked so very small to me, but as we descended the steps of the bus and they closed behind us, I was wrenchingly aware that the bus was really a metaphor for our lives as a family. Those shiny yellow doors were closing on the final vestiges of Badger’s babyhood. He is all little boy now, and only the miserly night lets me see that baby face from time to time. Soon, even that will morph into adolescence and then young manhood. As he chattered on about the bus (obviously the star of the day), I felt a tiny surge of melancholy. And while I am desperately thankful that he will at last be getting some help and I am so glad he is growing like a weed and is whip-smart and I want him to be a regular kid…those doors still squeezed my heart very tight indeed.**

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*But the bus drivers are LUCKY they showed up on time this morning, and Badger was delivered timely at drop-off because I can still have everyone fired.

**Then, of course, Badger began to torment the cats and scream for potato chips and throw the clean laundry everywhere and I began to count down the hours until bedtime.  Order was restored to the Universe at last.

Praise the lord and pass the vodka! Badger has been approved for IEP services with the school district!

Let me tell you guys something, I was so nervous I almost threw up going in to this meeting. I have been hearing “Let’s just wait and see.” and “Well, he seems OK, except for that, you know, thing where he attacks other kids at random. Have you tried time-outs?” for so damn long, I actually had given up hope that the evaluation would find him in need of services, especially when the psychologist said he didn’t see many signs of “specific behaviors that signaled qualifying special needs”. It turns out he just meant “Badger doesn’t show signs of Autism”, which I already suspected. 

So, for 4 days a week starting in 2 weeks (approximately), my no-longer-a-baby boy will be picked up by the school bus and attend a structured special education program with no more than 11 students at the local elementary school for 2-1/2 hours, then be dropped off at home again. I had no idea what to expect so I was pretty amazed at the level of detail they went in to with respect to goals, timeframes, and the like. I will receive progress reports and we will also meet in 6 months to review Badger’s progress.

The best part? He cannot be kicked out for behavior. Because he is referred to the program due to behavioral issues, in large part, it is the program’s responsibility to ensure that he and the other kids are safe by providing the appropriate level of supervision. No more phone calls saying come pick up your monster! CAN YOU SAY AMEN, SISTERS AND BROTHERS?

I was so relieved to have someone believe me AND offer substantial help that I burst into tears as soon as I left the office. I love my son more than anything, but I can’t lie, it has often been a rough 3 years and 9 months of trying to figure out what was going on with him.

I don’t expect a quick fix or perfect results. I am just so, so happy to have a starting point for my sweet son.

Thank the gods, something finally went right.

I almost always hesitate asking people to support causes. A lot of people are going through rough times right now, and having someone you trust (you trust me, right, Internet?) start asking you to part with your precious cash to save the Green-Bellied Dung-Eating Toad can get annoying awful quick.

Nevertheless, in the midst of wallowing in my self-pity yesterday and early this morning, I clicked over to check out Jen’s blog. Quite a few of you probably already read Jen, so please bear with me for the recap.

Jen is one of the most giving, loving people I know. She’s a good mom. She’s a good friend. And Jen’s family has been through a world of hurt this year. They, like me, like most of us, just didn’t need one more thing.

Naturally, the Universe responded with yet another crappy event. Jen’s son Eric has a little dog named Annie. Annie is kind of a crazy little thing (I’m not being mean, Jen will tell you!), but she is adorable, and she is part of the family, and she is, most importantly, the light of Eric’s life.

Annie also needs some very expensive surgery. She tore all the ligaments in one leg and she is in a lot of pain. Apparently, the surgery is the only option for saving Annie. Even if there are any alternative treatments, they would cost many hundreds of dollars that the family doesn’t have.

What really made me burst into tears was reading in the comments that Eric had already told Jen he understood, it was too much money. Then I read that Eric’s younger brother had been putting up signs offering to do odd jobs to help pay for the surgery. I dissolved into a snotty, blubbering mess.

It isn’t fair. I am so sick of seeing really crappy things happen to really wonderful people.

So I decided. I am going to take every piece of poo the Universe is flinging at me and I am going to respond by trying to make things better for someone else.

I’d like to start with Annie. And I’m going to ask you to help me.

At the urging of one of Jen’s readers, she set up a paypal account where people could donate for Annie’s surgery fund. Amazingly, she has already gotten almost $900 in donations, but the surgery costs at least $1600.

I don’t have much to give, but I’m giving what I can. Please help me say to the Universe “You are not taking this dog away from this kid because of a lack of funds.” Please help make a difference for this family. Give five dollars. Give a dollar. If you just can’t give, you can still help by posting this on your own blogs, tweeting it, putting it on your Facebook pages… heck, do all of that anyway. I know a lot of you have larger readerships than me – I figure it’ll take about 150 people donating $5 each to get to the goal.

So if there are ten of you here, and you each know ten people I don’t know, and train A leaves Boston going 63 miles per hour, what time does Timmy need to be at the airport? Seriously, I can’t do the math but I know the Internet can be a huge driving force to get things done. If you can, click over to Jen’s blog and give what you can. The PayPal link is in her right sidebar.

Please. Help give Eric his Annie back.

This week I’m in a hurry and frantic, trying to find new child care. Again. Badger didn’t physically attack anyone in his last situation, but he did wear out Ms. C and she was very kind, but also very final. No more Badger for her.

Sadly, the quality of care in at-home situations varies WILDLY. Two homes I visited stunk. One of diapers and one of cats. The Cat House was also FILTHY – not garden variety, kids are here all day cluttered, but deep-down disgusting. I stripped off our clothes the second we got home, and oh, hey, home childcare provider lady with the cats? When you make an appointment you might want to write it down. Also? You might want to put on a bra. Finally, you might want to CLEAN YOUR FUCKING CARPETS and GET RID OF THE SMELL OF CAT PISS. Just some suggestions. I absolutely cannot believe this person was 1. licensed and 2. that other parents actually thought to themselves “Yes! This is the place I want my kid to spend their days. Awesome!”

Finally, I found what I thought was the perfect situation. A mom answered my ad who had a child with special needs. He was in school, in a special program, and she would take care of Badger. She had experience. So for two weeks it seemed to go OK. Badger liked the family. He played with the kids. I felt hopeful.

Yesterday, I showed up to drop him off and she just wasn’t home. I thought some emergency had happened. I was worried.

Thank GOD for the old center – who took Badger in this week – he’s doing fine, and is enjoying the special visit with his old teachers and the little boy who attached to him before we, um, decided to withdraw.

As it turns out, there was no emergency. I had been broken up with by e-mail. Badger had punched one of her children, and she didn’t feel comfortable taking care of him. She felt bad. She was sorry for taking the e-mail route instead of talking to me.

Fair enough.

But please don’t tell me you called me several times and texted me. Because you didn’t. Hey, I hate conflict as much as the next girl. I understand if you don’t want to carry on. But this is my kid we’re talking about and he likes you and he cried when you weren’t home and I was STUCK. You can suck it up and really call me. Hell, I almost never answer my phone anyway; there was a good chance you’d get my voice mail.

I mean seriously, what did you think I was going to do? Slash your tires? Egg your house? No.

I answered her politely and told her I was sorry about the punching, and I understood, I just would have appreciated knowing about it before 7AM Monday morning. I thanked her for referring us to the program where Badger will be getting evaluated next week, because that is truly helpful.

So, on to plan…what plan are we on again? Plan Q?

I just don’t know what to do anymore. My longed-for son is so angry and so hurt and I don’t want him to hurt other kids; I want him to be happy and kind and get invited to birthday parties. Then I feel like crap for sometimes wishing he was just NORMAL and the sound and sight of other children didn’t seem to drive him to violence. I feel bewildered because I have no idea what could be causing this anger inside that little soul. We don’t hit, my husband and I never even yell at each other, he doesn’t get to play violent games or watch violent TV.

Options have slipped through my fingers like shiny buttons and I’m scared. I am out of local care options, I can’t afford a nanny, I can’t quit my job because the fucking economy has sucked us dry, and we need my health benefits because the broken fucking health care system that so many conservative politicians and talk show hosts insist is working pretty well has priced my husband’s gasping company right out of being able to afford any benefits.  

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I feel like death warmed over and then torched. My face is broken out like a teenager’s. I have constant heartburn.

My mother is coming into town and I know she wants to see Badger, and she means well, but I have absolutely no stomach for chipper shopping trips and parenting assvice right now. I’m almost out of time off because of the constant struggles over daycare, and I just can’t take one more thing.

Therefore, my cat’s kidneys are failing again. She’s dying. And again, because of the economy, we have to choose between the mortgage and the cat, and I can’t stand it because she has to lose this one.

Oh, and no, no, my mother can’t help with care for Badger while she’s here because she is on vacation and she has plans.  That must be nice, my inner little voice hisses viciously. Then I feel like crap again because she is on vacation and it’s not her job to solve my problems but damn it, I am falling apart here and I just don’t have the emotional energy in me to give a shit about whether or not she’s excited to meet my brother’s new girlfriend and herkids. And I know she’ll insist on giving me pictures of them. Which will probably be the thing that drives me over the edge and I’ll say something totally unneccessary in my Cold Mean Voice like “You do realize my brother and I have spoken exactly twice in ten years, and I don’t know his girlfriend from a hole in the ground? So why would you make me a picture CD of them?”

If you’ve read this far into my self-absorbed little rant, thank you, and I’m sorry. If you know me, then you know I just needed to get that out and tomorrow I’ll feel better, and I love my son more than I love breathing and Clive Owen and Target and chocolate combined, and I will be pleasant and cheerful to my mom and I will soldier on because that is what I do.

If you don’t know me and you stumbled here because you did a search for Clive Owen and now you feel the need to self-righteously point out that I am whining and there are people out there who have it So Much Worse – like people with NO FEET (copyright, Aunt Becky) – then please just crawl back into your sanctimonious joyfulness fog and piss off.

I’m so not in the mood for a troll lecture right about now.

I’m surprising myself today by participating in the Adoption Post Carnival over at Grown in My Heart. However, the topic is a good one – what do you wish you’d known about adoption before you stumbled blindly into it? Here’s my contribution.

I looked at a picture of myself and a picture of my daughter the other day and it struck me, again, how very much she looks like me. Our features are amazingly similar, though she is tall and has the long legs I always wanted.  Ordinarily, I try very hard not to make my daughter into “mini-me” because she is uniquely herself, not a copy of me. Still,  just like I look at photographs and see that we have the same smile and the same nose and the same eyes, I know that she is more like me emotionally and spiritually than not.

It sounds trite, foolish and inadequate, but when I relinquished my daughter it was me, and to some extent my family, that I found unworthy, not her. I wanted her to be happy in a way that I was not happy, had never been happy. I also had (now, obviously bizarre) daydreams where she, secure in her perfect family’s love, would be a perfectly adored princess. She would never feel awkward or have her feelings hurt by being the excluded odd kid. Her parents would be perfect too, with just the right mixture of firmness and devotion, never trampling on her feelings yet making sure she studied hard and didn’t break curfew and ate all her vegetables. She would have everything, be the star of her life, be protected and cherished and utterly, perfectly happy. And perfect. Did I mention perfect? Her new family would instill that perfection. Obviously. Because I was so broken and empty and worthless that her life with me could only mean abject misery. I was saving her.

Except my daughter was not some lump of clay, to be formed and molded into a new self by her adoptive family. She was already hard-wired for much of her personality. She did not become athletic and outgoing and “popular” and she is not a cheerleader or class president or whatever the hell I thought seemed like the perfect life for her to have. She is artistic and intense, she feels too much, she is sensitive and complex and she is going through some of the exact same shitty growing pains I did, in such an eerily similar way that it is often surreal.

Her parents, too, are not saints, but mere mortals after all. I say this with no malice, because they are good and decent people. It’s just that like all of us, they have flaws and blind spots, prejudices and bad days. They make mistakes. My daughter’s family is trying hard, but they don’t always know what to do with her. I’m not saying I would handle things perfectly or even any better than they can either, but I am quite possibly the person best equipped to understand what she’s going through, yet adoption has changed the dynamic we might have had irrevocably.

If I had parented her, I wouldn’t hesitate to jump in and offer my advice, my take on things, or my experiences, regardless of whether it elicited eye-rolling, scoffing, slamming doors, stony silence, screaming, or any combination therein. But adoption removed that right from me. It silenced my voice, hanging here on the fringe of her life, unsure of my place.

I don’t want to intrude, but I sense she needs me. I hesitantly offer myself as a sounding board via her parents, because, after all, she is their child and I feel uncomfortable circumventing them even though she will be 17 next month.  I am greeted with gentle discouragement, and it stings even though it was not unkindly meant. I don’t know if she would even welcome my opinion or if she feels the weight of adoption there, too. Perhaps she is feeling angry, at last, angry that I did this to her. She has every right to be angry with me. I cannot fix it. I gave away so many of my rights to her, and hers to me, in a shabby office with my signature on those papers. I have lately wondered what my place is in her life. How much love do I have the right to? How much does she need me in her life? What is too little and what is too much?

Open adoption is not a band-aid. It is an ever-present reminder of what I did, and though it provides comforts that never knowing anything does not, it didn’t create perfection, for her, for me, for her parents, for my son…for any of us.

I am not saying I’m perfect either. I have no doubts about the effects of nuture. I have no doubt of her parents’ love. We will find our way, somehow, riddled with bumps in the road but hopefully, eventually coming together again. And again. And again. Adoption and its impact doesn’t end with that signature on TPR. Or that ceremony at court. Or at age 18. Or if you get visits and photos and phone calls.

I wish someone had told me that adoption never ends.

I wish someone had told me that the “perfect” mother for my daughter was me, if only I would look within and find the strength.

It seems everyone is all a-twitter (yes, pun intended, you should all know this by now) about Julie and Julia these days. Food bloggers abound in virtual life, full of tips and tasty recipes. The Food Network is churning out a new “star” once a month, it seems, and cake bakers artists are becoming celebrities in and of themselves. Yes, it’s good to be a foodie.

But what about the dark side of food? I don’t know about you guys, but I grew up in a household of awful cooks, besieged by frightening casseroles that my mom found in women’s magazines and a depressing amount of Hamburger Helper. We lived for summer around Casa Mini-Coco, because it’s hard to screw up barbecue. Not that it never happened. Our odds were just better.

It wasn’t just my mom, though. In my search through the annals of Google, I found many culinary disasters presented with pride. Today, I’m going to share them with you. Because I care enough to serve the very best.

You know, I’m always amazed with the array of foods people will put into a fucking jello mold. In case the detail isn’t clear, that is a MEAT jello dish to the left over there. Yes, nothing says lovin’ like meat that’s never seen an oven! What’s that, you say? You had Meat Jello for lunch? Well, you’re in luck then, because your hostess has thoughtfully prepared a meat-stuffed cabbage for you. I…I feel faint. Between the bizarrely suspended pot roast in aspic and the smell of the giant meat cabbage cake, I think I’d be bolting for the powder room to lose whatever was left of my 3-martini lunch. Dear God.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jones, but my wife and I are recent converts to a vegetarian lifestyle. Do you have something with no meat in it?”

“Why certainly, Mr. Smith! I have just the thing right here. Dig in!”

“Mom! Susie got more corn in her jello than I did! SHE ALWAYS GETS ALL THE CORN!”

Well, there’s always dessert:

Mmm. Coffee jello. Look, I like coffee as much as the next girl, especially when it’s got a little Bailey’s in it, but you have to draw a line somewhere here. Put the gelatin envelopes down and slowly back away. That’s a good girl.

Of course, we all know that a girl’s gotta look her best, and that means being thin at all costs. Weight Watchers is as culpable as anyone in the Body Shame Industry for peddling their diet lifestyle change as the ultimate answer to women seeking to fulfill their obvious responsibility to society to be a svelte size two, no zero, no DOUBLE zero until they peacefully die of natural causes in their sleep at age 157 lose weight get healthy…but they used to be WORSE. I mean much, much worse.

Take a look:

“Fish Spectaculars” the card assures us these Fish Balls (Is that the best name the damned test kitchen could come up with? It screams “sperm” to me) should be categorized as – but the only thing spectacular about this wreck is how much it resembles boiled mucous. Let’s see what else is on the magic menu.

Oh dear Jesus – please make the Snappy Mack go away. This one’s touted as “Convenience Fish”, possibly for how conveniently it makes your gag reflex activate? Notice the rope placemat – I supposed that’s handy to tie up your hostess while you make your escape from tonight’s – er – dinner.

OK, OK, how about something super fun and super yum?

There are three words, my friends, that should never be used together: Fluffy. Mackerel. PUDDING. Yet here they are, thrown into a FrankenDish to be further insulted with a hard-boiled egg garnish. And what’s with the basket of eggs on the table? Is that in case someone needs MORE boiled egg? This obsession with Mackerel is also becoming more than a little creepy.

Well, one thing’s for certain – with food like this staring you in the face, you’re sure to lose weight. If the vomiting doesn’t do it, the starvation rather than endure one more bite of mackerel certainly will. It’s a lifestyle change! And by lifestyle change we mean utter despair.

Until next time, thank your lucky stars that gelatinized food has (mostly) gone out of fashion.

Photo credits: WW from Hell Cards from CandyBoots - do yourself a favor and check out the whole site because it’s hysterical. Other bad food courtesy of The Gallery of Regrettable Food – also full of belly laughs. I am an unpaid blogger with no money who is afraid of lawyers. If I’m violating someone’s copyright please tell me so I can fix it before you sue my ass off. Thanks.

P.S. Guess what, Internet? I’m supposed to get my computer back next week! OH HAPPY JOYOUS DAY! I hate depending on the kindness of strangers. (Shut up.)