Resolution and Move On

Twitter Thursday:  Gotta love doctors when they make money off of referrals.  Instead of sending me to the correct doctor to start with, I wait until Monday.


I was speechless over the weekend as the bump turned into a “wait until we can get you into a Surgeon specializing in breast malignancy’s.  I put my faith in God.  I really did.  I also read the heck out of any online website discussing lumps in breasts and the chances that I’m going to be one of those people requesting donations from my network on Facebook.  Really, is it just me, or does fund raising in our social network seem to be getting out of hand?  I’ve got 217 friends at last count, since I last unfriended Daddy Dumb and at any one time, 21 of them are shaving their heads, armpits, or walking their neighborhood for money….and giving me a link to contribute.

I digress.

Dr. Marvel couldn’t do anything about the lump in my boob at this office, because as an OB/GYN he really just concerns himself with the plumbing below, so he was not able to calm my nerves and tell me what the lump was…sent me to a surgeon who was out playing golf until Monday.  So, I just drank my liver toxic with Firefly, spent the day in bed Sunday recovering from my over-consumption, and Monday took a shower and felt confused about the latest Bill passing in Congress.  I wasn’t going to worry about me.  I was going to be just fine.  I knew it.  This isn’t how I’m going out, I’ve seen Terms of Endearment and it’s too sweet.

So, I arrive at the surgeon’s office with a splitting knot on the back of my head (I passed out during one of my afternoon heaves and found myself in my panties covered in vomit on the bathroom floor on Sunday – remember, I don’t do vomit, especially my own.) and sat there and read about the cocaine industry of the 1990s in one of his outdated magazines covered with germs.  As far as a surgeon’s office decor goes, it was pathetic.  The only thing I noted was that instead of leather visitor chairs, he had several benches lining the walls – ahh hah…for the lap band types that are too wide to fit in the chair.  I sat there, quietly, and listened to the old patients bicker amongst themselves about the Medicare impact of the bill and how their prescription drug coverage isn’t going to be great any longer.  I think to myself, you Medicare kids are freaking crazy.  I don’t have any prescription drug coverage, I’m paying social security for you, my health insurance is only going to increase after this freaking visit gives me a pre-existing condition that Obamacare is going to make it illegal not to cover, and this plan is going to bankrupt Medicare so there won’t be any benefits left for me.  Plus, I freaking need a Xanax and I can’t find a soul to prescribe it to me.  What about a bill to make Xanax available over the counter?

Maybe I should go to medical school.

An hour after I arrive, Dr. Cutme arrives from his three martini lunch and I see him check me out as I am lead into an outdated exam room with a machine that looks like it will be the same image quality as those that show the astronauts on the Moon.  He’s shorter than me, so my hopes of McSteamy are quashed.  He begins to talk, but I start to black out again, my nerves are getting the best of me, and I remember that I forgot to eat, that I didn’t have anything in my stomach, and I was really parched.  As he speaks, I remember why I never married a doctor.  Yawn.  My head hurts still.  I must be dehydrated.

So, he starts drawing pictures of my boob that look too graphic for me, and then eventually says, “okay, let’s get a look.  I remember that I really did like Spencer, but he didn’t talk.  His roommate that was in medical school with him had a super crush on him and it got in the way, plus there was his best friend Fred that was aggressively pursuing me.  Then there was Roland, but he was a little stalkerish for me, especially since he was on to me about the fact that I was seeing someone else, which was John, but I was covering it up with my accomplice in all things fun, Drew.  Roland caught me with Drew, but I swear, it was totally innocent!  Drew was asleep on the red couch, but there was no way I was letting Roland in the door.  Pull my head out of my foggy memory, I’ve got three beautiful children and a husband that adores me.  I made the right decision not marrying a doctor, but at this point I have no freaking clue what Dr. Cutme just said.

The machine shows a bunch of black spots – turns out the black spots are just cysts, filled with fluid…I’ve got lots of them.  Next thing I know, he’s pulling out a needle, sticking it in my boob and then “POP”.  The black spot disappears.  It looked like he was performing in-vitro fertilization of my boob.  Since he was already in there, he said he’d go ahead an prick a few more so they wouldn’t become troublesome next year.  Now, these I can feel, but my head is throbbing, and I am looking away from him and concentrating on the alien space machine that now has a needle prodding its way through my left boob.

I’m going to live.  I’ve got fibrocystic disease.  Thank God.  I don’t think I’m a quality candidate for a breast job.  With regular needles in my boob, I’m not really sure that I want to pop anything that I’ve paid for.  I’m going to focus on the tummy tuck gut suck.

John had his appointment today as well for his Thyroid.  We’re going to go ahead and do the radioactive iodine to kill the Thyroid tissue, so he’ll be quarantined next Thursday/Friday in the basement.  The kids and I will have a pizza/movie night.  John will be out of quarantine in time for our Spring Break to start.  We have no idea what we are doing, where we are going, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.  I’m happy to just sleep in at home and play with the kids, see movies, and go to a museum.

My mother in law comes this weekend, and then my favorite family member of all time comes on Monday to see ME.

This reminds me, I need to clean off the back porch.  Spring has sprung and it’s about time to relocate to my favorite spot and plot the destruction and disappearance of Mohammad’s weeds.  If I won the lottery, I’d just buy his house and move there…pool, tennis court.

Finding a golf ball in my boob

Twitter Yesterday:  The rain has just made my weekend even busier.  Can I get any busier?  I think not.  Just peed for the first time today.  I need Green Beer.

Dear Jesus.  It’s nothing right?  It’s just your way of giving me some more cushion in my bra?  I get it, but I really don’t have time for this right now.  I’ve got tennis matches to reschedule for Jack, I’ve got allergy shots to go to today for the last time twice a week for Jack, I’ve got bills to pay, taxes to finish, clients to collect from…Really, why are you testing me to see how much I can multi-task and accomplish in one week?  I’m great at it.  But, neither Jack nor John have hit their out of pocket for their medical issues, so this surprise is going to cost me.  What is the lesson here?  I already dye my hair myself, I haven’t gone shopping in quite some time, I really need to get to a psychiatrist because if this lump doesn’t drive my insanity level over the edge, I’m not sure what will.

Deem and Pass.  Does that mean when I try to get new health insurance they can’t reject me because I’m crazy?

Okay, so this is what is going on.  Last night it rained.  Jack had both his tennis clinic and tennis match later on cancelled, so I served up spaghetti early and was in my pajamas by 6:30, and the sisters were hanging free.  This isn’t typically the case, they are usually encased in my bra until I fall into bed at 10:14 each night.  So John leaves around 7:30 to go and play basketball at Church and I settle in on the chaise lounge to watch American Idol.  I somehow touched my boob because it itched, and it felt funny.  There was a knot right above my left breast.  What the F?  Um, when was the last time I did a self breast exam?  I don’t remember, but it wasn’t THAT long ago…I think I’m going to puke.

I lay on my back, completely flat, put my left arm over my head and felt some more.  The knot is about the size of a golf ball (I know this because this morning I used a Crayola marker to outline it).  It’s right above my nipple area and then goes into the aureola area.  It’s hard, it doesn’t move, and it’s ridgy/bumpy.  I know this because I had John feel me up this morning.  He did it with such determination and he wasn’t even getting sex out of it.

I called the doctor @8:31 this morning and have an appointment @11:20.  It’s nothing right?  Jesus, you are just seeing that I can accomplish just one more thing today, and your humor says that I can go through that mammogram machine since you have some wicked sense of humor.  I know you are man, because you have absolutely no idea what pain is like…well, yeah, you do know pain, and I admit, they way you chose to go has got to be worse…but come on!

Deep breath.  This is nothing right?

So off I go to the doctor.  Pits and legs shaved, makeup done, hair washed.

I SOOOOOOO don’t have time to be at the doctor today.  I have laundry to fold.

Are you doing this to me because I told John that I would rather have a day long pap smear than go to his executive retreat in April?

Regifting and the Art of Regifting

Twitter:  Listed to one of my friends complain about the change purse she went home with as a gift after Bunco.  Kept my mouth shut – the gift was from me!

This is EXACTLY why I don’t tell anyone about this blog, and the fact that I’m the wizard behind it. Now, remember when I mentioned going to bunco, and then leaving early to go home and sit on the couch with John and the kids? Well, I forgot to mention my “gift closet” and the fact that I was supposed to bring a gift to Bunco. When the girls called me 10 minutes before I was supposed to be there, I just splashed some water on my face, grabbed a gift from the closet, and took 3 dollars out of John’s wallet.

Well, I did bring a gift to Bunco, it just happened to be a small change purse that I bought years ago for my nanny, “Erica”, but then she went MIA and I still had the freaking change purse. I don’t know why I grabbed that gift, instead of grabbing the “plug it in and electrocute yourself bathtub spa” that my parents gave me ten years ago as a Christmas present that never came out of the box, or the massager/vibrator that I think they also gave me the same year, but I was thinking that I didn’t want to make a splash with my gift, so I just grabbed the cute beaded purse with an “E” on it and threw it in the gift bag and headed out the door. I figured that I would just trade it with someone else and bring it back home.

So, I get to Bunco, realize that I’m not medicated enough to survive an evening with strange women drinking wine, and then escape home to the couch. The next Monday, I had signed up to attend a women’s club event with the same group of women, and caught a ride with one of my new, loud, tall friends. Things were going well, I thought….I still was having major anxiety issues, but they had Champagne, and so four glasses into the event, I felt that I would survive the event. Plus, I wasn’t driving, so I couldn’t leave.

On the ride home, the usual topics of conversation ensue. Boobs, plastic surgery, and pecking order of the women at the event…then Susan says, “Oh My God! I was SOOOO angry! I know that Moo Moo Lady (her name isn’t moo moo lady, but she always wears a moo moo, and since I never remember her name, she lives two doors down from me, I call her Moo Moo Lady) brought that horrific change purse to Bunco! I think that we need to really put some rules in place regarding gifts! I mean, I’m putting a lot of effort into my gifts!” I was partially listening, and then I had a memory that OMG, that change purse was the one that I brought! Holy Shit.

It was so hard not to say it was me. I bit my shirt and tried not to laugh, but she was pissed. I sat there quietly, hoping that they wouldn’t ask me what I brought, because it was the E purse. I looked straight ahead and thought, the vibrator would have probably gone over better….

Confessions of a Tennis-aholic

Jack plays tennis now eight days a week, and twice on Friday.  It’s probably too much.

I’m supposed to play tennis this morning, but I’m non-committal.  This would require me to get dressed, and John is out of the house today until after I get back from Allergy shots with Jack.  I have my day free, to myself, and I’m not sure I want to expose myself to the Clubettes.  I really need to exercise, and playing tennis is my escape.  However, Tuesday’s with the Clubettes means having the tennis pro feed balls, I get to hit two shots, and then go to the back of the line…for 90 minutes.  It’s so freaking boring!  I’d rather PLAY TENNIS!

So, in my great plan to have my children busy after school so they don’t petrify their brains playing video games, Jack has become a tennis player and I can’t wait until we get to PLAY TENNIS every day this summer.  He’s been slow to embrace the fact that I’ve spent THOUSANDS of dollars for him to develop a forehand, or return a serve with some pace, but my nine year old son actually has a chance to know how to become a force on the tennis court.  Again, he’s nine, and I can’t wait to play tennis with him!  Only 66 more days!

In order to have him embrace this skill, I decided that just taking lessons three days a week wasn’t going to get him there, since each time I told him it was time to go to tennis, he groaned as if I were abusing him by making him stop playing his Wii, his Nintendo DS, or stop building cruise ships with his Lego Star Wars pieces.  Jack does better in school, and pays attention when he’s over-scheduled after school.  My house is also cleaner.  Plus, I’m developing a life long tennis partner that I love.

Jack now goes to tennis four days a week for clinic, Pizza League on Friday nights, tennis team practice once a week, tennis team matches once a week, and now, because of the drama of being on a tennis team where we aren’t the “member” and so we don’t get preferential treatment, I’ve registered him for a match play league where he gets to play ANOTHER singles match once a week, two sets…so, don’t tell him, but he’s playing eight days a week.  He’s nine.

It’s probably too much.

I’ve also registered the other two kids for tennis, Minny is playing four days a week for lessons and two days a week for tennis team (she loves it), and Ashton is twice a week for lessons, and then has Quickstart Tennis team, so he’s also out there four days a week without realizing it.  All he says when I ask him how tennis is going is, long pause, “It’s HARD mommy!”

It’s costing a fortune.

I also signed myself up to be a member of the same club’s Ladies A Tennis Team….and get this, I’m such a second line member of the team because I’m not a member, they will go through the entire lineup of members to find a player should they need one before getting me.  I however, will get the email that says,

Dear Cinderella,

Should Judy not be done with her appointment in time, we need you to be ready at a moment’s                   notice to play tomorrow @9:30.  However, if she’s done in time and if she likes the way the wind is blowing, then screw you, but you are on call next week too.

The last time I played with them, there was some discussion regarding the forecasted weather and the rule that if it rained that you had to play on the next sunny day, and one of the ladies actually said to me, “if it doesn’t work for me, then we’ll just schedule it so that it does.”  Sure lady, you can tell God to adjust the weather.  What the F ever.

The other day as I was folding the laundry, I had a conversation with myself regarding the expense of having kids play “sports” in an attempt to have them get college scholarships.  If I just applied the dollars for these extra-curricular activities towards my children’s college fund, we’d pay for Harvard in ten years!  Plus, think of all the FREE TIME I’d have if I wasn’t sitting sideline to them.  But I have a bigger plan than that!  I am developing my tennis buddies so that I don’t have to play with anyone but them – ever again!

Jack’s tennis academy didn’t have a tennis league for kids, so I looked around and found a team for him to join at the country club close by.  He was a welcome addition, plus I brought over two other kids from the academy so that they could form a co-ed team.  I volunteered to be the tennis team mom so that my kid would have a better chance of getting selected in the line -up.  Right?  Wrong!

The worst is when some punk country club kid bumps him down on the lineup because he’s a member of the club, and my kid gets his feelings hurt because the coach is implying that the country club child is “better”.  If a country club kid is available, and his parent calls the coach and says that the kid wants to play “#1 Singles”, then the kid plays “#1 Singles”.  It’s so confusing to Jack.  He’ll say, “But Mommy, I can beat Andrew!”  It’s infuriating to me, especially when the dad emails me to say that his star athlete can’t play in the scheduled tennis match because it rained last Tuesday, and he now has a baseball game, and my kid is there, available, and missing his own baseball game!

Did I mention that Jack also plays baseball?  Yeah, he plays baseball, but only gets to play if he doesn’t have a tennis match or cub scouts that conflict with the baseball schedule.  We really need to quit cub scouts because neither John nor I have any intention of earning our Eagle Scout badge during this life time.

One would think that during Tennis Team practice, the coach would actually have the boys play one another, make a “ladder” and fairly, not objectively, determine the better player.  One would think!  But, dear reader of mine.  This isn’t fair, this is country club sports, all determined by who has the better car, house, plastic surgeon, and job…I mean, how does one objectively choose who is the better player when certain players are paying the bills?  I am no dummy, and I can bite my lip with the best of them.  Join the club, get first slots on the lineup.

We belonged to a country club in our prior Florida life, and it was the worst kind of snot infestation that one would willingly expose themselves too.  Lesson learned.  Why would one intentionally “apply” to be a member of a club that could exclude someone from joining just because they didn’t like what they did for a living?  Give a $45,000 membership fee that is NON-REFUNDABLE.  Really?  The thought that someone can only join a club if “another member invites them” disgusts me.  The reality that people I know actually think that joining something like that will make them more socially registered….barf.  No thank you.  What really cracks me up is when a friend of mine brings up to me that they are looking into joining a club, that they “got dressed up in country club attire”, “got their kids coats and ties so they could go to brunch at the club” etc.  All I think to myself is, “Girlfriend, your life doesn’t match that life.  If you don’t already have dress clothes for your kids to go to brunch, you probably won’t fit into the Sunday Brunch at the country club life, and you will be constantly trying to fit in, they will be looking down their nose at you, and if you were true to yourself, you’d admit it.  As soon as you stop going, they will never speak or call you again.  Go join a family recreation center.”

The kids tennis team made it to the playoffs for the winter season, and the country club parent gives the coach a call – much against my recommendation for the team lineup for the match, the country club kid is put at #1 singles, and the kid that is our best player sits out the match.  The country club kid loses 2-8.  We lose the match by 6 points and don’t get to go to the city finals.  Go freaking figure!  Was I surprised, no.  Was I infuriated?  Absolutely!  I know in my heart of hearts that my kid wouldn’t be playing in the lineup if I hadn’t volunteered to be the team mom.

I think I’m about done being the tennis team mom for Jack’s tennis team.  I did it originally to get the team started, so that Jack would have an opportunity to play competitively, and keep his interest up beyond drills and practicing serves.  However, I feel like the second class citizen in regards to the team, since we’re not members of the “CLUB”.  What the F ever!  I’ve been there, I’ve done that, and it’s all bull snot madness.

I have resolved myself to not voice my opinion to the Clubbettes – but I am watching out for my kid, and as soon as I can get him on another team that doesn’t apply this crap, he’s on it.

The fact that Mohammad has a freaking tennis court wasting away in my back yard BLOWS.  It’s driving me crazy that I just can’t put up a net and play there.  I don’t want to play with country club women!  I don’t.  They aren’t nice, they take themselves way too seriously, and frankly, I get my feelings hurt too much.  We should have never moved into a neighborhood that didn’t have a swim and tennis center.  Trying to play tennis as an outsider is a futile attempt at a social sporting life.  We need to join a tennis club, but I’m so anti-country-club, it makes my would have, could have, should have blood boil.

Last night I had a realization that part of my social anxiety stems from the drama of country clubbers and that I’m a mis-fit mom in this entire competitivedom of suburbia.  Looking at my life, one would assume that we’re right smack dab in the thick of Clubdom.  Nope.  Been There, Done That.  Lesson Learned:  None of it freaking matters.  I don’t want to be here, so I drown myself in my kids, and fill the space with watching them participate in activities rather than me having to socialize with their social climbing parents.

Hanging Up

Of course I get an email!  I’m so frustrated with Miss Polly, and what do you do?  I swore off email battles with my mother this summer and so my inbox has become a repository for her uninvited insults to my soul.  Honor thy father and thy mother.  Does that mean not dishing it back?  I say nothing, and just let her email go to the file drawer.  I know if I reply, I’d get some really great content, but I don’t.  I want to, it would be great, but I don’t.  God it’s hard.

I’m going on day six of someone in my household being sick or vomiting, and I’m hanging in there myself.  If momma’s sick, life isn’t good.  I’ve got this issue with my laundry that won’t disappear.  The socks don’t stay together and the laundry doesn’t fold itself.  I’m buried in sheets that have the stench of urine or vomit.  It’s a disaster.  John is in bed today.  I took his temperature and he doesn’t have one, so I think it’s just a really bad cold that earns him the right and privilege of a day in bed watching Dexter and ESPN.  Next week will be equally as nurturing as he goes into the hospital for all of the testing/biopsy and treatment for his thyroid issue.

Me, I have have been unable to successfully purchase an additional set of sheets for my children’s beds online.  Going to a store would require that I get dressed in something other than my sweatpants that I sleep in.  I over complicate matters by trying to get a discount on the Pottery Barn site, then find myself lost in the abyss of Ebay, and then spend two hours trying to save $100, and then decide that I can do without an additional set of sheets for the kids beds and just do the laundry more frequently.  What I really need to do is not think I can knock out the entire house in one shopping trip, but spread out the purchases.  One would think, but I’m not thinking, I’m buried in laundry and vomit.  I really need to clean my refrigerator, but that is a nightmare unto itself and is smells of decay and mold.


So the first email from Polly goes something like this

From: Miss Polly

Subject: Birthday boy

Date: February 22, 2010 11:00:41 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery

Will be shopping for Ashton’s birthday present this week.  Suggestions?

Okay, so I don’t see this email right away, I am dealing with Mignonne’s illness (oh yeah, she came down with Ashton’s vomit virus on Monday night, so I was dealing with teaching her how to vomit like a lady after doing an all nighter with her.  I can’t sit in front of my computer when I’m holding the bowl for her.  When I do finally see my computer, I just don’t reply because I have no idea what Ashton would want for his birthday and furthermore, it’s three weeks away.  Polly isn’t coming for his birthday (another story all together), so whatever she gets him, she’ll just order from Amazon anyway.  The last time we spoke, Miss Polly hung up on me, so she’s moved down the priority list of who to call in my mothering advice.  Yep, I have rules, and not calling someone back after being hung up on well, that is one of my major rules.  Miss Polly owes me an apology.

So the next day, I get the following email:

From: Miss Polly

Subject: Ashton’s Birthday

Date: February 23, 2010 10:50:31 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery

Will be shopping for Ashton’s birthday present this week.  Suggestions?

Are you going to let me know what to get Ashton for his birthday?  I realize it might take five seconds of your busy day, and since you have already informed me that calling me to give me five minutes of your valuable time isn’t on your schedule, I wouldn’t think of intruding on you with a phone call.  When tempted, I just put your last message on speaker phone and play it — the tone of your voice —-cuts me to the core.   If I don’t hear from you, I’ll just wing it and get him something I think he’d like — maybe a big drum set.


I hope you can hear the tone in her voice.  it’s not sweet and loving, and Mary Poppins like, that’s for sure.  Imagine more of a character from The Young And The Restless that has a tenuous relationship with their daughter.


From: Sinclair Montgomery

To: Miss Polly

Sent: Tue, Feb 23, 2010 12:11 pm

Subject: Re: Ashton’s birthday

Are  you trying to be mean?  A drum set would be a perfect thing!  I’ll set it up in the front hallway outside of John’s office while he’s on a conference call.    I don’t know what would be a more appropriate and useful gift for him though, maybe a Lego set, Wii game, a Nintendo DS game, or a siamese fighting fish.  You’d have to ask him what he’d like though.  I’ll have him call you.


From: Miss Polly

Subject: Ashton’s Birthday

Date: February 23, 2010 12:39:55 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery

I’m not trying to be anything but the child’s grandmother.  Despite what you do, say, or how you act, I love the children and always will.  You have made yourself the problem in our relationship.  I have all I can deal with here, and only asked for you to be kind, supportive, and caring, obviously not in your nature.  Anyone who questions why you make me sad only has to listen to that voice mail message you left — they get it.


Now, I have no doubt that my mother loves my children.  She adores them and they think she walks on water.  What bothers me though, is that by seeing how much she loves my children, I realize how much she doesn’t like me.  She’s supposed to love me because I’m her child, but she doesn’t like me.  When I look at her looking at me, it’s so obvious.  She does this thing with her lower lip and then has this snarl with her upper lip and annunciates her words in such a way with me that just feels like at any moment she’s going to snap and hit me again.

So the voice mail message I left her three weeks ago immediately after she hung up on me for the second time that week had the intention of telling her that she had to stop saying she wasn’t going to ever be at my house if my husband’s family was here, and went like something to the fact that I loved her, but that she can’t continue to hang up on me and expect to maintain a relationship.  The voicemail message went something to the fact that I loved her, but I can’t have either John or my parents claim exclusivity of holidays and birthdays with our children, that the reason why we bought such a large house was so that people could come, and stay, and that I loved my husband and was going to remain married to him.  Being married to John included his family being a part of our life.  If her decision to not be here was because of my husband’s family also trying to be a part of my children’s life, than that was hurting me.  I ended my voicemail message to her with I love you.  It been three weeks now, maybe four, and no calls from my mother.

I’m really concerned about my father though.  I figure he’ll call me when it’s safe to talk.

Polly watches soap operas while she sews, so I think she thinks that the rest of the world acts like those people.  I’m not kidding.

God, it’s so freaking hard having a relationship with my mother.  I of course wrote emails back to her that I never sent.  I swore to myself this summer that wasn’t productive.  The issue with commenting back to my mother is that she’s like an elephant.  She never learns and moves on, she also never forgets and will bite me with any errors that I may have made in my life.  She harbors resentment and I can see it in her eyes.  I just don’t understand why she resents me?  We’ll be having a beautiful moment, and Polly will bring up something that I said to her in an argument where she needed to be shut down and then, boom, we’re back in a fight.  My issue is that it goes both ways.  However, I never bring up any of her past mothering mistakes, or the dozens of errors in her judgement that she inflicted on me as a child.  I never do that.  Should I?  I don’t think so.  Maybe I should.  That wouldn’t be productive.  She just acts like a victim.  I however have learned from her mistakes and aren’t raising my children in the same manner.

She’s still blaming me on John calling her a retard last Christmas.  What does she want me to do about it?  Really?  He said he was sorry as soon as he said it.  I didn’t call her a retard!  But I’m getting punished?

A kid that gets hit is abused.  A dog that gets hit and finally bites back is called an aggressive dog and gets put down.  What is the name for the person that gets shot when they deserved it?  I can’t come up with the name for that person.

And what about the killer whales?  I watched that story this morning and thought it was like cuddling with Hannibal Lector.  If a killer whale ate someone before, what makes Sea World think he’s going to behave in captivity and not eventually eat someone again?  It’s in their nature.  They can’t help themselves.

What I would like is for Miss Polly to acknowledge that she made mistakes and that we’re all pretty good people for moving past it, not looking back, and learning from her mistakes.  That’s all.   But, I’m not calling her.  If it means not getting hung up on, well then we just won’t talk.

All About Vomit: What is the best color of Gatorade to Drink?

Why is it, when young children get sick, they have a propensity to vomit on white carpeting?  Why is it also that the family dog is always there, ready to clean it up, only to vomit next?

Things were looking to be a great weekend.  Fantastic weather, Ashton’s first confession, Jack had a cub scout day somewhere (he left @8 a.m.), Mignonne has Daisy’s tomorrow and we had a pig roast and Mardi Gras dinner club to attend this afternoon.  Now, I’m still in my pajamas about to make Shari’s Chicken Soup…

This morning’s big topic of discussion in my house was what color Gatoraide to purchase in order to ensure that when Ashton puked again, on the carpet, wouldn’t leave a stain that wouldn’t come out.  Why is it that these electrolyte beverage company dudes (obviously not dealing with sick children) put DYE in their drinks that will leave stains on clothing that won’t come out?  I mean, just make the Glass Red, Green, Blue, and have the drink be clear?  What’s so wrong with that?  Is that too difficult?  Sprite does it!  Hey Mr. Gatoraide, are you out there?  Think about it.  Your customers hate dye!  What’s in the dye anyway?  Something that we need to ingest?  No.  Put it’s pissing me off, and making my job as mother of the year harder.

Yesterday started this obviously popular stomach virus that we get to enjoy over the weekend.   I was up in my office, and Jack started yelling, “S.O.S.  S.O.S.  STAT!  911!  Emergency, Emergency!”  I come bumbling down the slippery wood stairs and see #2 holding onto the couch and love seat tossing his chunky peanut butter sandwich all over the white carpeting.  (I freaking hate the white carpeting).  I’m screaming, “MOVE!  Get on the Marble Floor!  NOT ON THE CARPETING!!!!”  He just looked up like a guilty dog and tossed some more chunks on the carpet.

I exited the house and got Jack off to tennis.  John did the clean up.  I don’t do vomit.  Thank God he was home.  I’d be dead and in hell.

Last night I attempted to go to Bunco with the neighborhood ladies.  There I was, with lipstick, makeup, and had even blown my hair dry straight.  Chugged three go-cups of Bitch Wine, and drank a Miller Lite which wasn’t very cold quite fast in order to get survive the room full of prepped wives that I don’t know and see every day.  I was miserable.  I started to have a hacking cough, and used it as the excuse to go home before the party really got started.  I probably should have stayed, but just wanted to be home on the couch, in my Cheetah Snuggie, sitting on the couch with John and the three kids.

John was almost disappointed when I showed up, but I really didn’t care.  Kids had Hershey’s bars (not smart, John) all over their faces and Ashton had just had some ORANGE JUICE.  Are you kidding?  Not smart, but I wasn’t in charge.  I took off my shoes, stepped on the wet white carpeting that had a shade of brown rubbed in, and assumed my position on the couch wrapped in my Cheetah Snuggie.

We sat and watched the downhill skiing for the Winter Olympics, got the kids to bed, and then went to bed ourselves.  I slept solidly for about an hour until Mignonne joined us, and then John got up when he heard Ashton puking again, this time in his room, across the carpeting and then all over the bathroom.  Puke was dark brown, the color of Hershey’s chocolate with a slight acidic orangy aroma.

Poor Ashton, was supposed to have his first confession today, and I was actually going to get to go, to actually clear my conscience beyond this blog.  But, he vomits, and yet again, I’m delayed with getting through the pearly gates.  So, if I die this week, chances are, I’ll be living everlasting life in Purgatory.  Isn’t that what Atlanta is?  I’m not supposed to be here.  This was an odd destination.  Why are we here?

I don’t do vomit, unless John wants to see my own on the carpeting.  Even the thought of vomit causes me to gag.  Smelly poop does that too.  I’m so good at other parenting things, but vomit isn’t one of them.

So off I go to make the Chicken soup…and thankful that a girlfriend once shared her recipe.

Bitten by a Snake

 Just because a snake is sleeping doesn’t take away the fact that a snake is still a snake and the instincts are still there. 

Are you there, God?  It’s me.  Sinclair.  It’s been a while, but I’ve got plenty going on, a lot on my mind, and I’m out of Xanax.  Actually, I’ve been out of it for quite some time now.  I’m lying.  I have one left, but I know that today’s drama isn’t worth taking it. I can get through it, just might have to drink two glasses of Firefly.  

I’m hoping that John and Jack maximize the medical deductible soon, because I need a long hard session on a couch somewhere and hopefully some sort of solution that will help me sleep, be less jittery, and relieve some of this anxiety that wakes me up at 2:00 a.m.  Why is Xanax so hard to come by, and isn’t there something comparable that I can get at the grocery?  I just want to SLEEP through the night and not wake up worrying!

John is having some crazy medical issues.  Our insurance sucks, so his thyroid isn’t covered by our health insurance, we’ll be coming out of pocket whatever they decide it is he has.  His latest doctor has this passion to increase his own revenue by having John come in three times @$246/visit to see if he’s going to have to have a biopsy.  Hopefully John will talk him into having the nuclear scan and get on with it.  Hope to you it’s not cancer, if it is, that wouldn’t be appreciated.  I need to get to a shrink….

I’m having some real issues with Miss Polly.  Frank finally got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and all of my discussions with her are so stressful.  There is nothing that I can do, but her latest way to hurt my feelings is to tell me that she’s going to keep him away from stressful situations, and that insinuates “me”, and that she won’t be attending anything at my house if it means that John’s family will be here…and so, since Ashton’s birthday falls right after John’s, that means that John’s family would probably be here visiting, and so….well…..yep, she’s not going to be here for Ashton’s birthday, or Ashton’s first communion, or Mignonne’s birthday, or Mother’s Day, or well, anything that would require my father to experience stress or her to have to deal with my in-laws.  I made the mistake of telling her that she had to stop, and so she hung up on me.  Won’t hear from her until who knows, but I’m not calling.  I’ve had enough, and I have plenty on my plate.  I’m hoping not to get one of her notorious emails to add to my coffee table book collection, but it’s just a matter of time.

Polly thinks I’m the devil.

I’ve decided to pick my battles, and unfortunately, every time I talk to my mother, she picks a fight, doesn’t like my tone, or we just argue over shit that doesn’t matter.  This summer after her battle with me over my estranged sibling and those hateful emails from her, I just refuse to discuss with her what is going on with me or my personal life, which probably has caused her so to express even more animosity towards me, so I have decided that I just need to focus on the things that I can turn into positive things, and not focus on things that keep me up at night.

A friend once said to me, just because a snake is sleeping doesn’t take away the fact that a snake is still a snake and the instincts are still there.  God, I pray for my friend to have the strength to do what is right for her survival.  It’s hard to be the one to put the lock on the door and throw away the key.

John just brought home some Crystal Lite.  Gotta add it to my fly.

Christmas 2009

This Summer, I met my new love, Firefly.

We are all still alive so I’ll cover that update first.  I don’t know how Lille is still alive.  She’s fat, sleeps all day, and now has discovered that she can bark, so she does on a regular basis while we play twenty questions regarding what she wants.  I’m well trained though, because I’ve stopped asking all of the regular things first and just abruptly end the conversation with “Cookie?” which then gets much praise and adoration from the fat dog.  We did a slew of tests on her recently, but the real diagnosis is just an old and fat dog.

Speaking of medical wonders, we’ve had a great year maxing out our medical insurance deductibles and having our premiums rise accordingly.  We were golden by April after my chin decided to meet the pavement of the French Quarter in New Orleans at 2 a.m. the night of the 40th birthday fiesta of John, as I was getting out of a cab and my heel caught the hem of my dress.  My camera survived the fall.  I was stunningly bloody gorgeous in the ER – so glamorous in fact that they put me in a pediatric examination room immediately in order to quarantine me from the “other” patients visiting Tulane than evening.  12 stitches later, I swear I had a chin lift.  I’m still going deaf in my right ear but the dizziness has stopped so I’m no longer a threat on the road driving my kids to their numerous activities.  What did you say?  Huh? You have to talk to my left ear.

Ashton also spent some time in the hospital this year after discovering that he could jiggle his brain by playing “dizzy lizzie” in the basement by having his head come in contact with the wall two days before we were supposed to go on a cruise for Spring Break.  Since the concussion caused him to vomit for 24 hours, we were admitted to the hospital until he could break the pattern and smuggled him and his black skull on the ship.  I still don’t think he’s right, but maybe it’s because he’s 7.  As the Neurologist stated, “boy, you really rang your bell!”

Jack, on the other hand, also had a slew of tests and the result was that he is allergic to Atlanta.  Dust mites (carpet), Lille, Mohammad’s weeds, our grass, mice, oak trees…. The kid sneezes all the time, and in the midst of the Pig Epidemic, he wasn’t achieving popular status with the teachers.  So, now he and I go twice a week to the allergist’s office for him to get a series of shots in order to build immunity for the NEXT FIVE YEARS.  Each visit takes about forty- five minutes.  Brilliant.  Thank God for online games on phones.  I’m a Poker shark now.

I’m really trying to figure out how to swing the tummy tuck into this year’s medical plan and get an insurance sponsored Mommy Makeover, but I’m not smart enough.  Mignonne had a bout of Fifth Disease followed up by the swine flu before it became famous.  John has been relatively healthy this year, but that’s because he’s been busy and keeps away from us with his office door closed.  But really, the kids are great, John is fine, and I’m alive.

When we last wrote, I was having a love affair with alcoholic grape juice of the red variety.  This summer, I met my new love, Firefly.  Nothing can be finer than some Sweet Tea, it’s a beautiful thing, and I highly recommend it to those that like something a bit more special than an Arnold Palmer in their water bottle 😉    We have been spending the last few summers in my most favorite place on earth, Daufuskie Island.  It’s heaven, and if you haven’t made up an excuse yet to come visit, you can now say you want to experience Firefly on the Calibogue and give us a call as you are heading towards South Cackalackie.  This year however will go down as the Year of the Mermaid.  Over the years, I have had my eye on this piece of artistic beauty, named Ethel Mermaid.  She’s a 7 foot, blue tailed, iron sculpture by the only artist I’ve ever proclaimed my “groupie” status about.

This past summer, I gave up on waiting for her to arrive as a gift, so I went into business for myself and started crabbing off the bridges and beaches of Daufuskie Island.  I became one with the crabs.  Our guests even got into the action, and since I hang out with a bunch of smart chicks, each one perfected our process with a bit more precision and grace…Tonging, Wellies, Net Sizes, Types of Chicken, net placement, times of the day to go…these became trade secrets.  I would check the tides on a daily basis, don my Wellies, and tie a piece of chicken wing onto a piece of string, tie it to my boot strap, and then cast it into the water and wait for the big one to take a bite, then slowly lure it into my net where it would be masterfully placed inside my bucket for the big crab boil later that afternoon.  I became The Crab Whisperer.  My Daufuskie Deviled crab became a hot item at the local farmer’s market each Tuesday morning.  I’d mix up a batch of the crab, stuff the shells, bake them, and wrap them in foil, put them in my cooler, and head on down to the dock in the six seater golf cart to sell to the locals…some days I’d be done in three minutes, other days it would take thirty to sell out.  I became “the crab lady”, and was a regular at the farmer’s market.  If I was running late, it wasn’t ever that terrible.  They’d just say, “Oh, she’s always late, she’s got the three kids, and plays tennis on Tuesday mornings.”  Ten weeks of sales and I made enough to buy the beautiful mermaid.  I’ve never worked so hard for something in my life, and the precious time spent with my kids trying to achieve something that I’ve wanted, well, I hope they got it.  Wrapping her up and driving her across the island in the golf cart with the three kids before getting her home in the minivan with a summer’s worth of treasure – absolutely the best feeling ever.  She now rests prominently in my bathroom over my tub, with three little fish, and one big fish.


I don’t really know what I learned from all of this besides the fact that hookers take Visa.

Eight years ago, I worked for a friend helping him start up his insurance advisory firm.  He had been a prior client of John’s at his old firm.  Since I was basically unemployable as a traveling consultant as Jack was just a baby, I helped Barton Fishback develop his insurance application and set up his office.   Ashton came along while I was working, and I really felt that I had the flexibility with my job and motherhood that I desired.  I had two nannies watching the boys, my cousin Tasha lived with us and worked for me at the office, and I was mentally motivated to do something entrepreneurial.

My job morphed into playing not only consultant for his internet endeavor, but also controller for his business, friend, office manager, and I was responsible for dodging paying his bills and paying credit cards just in time.  Our friendship was mutual.  Barton, John, and I would go out to dinner, Barton and I would go out to lunch, and we’d socialize together with Barton’s wife.

Two years into our working relationship, money started to get tight.  Barton would go on trips to Miami and disappear for a few days.  The bank would call and say that Barton’s credit card was maxed out, or that he had an interest payment due on his loan.  We had a box at Raymond James Stadium, season tickets to any USF basketball game we wanted to attend, and a box at Tropicana Field.  Since Barton didn’t pay his bills, he wasn’t really affected by the stress of making payroll for his employees simultaneously keeping up with the entertainment payments for sporting events.  I stopped paying myself so that we could pay the four women that also worked in the office for Barton and pay the rent.

Long story short, I started to notice some strange charges on the Visa card, and I called the number on the statement referencing the charge when we were getting up there in balance again.  As it would turn out, the charges were for “escort services”.  At that point, I decided to just keep my mouth shut.  One New Year’s Eve, Barton invited John and I out with him.  We scored a sitter and in the pouring down rain arrived at the most beautiful house where Barton told us to meet him.  Barton was there, but his wife, Grace was not.  Barton told us that Grace had left him for his best friend, and he was devastated.  We drove him home from the party because he left the sunroof open in his 7series BMW and his car was flooded.

It was kind of poetic, the fact that the whore mongering man’s wife had left him.  I could no longer  keep my mouth shut.  John, Barton, and I were all there later that night, sitting in his garage office as the rain poured down and I told him that I knew what extra curricular activities he had been engaging in, and if he truly thought that his marriage was going to survive, he couldn’t be so stupid as to think that his wife wasn’t aware that there were issues on his side as well.  Barton was shocked.

The next week Barton’s wife had moved back home.  Her lover had not left his wife that evening after all, and so there were Grace and Barton living back together and working on their marriage.  Barton and I went out to lunch and he tried to spin a woe is me story.  All I could think as he spoke was, “You charged hookers on the company credit card and I haven’t paid myself in four months!” but instead I said, “You’ve really placed me in a position that I am uncomfortable looking your wife in the eye.  If I know again that you’ve put your wife in a situation where you are exposing her to God knows what, I will have to tell her and I will no longer work for you.”  I did this while Derek Jeter ate a Cobb salad at the next table.

Two months later, I again was managing the money and reconciling the Visa statement.  And there it was, another charge on the company credit card for the same escort.  I pulled up the checking account, clicked my name as a payable and paid myself out in full.  I walked into Barton’s office, put the check on the desk and said, “sign it”.  He looked at me with guilt but also disappointment that I was following through on my threat.

We have never spoken since although we are on his client distribution list for emails and insurance updates.

I’m not really sure what lesson I learned from this entire phase in my life, besides the fact that hookers take credit cards and just because two married people cheat on each other doesn’t mean they won’t stay together.  But it was the first time I was personally exposed to a friend’s infidelity, and it broke my heart.  I didn’t need to judge, I just knew that I held myself up at a higher standard than others might hold themselves.

Barton’s infidelity was the beginning of a long list of friends that have disappointed me with their decisions regarding how they choose to respect their marriage.  I did learn though to keep my mouth shut as to my beliefs and opinions when those confessional times brought themselves to me.  I think that people spin their truth into something they can live with instead of knowing that right is right and wrong is wrong.  The struggle is to not give up to temptation when it stares you in the face.

There once was a tiger that removed his stripes and put on some spots and became a cheetah.