SuperGurl

Hey, y’all.

Saturday morning, the boys are gone for a three day weekend. I’m as relaxed as I get.

Received $56 in child support last month. I don’t need it. I’d be broke no matter how much income I received, it’s my way. Still, it’s hard not to feel offended by the statement of twenty-eight dollars per child for a month. Especially realizing that was probably the last money I’d see for a while. That was the first of September and we’re a week into October already.

The boys, being at a new school, are finally excited about the fall carnival. It will be the same weekend as the Architect’s birthday. They have devoted their after school time to stuffing envelopes with raffle tickets. And wow, if you forget how pure children are, sic them on a volunteer duty. It has been really cool to see them prioritize their new found drives amongst an already full schedule of robot building, reading, and video games.

Cooler still, they received their raffle tickets on Friday. The very raffle tickets they had feverishly counted out, 30 per stack, and stuffed in the self-same brown bracket envelopes. All the way home, I was pelleted with questions about how raffle sales work. It was tough explaining while driving the car, the Architect seemed overly concerned about carrying around an envelope full of money. The tearing and keeping of part of the ticket made no sense. He was certain the adults were not thinking this through. He just couldn’t imagine the cogs at work, until Friday.

Friday, they had assemblies for each grade and explained how the raffle would work. A buck a chance. Both boys were ready to hit the streets, they’d sell their souls for raffle fare. The capitalistic vibe was intoxicating. And I have to tell you, as a mother that has griped about every school fund raiser I’ve ever come in contact with, it’s refreshing to know, that every cent of every dollar goes directly to the PTA to build on the success of this event. Every dollar, since a majority of the games, food, and prizes are donated by the business community.

And this is a Power Packed PTA. Two years ago, the carnival created enough surplus funds to buy digital overhead machines for each classroom (no more transparencies!) Last year, the PTA carnival provided digital cameras and printers for every classroom. Think about this now. A fully functioning PTA that raises funds with one blow out all-community event. It’s truly a beautiful thing.

Unfortunately, their father was waiting when we got to our house. The boys were expecting their dad to be their first purchaser, and whatever he didn’t buy, they were sure they could sell in Austin by Tuesday. Sell all thirty tickets and they get thirty more. They practically swarmed him when he stepped out of his car.

It was heartbreaking. I explained to him that this was a hugely important fund raiser for their school and that the boys had been working on the raffle team for weeks preparing for these ticket sales. While I thought the conversation was friendly and way above civil, my idiot ex husband leveled us all with one telling statement, “Nah, I’m not buying any of that. Leave the tickets here and let’s turn off the sales gig for the weekend.”

What? But they fancied themselves swimming in dollar bills by Tuesday? They had to top the school in sales. How could their Dad not care? How could he demean their hours of volunteer service as if it had been telemarketing training or something? How could he not find it in his dark, empty heart to find just two dollars? It would have meant the world to them. Less than the cost of one gallon of gas? Too much to make your boys ecstatic?

But this is a man that paid $56 in child support last month. He fancies himself the only pure influence in the boys’ lives as he is NOT like me, consumed with the almighty dollar. And again, I don’t need his patchouli stinking money. I don’t. I have been gifted a fantastic situation where I am somehow able to provide without his help. I’m still affected, though. Still terribly affected, on an ongoing basis, by his complete disregard for reality and his trampling on his boys’ advanced senses of responsibility. They aren’t being raised the way their father was, and that’s a very good thing.

They’ve never been privy to the financial hazards of being involved with their father. People always told me they would figure it out eventually on their own, they’re smart. But they never knew about his reckless disregard for child support, until on Friday, when they outright asked for it themselves.

“Buy one ticket, Dad. Just one.”

Took a tour of the county jail last night.
Ecstasy, freaks. I mean, pure surreal for real.

It was wild. 180 inmates. And as we walked around it felt much like a zoo. Everywhere we went, they crowded and cat called and messed with us, and laughed. Just like the movies, it was freaking chaotic.

Didn’t help getting a crash course on our county’s deepest, darkest jailhouse memories as we paced the blocks. Most of those moments occurred before my time here or were purposely kept from the media. It was an eye opener on many levels, and an eyebrow raiser too. Many wtf moments enveloped our conversations.

Learned something I never knew before, making hooch is the natural daily first order of business in county lock up. Never occurred to me, not once. Freaking chemists. Seems any sugar & yeast combo left in the shower for a enough time will do. And no more orange kool-aid was the word of the day on my visit. Especially with the serious baddies, it was posted above the peepholes.

The peepholes! I had three horrific experiences at the peepholes and then I stopped looking. The first was as soon as we got into the jail, and I hadn’t seen not one criminal, and the jailer opened this little 12 X 6 cookie sheet door, exposing a window and I looked in, and they were all staring back. Oh shit! Not only that, but instantly, they were up and rushing the glass. Ooops! At least the first peephole experience was funny, the second two, uh-huh. The words unspeakable trauma come to mind, but nothing else.

On our exit, our tour guide treated us to a sampling of confiscated contraband. Contraband being anything not being used for it’s express purpose. Wow. It was a museum, folks. Saw three different homemade tattoo guns. Buttons, staples, & broom straw for gears. One was battery powered! Uh, duh, prison tats makes more sense now that I’ve seen what it takes to make a tattoo gun. Unreal, and that wasn’t all. Intricate woven jewelry, you wouldn’t believe the beautiful crosses made of everything from toilet paper to saran wrap. Letters with tobacco stapled into seams. A variety of “stingers”-homemade electric plugs to make hot coffee one shampoo bottle-full at a time. You can’t believe the ingenuity in a jail. Nothing but time for irreverent minds. Scary.

As we are pouring over the artwork and machinery and the sheer drive to thrive despite being completely deprived, the jailer smiled and she said, “Yep. Those prisoners will do almost anything for hot cup of coffee.”

And the kindred feeling that gripped my expression terrified me. It was almost familial, happy. Like I was going to miss those old coffee loving fools. Disgusted with myself, I mosied on with a new found appreciation for walking the straight and narrow. Even set the cruise control below the speed limit for the ride home.

Yeps. Been a little busy, folks, sorry.

I’ve been on the upbeat though. Fighting the forces of shite that seem to always be gunning for me. Or maybe I’m being too sensitive. I accept it, into each one’s world a little shit must fly, but still. I have been fuct over by everyone from an impotent lover to the Gattie Wagon. Enough, already.

You know how some words just rub you the wrong way? And they can even be totally benign in nature, still, because of your point of reference, they give you the squicks. I got the pleasure of hearing one of my least faves yesterday and it immediately carved out a huge chunk of real estate in my cpu, because I keep hearing it, over and over and over. Can’t shake a bad phrase if it’s truly bad to you, can you?

Want to know what it is? I bet you do, but first, let’s have a long boring diatribe by me about how the word makes me feel. Just kidding, the word is “pussy”, yes, pussy. I hate that word.

In this case, it was twice as ugly and four times as evil as it was delivered from the mouth of a 82 year old and accompanied by a most foul adjective, dirty. Yes, people. Can you feel my achille’s heal throbbing in vulnerability? You now own my weakness, tis only two words: Dirty Pussy.

And I could take you back there, give you the blow by blow, describe her kelly green matchy matchy poly perfect no iron outfit, tell you how it all came about, but why, when the phrase does serious damage all on it’s own? You don’t need that blogland puffery, do you? Not that I’ve ever been anti-puffery, no not me.

Dirty Pussy. The phrase just reeks, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it make your mouth scowl up when you think it? Dirty Pussy. I think I might have to fire that client. And as far as associations go, I realize pussy is a word that men generally have no problem with. Shit, anything that even sniffs of sex flies by just fine in manworld. Hell, I bet most the men who read this kinda think they would like some dirty pussy. But back to me, I don’t.

And as I’m struggling to get Dirty Pussy off the brain, I realize, there are worse descriptors (Erica’s was pretty bad). I know I’m coming off prudish, but please. With a thousand better descriptors for the female genetalia, can’t we all employ better ones? Please, try for me.

Look, I need your help now.
I’ve been getting by alright, it’s not pretty all the time, but I get along.

Still, I have the same relationship woes. Just lost another one, I think. The old fade into the sunset routine. I hate that. It’s like I keep thinking the sun’s supposed to rise again. What happens to the men I date?

The last one was so perfect, albeit compact. But, hey, I was raised to believe big things come in small packages. Call it a gift, or a curse, or what have you, BUT I’m a little guy magnet. Which has not at all been good for my amazon complex. Nopes.

Guess I’m a little too fixated on my sideshow appearance. It’s hard shaking that vaudevillian feeling when all your dates look like hand puppets.

Mommy, look at the giant lady and the cute little man!

Sometimes I think people think I’ve got a ventriloquist gig or something. Yeah, I hear the snickers and I don’t know what kind of fried DNA I got ahold of, but I can’t get enough of that cute little stuff. Call it a Hello Kitty dysfunction maybe? I know not. But the little man, oh my goodness, they bring out my she-rah. They really do.

But I must go now. Must sit on my hands some more so as not to scare away any more of the little people. Gosh, I love them though, sweet timid little bunnies.

Whoa! I’m severely jetlagged.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a coaster gurl. Generally, I thrive on ups and downs, they create opportunity. They focus your vision. They reallocate your priorities for you. Normally, I’d enjoy it, but this week, not so much.

And I’m not talking about our bipolar market either, well, not directly. Although, it is funny how my life at times seems market driven. Does yours?

Take Tuesday, for instance. I got a miracle ticket in the morning, one of the finest people I know. Walked in and said, “Do whatever,” in reference to an enormous pile of dough. I can’t explain what that feels like except to say, it has nothing to do with the actual dollars. The appreciation and kindness showed in trust makes for a much more fulfilling payday anyday. What a pick me up. And that was just my first appointment. By the end of the day, I had 6.

So Tuesday was a landslide. All day pretty much with fireworks and shit at the end. I was coolio inglesias with it. In fact, I felt blessed. I had been in the company of my favorite people doing what I do best.

Thank goodness I did, because the market wasn’t closed 5 minutes before I got the call. Holy cripes, people, I really got the call this time. I could try to pretty it up for you, but why, I’m tired. It was basically the hatchet man in his earliest form.

Which was strange and wonderful, considering my mood. He actually asked me what I thought was going to save my business and I broke into song. Ti-i-i-ime is on my side, Yes it is! To which, he not only agreed I had a kick ass theme song, he said it was his for a long time too. Hmmm.

All in all, my come to Jesus meeting was very effective I guess. Though I have nothing but disdain for the surprise attack. Still, one of my favorite peers whom I respect massively spent an hour of his time trying to help me to ensure my job security. That’s pretty freaking sweet if you can block out the fact that at his hourly rate, I think even the most mathematically challenged could figure out that I must be in some serious shit.

Yep. It was rough having my market buzz crushed like that. But hey, there’s always tomorrow. Which, in the case of Tuesday, turned out to be today. And today rocked. From start to finish, a triple A day.

Now I’m off.
Sleep well and be well, folks.