...is wrong with me?
I was doing well- relatively happy. I've come to the realization that I hate my job, but what can I do? A call center is a call center is a call center, and I don't have nearly enough (any?) self-esteem to look for something new.
I'm both sad and anxious today. The last thing I want today is to hear from crappy-ass unhappy travelers. Hey, pity me, I don't get to travel at all! Today, I just feel like the rut I'm in is more like a chasm. Yeah, I'm being self-piteous and mopey, so sue me!
My (probably) irrational fears are taking hold:
That I'm going to be fired.
That I might secretly want to be fired.
The big, giant "What Now" if that were to happen (which feed into the self-esteem issues, and the absolute hatred of looking for a new job, which feeds into the self-esteem issues).
Because, being the breadwinner, everything is on me.
Now, I don't mind being the breadwinner, but the old fears from a few years back are still there - when I didn't have enough money for bills, and had to decide whether to pay them (and did I pray for a vicious, cold winter!) or live, when the Jeep was repossessed, the second one of a total of three in my life, (a fun car to drive, but a POS) and then the remainder of the loan garnished from my pay, and birthdays and Christmas were absolute hell.
And right now, I'm about half way through Wicked, but as down as I am, I don't know if I can finish it. Jimmy's reading Life of Pi now.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Ok, a couple of things.
I finished the Ultimate Hitchhikers Guide, and I'm gonna have to agree with my son that the ending kind of bites. It is the only possible ending that I could really see, but it did kind of bite.
Good book, though.
I made up a new blog to cross-post my stories. I named it Not Together Tales, and Parts One and Two are already there. I've started on Part Three, now that Graduation and Surgery craziness is over. Although there is one more tale of woe from the surgeon's office.
He told the Hubby that he wanted to see him by Friday to remove the staples and drainage thingy (very interesting, but gross). I called the office, oh like Tuesday, said I needed to make a followup appointment for the Hubby, and they said they would call me back.
DID THEY? NO!!
So I called again on Thursday, was told by the snippy-ass woman the earliest appointment I could get was 3:30 pm on Tuesday and I should have CALLED EARLIER. Maybe I should have went ahead and told her, "I did, you snippy-ass bitch! I called on Tuesday and nobody called me back!" But I'm just not that assertive yet.
And this all feeds back on that ONE thing I hate more than anything:
I HATE TO BE IGNORED!! (and, yes, I know that's fairly ironic for a shy introvert)
The Hubby's blood sugar starts out the day the day relatively low (under 200), but ends the day relatively high (around 300). It's a concern for both of us. The doctor's added Avandia (?) to the growing list of prescriptions. Maybe it takes a while.
Oh, and the Hubby is trying to move around more, but he tends to overdo it, and ends up being wiped out.
Oh, and this (NY Times requires registration - ick) is why I don't mind my son's joining the Navy. I do feel a draft, and it's chilling me to the bone.
I finished the Ultimate Hitchhikers Guide, and I'm gonna have to agree with my son that the ending kind of bites. It is the only possible ending that I could really see, but it did kind of bite.
Good book, though.
I made up a new blog to cross-post my stories. I named it Not Together Tales, and Parts One and Two are already there. I've started on Part Three, now that Graduation and Surgery craziness is over. Although there is one more tale of woe from the surgeon's office.
He told the Hubby that he wanted to see him by Friday to remove the staples and drainage thingy (very interesting, but gross). I called the office, oh like Tuesday, said I needed to make a followup appointment for the Hubby, and they said they would call me back.
DID THEY? NO!!
So I called again on Thursday, was told by the snippy-ass woman the earliest appointment I could get was 3:30 pm on Tuesday and I should have CALLED EARLIER. Maybe I should have went ahead and told her, "I did, you snippy-ass bitch! I called on Tuesday and nobody called me back!" But I'm just not that assertive yet.
And this all feeds back on that ONE thing I hate more than anything:
I HATE TO BE IGNORED!! (and, yes, I know that's fairly ironic for a shy introvert)
The Hubby's blood sugar starts out the day the day relatively low (under 200), but ends the day relatively high (around 300). It's a concern for both of us. The doctor's added Avandia (?) to the growing list of prescriptions. Maybe it takes a while.
Oh, and the Hubby is trying to move around more, but he tends to overdo it, and ends up being wiped out.
Oh, and this (NY Times requires registration - ick) is why I don't mind my son's joining the Navy. I do feel a draft, and it's chilling me to the bone.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Part Three
The first thing K noticed when he woke up was his throat was sore. Then it was his stomach. Then it was the slow realization he wasn't at home. The blinds were closed and the lights dimmed, so K was sure it was night, but wasn't sure which one. He lifted his left hand to rub his eyes and noticed the IV.
"I hope they're giving me the good shit," he thought, paused and then thought, "right, probably not." He raised up on his elbows to look around. It was a small room, bathroom at the front, a sink beside it a little ways from his bed. Next to the bed was the most uncomfortable recliner he'd ever seen. His mother was in it, asleep. He flopped back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling, tears welling up in his eyes. He thought of the events of today (yesterday?). He looked again at his mother, shifting in the uncomfortable chair.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!"
"How was it supposed to be, honey?" his mother asked. She sat up, folded in the footpad, and went to his bedside.
He didn't realize he had spoken aloud. Wordlessly, he sat up and sort of fell into his mother's arms, holding her tightly. Then the tears came. DJ held him close, stroked his hair and she cried with him.
"I hope they're giving me the good shit," he thought, paused and then thought, "right, probably not." He raised up on his elbows to look around. It was a small room, bathroom at the front, a sink beside it a little ways from his bed. Next to the bed was the most uncomfortable recliner he'd ever seen. His mother was in it, asleep. He flopped back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling, tears welling up in his eyes. He thought of the events of today (yesterday?). He looked again at his mother, shifting in the uncomfortable chair.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!"
"How was it supposed to be, honey?" his mother asked. She sat up, folded in the footpad, and went to his bedside.
He didn't realize he had spoken aloud. Wordlessly, he sat up and sort of fell into his mother's arms, holding her tightly. Then the tears came. DJ held him close, stroked his hair and she cried with him.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
In the Words of the Master....
Douglas Adams, in his book The Restaurant at the End of the Universe:
From Chapter 28 - To Summarize: it is a well-known fact that those people who must want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it. To summarize the summary: anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.
Genius! Just pure-D, sheer genius.
(My son purchased the Ultimate Hitchikers Guide and gave it to me when he finished. He went on to Wicked, which he's also now finished - so I'm kind of behind.)
From Chapter 28 - To Summarize: it is a well-known fact that those people who must want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it. To summarize the summary: anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.
Genius! Just pure-D, sheer genius.
(My son purchased the Ultimate Hitchikers Guide and gave it to me when he finished. He went on to Wicked, which he's also now finished - so I'm kind of behind.)
Monday, May 23, 2005
Six Years Too Late
For my dad, that is. Paralyzed from the waist down the end of '99. I've said it before, hemophilia and back surgery DO NOT GO TOGETHER.
Too little, too late.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Updates
My kid graduated on Friday. The ornery shit didn't tell me he would lead the Pledge of Allegiance. It would have been better if I could HEAR HIM!! First of all, I had crappy seats, because I had to wait for my sister and her kids (she may be more together than I am, but she's always late. So I missed Jimmy coming in. But they did put up a big screen for the video of the ceremony. Then there were audio problems, Jason's friend, Tommy, works at the Lazy E afterward told me the music director did something to screw it up, it wasn't their fault. It finally got fixed, but by then the speeches were almost done (not necessarily a bad thing). So, noone heard him say, "Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance." - and kept sitting and yakking. The faux Jumbo-tron catches him rolling his eyes. So, he repeats himself and we get through the pledge. And somebody please tell me why there has to be 12-15 Salutorians, and 12-15 Valadictorians - all that have to say something (boring) to say.
Since Jimmy was in the front row (Vice-President), I was basically ready to go as soon as they called his name. I took lots of pictures (regular, not digital), but I'm usually kind of shaky, so I don't know if they'll turn out.
My son, who never mentions friend one at home, has lots of friends, all of the guys, kind of, similar-looking to him. And he got hugged by no less than 5 girls (and an attempt by one guy), one of whom proclaimed herself his "future wife" (I got a picture of that one)!
UPDATE II: Oh, yeah, no I never did get that silly gown ironed. But, you know, in the end, it just didn't matter. What did matter was the beautiful smile that he doesn't wear often enough.
My husband had his surgery Friday morning. So, I blew off work Friday and Saturday. Of course the doctor tells me in pre-op, just as they're about to wheel Randy into surgery, to wait in the waiting room and he'll come out afterwards and tell me how it went.
Did he?
NO!! 4 hours I'm waiting! Reading the book I brought almost obsessively, so I wouldn't stop to think and worry. Finally, a nurse comes and gets me and the M-in-L, saying Randy's been asking for us - he'd been in the room for about an hour!
Have I yet to hear boo about Randy's hernia (which he called his "alien baby") repair?! Has the surgeon made one appearance this weekend?
Now we did tell the doctor on duty yesterday, and he said he'd look into it. At the time, I looked at Randy and said, "I don't want to get him into trouble." But the more I thought about it, the more the new, more assertive me said (to myself), "Hell yes I want him in trouble! He had me thinking the worst!" I may not actually, physically do it, but I want to kick his ass!
Oh, and to add to all of his previous problems, his blood sugar's been high. They're thinking Type-2 Diabetes. Yay! more pills. Can my husband NOT get anymore diseases or conditions? Please?!
Oh, one more thing, I'm thinking seriously of starting a new blog for my stories.
Since Jimmy was in the front row (Vice-President), I was basically ready to go as soon as they called his name. I took lots of pictures (regular, not digital), but I'm usually kind of shaky, so I don't know if they'll turn out.
My son, who never mentions friend one at home, has lots of friends, all of the guys, kind of, similar-looking to him. And he got hugged by no less than 5 girls (and an attempt by one guy), one of whom proclaimed herself his "future wife" (I got a picture of that one)!
UPDATE II: Oh, yeah, no I never did get that silly gown ironed. But, you know, in the end, it just didn't matter. What did matter was the beautiful smile that he doesn't wear often enough.
My husband had his surgery Friday morning. So, I blew off work Friday and Saturday. Of course the doctor tells me in pre-op, just as they're about to wheel Randy into surgery, to wait in the waiting room and he'll come out afterwards and tell me how it went.
Did he?
NO!! 4 hours I'm waiting! Reading the book I brought almost obsessively, so I wouldn't stop to think and worry. Finally, a nurse comes and gets me and the M-in-L, saying Randy's been asking for us - he'd been in the room for about an hour!
Have I yet to hear boo about Randy's hernia (which he called his "alien baby") repair?! Has the surgeon made one appearance this weekend?
Now we did tell the doctor on duty yesterday, and he said he'd look into it. At the time, I looked at Randy and said, "I don't want to get him into trouble." But the more I thought about it, the more the new, more assertive me said (to myself), "Hell yes I want him in trouble! He had me thinking the worst!" I may not actually, physically do it, but I want to kick his ass!
Oh, and to add to all of his previous problems, his blood sugar's been high. They're thinking Type-2 Diabetes. Yay! more pills. Can my husband NOT get anymore diseases or conditions? Please?!
Oh, one more thing, I'm thinking seriously of starting a new blog for my stories.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
I really have to stew in my juices for a bit.
As I have said, my son is graduating Friday, at the Lazy E Arena (I doubt the Cantina will be open). And he's a fantastic kid, just great. I'm really proud of him. But what do I have to show for it?!
NOTHING! Well, other than the really great, fantastic kid. I don't have any bumper stickers crowing about him being on the Honor Roll - at Guthrie they're only in Junior High (7th & 8th), and he had like 1 B one time in 7th. He's not an Academic All-State, because he would fill out the form. And he's not getting the collar-thing that hangs down the back of the gown, because he's not in Honor Society this year - no community service.
And it's his fault! He decided to be a kid, and have a life, and have some fun for once in his life.
Well, I guess I DO have something to show for it, after all.
As I have said, my son is graduating Friday, at the Lazy E Arena (I doubt the Cantina will be open). And he's a fantastic kid, just great. I'm really proud of him. But what do I have to show for it?!
NOTHING! Well, other than the really great, fantastic kid. I don't have any bumper stickers crowing about him being on the Honor Roll - at Guthrie they're only in Junior High (7th & 8th), and he had like 1 B one time in 7th. He's not an Academic All-State, because he would fill out the form. And he's not getting the collar-thing that hangs down the back of the gown, because he's not in Honor Society this year - no community service.
And it's his fault! He decided to be a kid, and have a life, and have some fun for once in his life.
Well, I guess I DO have something to show for it, after all.
Entering Freak Out Mode
OK. The kid is graduating (!!) on friday. I have actually mailed out announcements (I know. It's amazing, isn't it?!). I woke up the kid early (since it's about the only time we're in the house at the same time), and asked him if he got his cap & gown out of it's little package.
"yeah, last week sometime" he said, kind of groggily (geez, I wonder why?).
"How is it for wrinkles?"
"It's not good" (or something to that effect).
So I got it out of the closet to look at. I saw all the perfect little creases where it was originally in it's teeny plastic package. The label says do not wash or dry clean. Geez, is it made out of paper?
"How do you get the wrinkles out?"
"Steam"
Damn! No 1., I'm not sure my iron survived the move. No 2., I'm not that good at ironing. I don't want to melt the silly thing. But this did kind of cue a flashback:
Flashback
After Jimmy's Kindergarten, I lost my little house in Midwest City, on Tinker Drive (but luckily didn't affect my credit). I went to live with my parents in Del City. Jimmy's first grade was at Del City Elementary. I decided, even though he would only be able to participate every other weekend, to put him in Tiger Cubs - a pre-Cub Scout, Boy Scout thing. You don't have a uniform, but you get iron-on tigers (for parent and cub).
So, there I am, holding my iron (purchased solely to help block knitted pieces - which I also didn't do well - iron, not knitting. I rock at knitting.), waiting for it heat up. Jimmy looks up at me, deep concern on his face and asks, "Mom, do you know how to iron?"
It was a legitimate question, seeing how he'd probably never seen me iron before.
I give him a kind of annoyed, "Yes, I know how to iron!" And ironed on the tigers with no problem.
/flashback
Holy Christ! What am I going to do? I don't even know where my iron (yes, a steam iron) is! Maybe someone at work has one of those steamer things, you know, that steam out wrinkles. It'll be Friday before I know it.
"yeah, last week sometime" he said, kind of groggily (geez, I wonder why?).
"How is it for wrinkles?"
"It's not good" (or something to that effect).
So I got it out of the closet to look at. I saw all the perfect little creases where it was originally in it's teeny plastic package. The label says do not wash or dry clean. Geez, is it made out of paper?
"How do you get the wrinkles out?"
"Steam"
Damn! No 1., I'm not sure my iron survived the move. No 2., I'm not that good at ironing. I don't want to melt the silly thing. But this did kind of cue a flashback:
After Jimmy's Kindergarten, I lost my little house in Midwest City, on Tinker Drive (but luckily didn't affect my credit). I went to live with my parents in Del City. Jimmy's first grade was at Del City Elementary. I decided, even though he would only be able to participate every other weekend, to put him in Tiger Cubs - a pre-Cub Scout, Boy Scout thing. You don't have a uniform, but you get iron-on tigers (for parent and cub).
So, there I am, holding my iron (purchased solely to help block knitted pieces - which I also didn't do well - iron, not knitting. I rock at knitting.), waiting for it heat up. Jimmy looks up at me, deep concern on his face and asks, "Mom, do you know how to iron?"
It was a legitimate question, seeing how he'd probably never seen me iron before.
I give him a kind of annoyed, "Yes, I know how to iron!" And ironed on the tigers with no problem.
Holy Christ! What am I going to do? I don't even know where my iron (yes, a steam iron) is! Maybe someone at work has one of those steamer things, you know, that steam out wrinkles. It'll be Friday before I know it.
Monday, May 16, 2005
A little break from the story - yesterday's chapter took alot out of me - and it's not technically done yet.
The house is finished, except for skirting and front steps. The skirting was supposed to be put on Friday, but it rained. You talk about a red, muddy mess! A horror for my light gray carpet! And as for the front steps, it's just gonna have to wait a while - we're running low on funds.
My son graduates on friday at the Lazy E Arena. They're rebuilding Jelsma Stadium, downtown Guthrie, America, so right now it's a big hole in the ground. Surely I mailed out the invitations weeks ago! Right?! NO! I'm Ms. Not Together, remember! I'm just happy they're addressed and ready to go! I might go to the post office at lunch and get these mailed. Luckily I called my sister, who understands me, so she knows what's going on. Yesterday was the Baccalaureate, but I had to work. I was fretting, until I talked to Jimmy. He said he was blowing it off, since he had to be at work an hour later. Cool, I wasn't into the Jesus-y stuff anyway. The Hubby said Jimmy's dad came up on Sunday - I don't know if he went to it or not - weird work hours.
I spent, like, 5 hours in Edmond Memorial's emergency room this morning - from roughly 1:30 AM to 6:30AM. The Hubby was in excruciating abdominal pain. Now he's scheduled to see a surgeon tomorrow afternoon. To check on fixing a hernia popping up around the scar from his gallbladder operation 10 years ago. The scar goes from about the diaphram down to the belly button. With that and with his dad dying of pancreatic cancer, we didn't want to take chances. So after x-rays, cat scan, blood and urine analysis, and 2 pain shots, what did they find? Well, his blood sugar was high, 300, but aside from that? NOTHING! They said it was gas. GAS!! I'm sorry, maybe gas CAN cause excruciating abdominal pain, but I've never seen it. And I guess it's too true my husband could have been over-reacting, so used to constant pain. But I don't think so. Our doctor's (Jesse Ray's) slate was full, so I got him an appointment to see his PA. The hubby said he could go tomorrow, I said no, you're going today. He said ok. Maybe I'm over-reacting, too.
Jesus-God, I really don't have the patience for these pissy-ass people today!
And the day isn't even half over!
The house is finished, except for skirting and front steps. The skirting was supposed to be put on Friday, but it rained. You talk about a red, muddy mess! A horror for my light gray carpet! And as for the front steps, it's just gonna have to wait a while - we're running low on funds.
My son graduates on friday at the Lazy E Arena. They're rebuilding Jelsma Stadium, downtown Guthrie, America, so right now it's a big hole in the ground. Surely I mailed out the invitations weeks ago! Right?! NO! I'm Ms. Not Together, remember! I'm just happy they're addressed and ready to go! I might go to the post office at lunch and get these mailed. Luckily I called my sister, who understands me, so she knows what's going on. Yesterday was the Baccalaureate, but I had to work. I was fretting, until I talked to Jimmy. He said he was blowing it off, since he had to be at work an hour later. Cool, I wasn't into the Jesus-y stuff anyway. The Hubby said Jimmy's dad came up on Sunday - I don't know if he went to it or not - weird work hours.
I spent, like, 5 hours in Edmond Memorial's emergency room this morning - from roughly 1:30 AM to 6:30AM. The Hubby was in excruciating abdominal pain. Now he's scheduled to see a surgeon tomorrow afternoon. To check on fixing a hernia popping up around the scar from his gallbladder operation 10 years ago. The scar goes from about the diaphram down to the belly button. With that and with his dad dying of pancreatic cancer, we didn't want to take chances. So after x-rays, cat scan, blood and urine analysis, and 2 pain shots, what did they find? Well, his blood sugar was high, 300, but aside from that? NOTHING! They said it was gas. GAS!! I'm sorry, maybe gas CAN cause excruciating abdominal pain, but I've never seen it. And I guess it's too true my husband could have been over-reacting, so used to constant pain. But I don't think so. Our doctor's (Jesse Ray's) slate was full, so I got him an appointment to see his PA. The hubby said he could go tomorrow, I said no, you're going today. He said ok. Maybe I'm over-reacting, too.
Jesus-God, I really don't have the patience for these pissy-ass people today!
And the day isn't even half over!
Saturday, May 14, 2005
This Is Damn Hard, But Here's Part Two
They were her pills. She didn't even miss them. It was that little bit of insomnia when she changed to the swing shift. She couldn't wind down at the end of the day. She used them for a few days, but didn't like the zombie feeling, how hard it was to wake up.
"Why didn't I throw them away? I should have thrown them away? I didn't even notice them missing!" she thought to herself.
There were people all around her, sitting beside her, their arms around her shoulders, sitting in front of her, hands on her knees. They were talking to her. Saying...she didn't know what. Something sympathetic, something reassuring, probably. She wasn't listening, she wasn't there.
It had started as a normal day. K's car didn't wake her up when he left for school, so it was about 10 am when she got up. Once again she wished she knew what was going on in K's head. And again she wished he was five again. Before shit got in his head. He won't even talk to me anymore. I wouldn't understand, he says. I was the one who was pregnant at sixteen! I was the one kicked out of the house!
There was no coffee made and her cigarettes had been pilfered out of her purse (again). She called Bill to see if he wanted to go out for breakfast. She was semi-serious about Bill, and K seemed to like him. Of course, they only seemed to talk about his car - the '69 Camaro she lucked into a couple years ago. I looked like junk to her, but the mechanic (damn cute, by the way), who was selling it for an unpaid bill, said that the engine was still good and would be a good project. And it was Bea's money. How she doted on that boy. That mechanic was Bill, but he was slammed today and couldn't get away. Another reason her shift pissed her off, but it gave her weekends, real weekends.
So she decided just to go and get her cigarettes and coffee at the 7/11 down the street and then veg and catch up on the shows she has K tape for her.
A normal day.
Everybody knew not to call DJ at work. It was impossible to get to her, the message system was dubious, and her supervisor, Richard, was a prick. A college educated prick who wouldn't know how to do her job if his life depended on it, but that didn't stop him from telling her her mistakes. Everybody knew to leave a message on her cell phone.
The cubicles were octagonal, the eighth spot being open. They were arranged in four sets of four, sandwiched by the supervisors and helpers desks in the middle. Her cubby-mates were all older women, and she loved them dearly, but she would have preferred to sit by her best friends - Tasha and Ben. Richard tapped her on the shoulder and pressed the "after call" button on her phone pad, so she wouldn't get any more calls.
"You have an emergency call in operations." He said with a look of concern she'd never seen before.
Operations was the nerve center. They monitored the calls, and the agents, and measured the various statistics sent on up the food chain. A square room, mainframes on two walls , file cabinets on another, and a large window looking out on the call center floor on the last.
"hello?" Her anxiety level was rising.
"Mom? I'm sorry." It was K, his voiced cracked. He was crying.
"What do you mean - sorry?! What's wrong?!" DJ was trying to sound calm, but she felt hysteria creeping in. She pantomimed for a pen and paper to the ops agent.
"I've ruined your life. I'm just a freak, a pervert." He was starting to slur his words.
"You haven't done anything. You are a wonderful person. I love you, K!" In big letters, she writes "call 911" and "My son's killing himself" on the paper. The ops agent jumps to another phone.
"I love you, too, mom."
"Stay with me! Stay with me, honey!" and at the same time:
"I need your address!" the agent on the phone with the dispatcher whispers. DJ turns the paper over and writes her address and phone number.
"I'm really tired, mom. I think I'm gonna go to sleep."
"NO! No, honey, you need to stay with me!"
The ops agent hangs up and tells DJ they're sending an ambulance.
"'night, mom."
"NO, NO!" DJ screams, but K had already hung up the phone. "I've got to go!" She runs out to her desk to get her purse. Tasha had disconnected while DJ was in Ops, and was waiting for her.
What's going on, D?"
"I've got to GO! K's killing himself!" Why were they standing there? Tasha tells Richard she's going too, and tells D she's driving. DJ was grateful, she was in no state to drive home. Bill was waiting in the driveway. She rushes into his arms.
"What are you doing here?"
"K called me. Said some scary shit, like I'm supposed to take care of you. I knew he'd been moody lately, but Christ Almighty! The ambulance just left."
She calls Bea on the way to the hospital.
to be continued
"Why didn't I throw them away? I should have thrown them away? I didn't even notice them missing!" she thought to herself.
There were people all around her, sitting beside her, their arms around her shoulders, sitting in front of her, hands on her knees. They were talking to her. Saying...she didn't know what. Something sympathetic, something reassuring, probably. She wasn't listening, she wasn't there.
It had started as a normal day. K's car didn't wake her up when he left for school, so it was about 10 am when she got up. Once again she wished she knew what was going on in K's head. And again she wished he was five again. Before shit got in his head. He won't even talk to me anymore. I wouldn't understand, he says. I was the one who was pregnant at sixteen! I was the one kicked out of the house!
There was no coffee made and her cigarettes had been pilfered out of her purse (again). She called Bill to see if he wanted to go out for breakfast. She was semi-serious about Bill, and K seemed to like him. Of course, they only seemed to talk about his car - the '69 Camaro she lucked into a couple years ago. I looked like junk to her, but the mechanic (damn cute, by the way), who was selling it for an unpaid bill, said that the engine was still good and would be a good project. And it was Bea's money. How she doted on that boy. That mechanic was Bill, but he was slammed today and couldn't get away. Another reason her shift pissed her off, but it gave her weekends, real weekends.
So she decided just to go and get her cigarettes and coffee at the 7/11 down the street and then veg and catch up on the shows she has K tape for her.
A normal day.
Everybody knew not to call DJ at work. It was impossible to get to her, the message system was dubious, and her supervisor, Richard, was a prick. A college educated prick who wouldn't know how to do her job if his life depended on it, but that didn't stop him from telling her her mistakes. Everybody knew to leave a message on her cell phone.
The cubicles were octagonal, the eighth spot being open. They were arranged in four sets of four, sandwiched by the supervisors and helpers desks in the middle. Her cubby-mates were all older women, and she loved them dearly, but she would have preferred to sit by her best friends - Tasha and Ben. Richard tapped her on the shoulder and pressed the "after call" button on her phone pad, so she wouldn't get any more calls.
"You have an emergency call in operations." He said with a look of concern she'd never seen before.
Operations was the nerve center. They monitored the calls, and the agents, and measured the various statistics sent on up the food chain. A square room, mainframes on two walls , file cabinets on another, and a large window looking out on the call center floor on the last.
"hello?" Her anxiety level was rising.
"Mom? I'm sorry." It was K, his voiced cracked. He was crying.
"What do you mean - sorry?! What's wrong?!" DJ was trying to sound calm, but she felt hysteria creeping in. She pantomimed for a pen and paper to the ops agent.
"I've ruined your life. I'm just a freak, a pervert." He was starting to slur his words.
"You haven't done anything. You are a wonderful person. I love you, K!" In big letters, she writes "call 911" and "My son's killing himself" on the paper. The ops agent jumps to another phone.
"I love you, too, mom."
"Stay with me! Stay with me, honey!" and at the same time:
"I need your address!" the agent on the phone with the dispatcher whispers. DJ turns the paper over and writes her address and phone number.
"I'm really tired, mom. I think I'm gonna go to sleep."
"NO! No, honey, you need to stay with me!"
The ops agent hangs up and tells DJ they're sending an ambulance.
"'night, mom."
"NO, NO!" DJ screams, but K had already hung up the phone. "I've got to go!" She runs out to her desk to get her purse. Tasha had disconnected while DJ was in Ops, and was waiting for her.
What's going on, D?"
"I've got to GO! K's killing himself!" Why were they standing there? Tasha tells Richard she's going too, and tells D she's driving. DJ was grateful, she was in no state to drive home. Bill was waiting in the driveway. She rushes into his arms.
"What are you doing here?"
"K called me. Said some scary shit, like I'm supposed to take care of you. I knew he'd been moody lately, but Christ Almighty! The ambulance just left."
She calls Bea on the way to the hospital.
to be continued
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Ok, Here Goes...
All she knew about raising children was from her parents, which was exactly opposite from how she wanted to raise her son. He was a mistake, a plain, D mistake. A mistake, according to her parents, she was going to hell for. A mistake, the guy she thought loved her said was her problem - and dropped her like a rock. A beautiful, blue eyed, dark fuzzy haired, 6 lb 10 oz, perfect mistake. Her mistake. And she was going to love Kelly Jo Wyatt forever.
Her parents had kicked her out, but she was not alone. Her best friend's mother had offered to take her in, but she decided to live with her Aunt Bea. Even though she lived not 10 miles away, she only got to see her on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Oh, the stories she could tell! The places she'd been! The black sheep of the family, how they had tried to show Bea the error of her ways. They didn't even know how she found out about Dot, but there she was, stepping in for Dot and took her back to her house. "Mistakes happen, Dorothy Jane. Like your name."
Dot laughed, "Yeah, call me DJ. Please."
Bea made DJ stay in school as long as possible, and found a program for pregnant teens. She helped her graduate high school, helped her find a job and daycare. And helped raise her son. Even though all her previous experience was getting the various nieces and nephews hyped on sugar, buying them loud toys and giving them back to the parents.
She ended up calling him KJ, after being ribbed about giving him a girl's name. As he grew from baby to toddler, he seemed perfectly normal, but something nagged at DJ. He loved his cars and his action figures, but he also loved Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids. And he hated having his hair cut. Aunt Bea said there was nothing wrong, he was a normal boy. And she saw nothing wrong in giving him dolls, she wasn't about to give in to stereotypes.
DJ took the day off on K's first day of Kindergarten. He didn't like the clothes she made him wear, so he was kind of scowling in all the morning's pictures. She let him go ahead and ride the bus, it was such and adventure to him. She told him she would meet him when he came home and go for pizza.
Her stomach was doing flip-flops as the bus pulled up. Kids spilled out running everywhere, but she didn't see K. But there was this familar-looking little girl in pig tails and wearing a frilly pink dress and black maryjanes skipping merrily towards her.
"Oh my God! KJ Wyatt, where did you get those clothes?!"
"Traded. She wanted to go out and play, but her mommy said not to get her dress dirty. She said she hates dresses. I said I would take it, and we traded," KJ said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh, Mommy, look, look! The underwear matches!" he added enthusiastically, raising the dress to show the girls panties he was wearing.
DJ was at a complete loss for words. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. And she was sure she couldn't turn a deeper shade of red. Without saying a word, she picked K up and ran home.
She put him on the couch, and sat on the floor in front of him. She looked him in the eyes. The words came slowly.
"Don't you think I look pretty?" He asked
"You're beautiful, honey, but boys don't wear girls clothes." Please, don't ask why, she added to herself.
"But, why? I like this."
"I don't know why. That's just the way it is."
"Then, did I do something wrong?"
Well, that's the question, now isn't it - she thought to herself. All the options she saw ended up screwing him up. She decided on the path of least resistance, and hoped she was making the right choice.
"Well, K, you'll have to give these clothes back," she said, to immediate pouting, "but we'll go out and buy you some pretty clothes, but they only get worn at home - never at school. The other boys won't understand and will make fun of you."
This made sense to him, and he agreed. DJ just felt like she made a deal with the devil.
And she blamed herself.
Her parents had kicked her out, but she was not alone. Her best friend's mother had offered to take her in, but she decided to live with her Aunt Bea. Even though she lived not 10 miles away, she only got to see her on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Oh, the stories she could tell! The places she'd been! The black sheep of the family, how they had tried to show Bea the error of her ways. They didn't even know how she found out about Dot, but there she was, stepping in for Dot and took her back to her house. "Mistakes happen, Dorothy Jane. Like your name."
Dot laughed, "Yeah, call me DJ. Please."
Bea made DJ stay in school as long as possible, and found a program for pregnant teens. She helped her graduate high school, helped her find a job and daycare. And helped raise her son. Even though all her previous experience was getting the various nieces and nephews hyped on sugar, buying them loud toys and giving them back to the parents.
She ended up calling him KJ, after being ribbed about giving him a girl's name. As he grew from baby to toddler, he seemed perfectly normal, but something nagged at DJ. He loved his cars and his action figures, but he also loved Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids. And he hated having his hair cut. Aunt Bea said there was nothing wrong, he was a normal boy. And she saw nothing wrong in giving him dolls, she wasn't about to give in to stereotypes.
DJ took the day off on K's first day of Kindergarten. He didn't like the clothes she made him wear, so he was kind of scowling in all the morning's pictures. She let him go ahead and ride the bus, it was such and adventure to him. She told him she would meet him when he came home and go for pizza.
Her stomach was doing flip-flops as the bus pulled up. Kids spilled out running everywhere, but she didn't see K. But there was this familar-looking little girl in pig tails and wearing a frilly pink dress and black maryjanes skipping merrily towards her.
"Oh my God! KJ Wyatt, where did you get those clothes?!"
"Traded. She wanted to go out and play, but her mommy said not to get her dress dirty. She said she hates dresses. I said I would take it, and we traded," KJ said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh, Mommy, look, look! The underwear matches!" he added enthusiastically, raising the dress to show the girls panties he was wearing.
DJ was at a complete loss for words. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. And she was sure she couldn't turn a deeper shade of red. Without saying a word, she picked K up and ran home.
She put him on the couch, and sat on the floor in front of him. She looked him in the eyes. The words came slowly.
"Don't you think I look pretty?" He asked
"You're beautiful, honey, but boys don't wear girls clothes." Please, don't ask why, she added to herself.
"But, why? I like this."
"I don't know why. That's just the way it is."
"Then, did I do something wrong?"
Well, that's the question, now isn't it - she thought to herself. All the options she saw ended up screwing him up. She decided on the path of least resistance, and hoped she was making the right choice.
"Well, K, you'll have to give these clothes back," she said, to immediate pouting, "but we'll go out and buy you some pretty clothes, but they only get worn at home - never at school. The other boys won't understand and will make fun of you."
This made sense to him, and he agreed. DJ just felt like she made a deal with the devil.
And she blamed herself.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
You're Damn Straight!!
-3% Republican. | "You're a damn Commie! Where's Tailgunner Joe when we need him?" |
Friday, May 06, 2005
God Damn!
You would think that with just about everything blocked all to hell at work (internet-wise), that the freakin' thing would run faster.
BUT NOOOO!!! If anything, it's actually slower! And blocking the internet doesn't keep us (me) from screwing off at work. You just have to do the analog version - reading a book (right now Angels & Demons by Dan Brown) or newspaper, doodling, or writing the old fashioned way. And God knows, it's actually better for both the company and me to just let me screw off a little. I am in the death-throes of job burnout. But since I'm the main provider - I'm stuck.
Oh, have now heard horror stories coming from the new Dell call center here in OKC. Reminds me of when I was at Hertz. People left to go to AOL, To Sprint, To Lucent, etc. It was supposed to be soooo much better. The grass is greener, people. A call center is a call center is a call center, ad infinitem.
Anyway, I had a really good session with my therapist Thursday evening. He had given me an article on assertiveness to read. About the different catagories: Passive, Passive-Agressive, Agressive, and Assertive. After reading the article I decided I'm more Passive at home, but Passive-Agressive at work (Who, Me? No, surely you don't mean me?!). And since my passivity at home is based on irrational fears, I have to work on an independent, assertive me. I have to stop all negative thoughts, and turn them into positive ones. When somebody says something negative to me - I tell them I'm not going to take that anymore.
Easily said, hard to do.
Also, since I'm not exactly the biggest risk-taker, as a depressed child I did nothing that I thought would embarrass me, and my parent were always there to pick up the pieces. So I have to take risks now. One thing I've been positively ordered to do - is to start getting the 5 rotating stories out of my head and onto paper. Going to college would be easier for me. The thought of having my stories on paper where anybody can see them, criticize them (me), just scares the hoo out of me. I'm going to try, heck, I have to try. One of my (possibly irrational) fears is, what if they suck? That I like my stories is pointless.
Oooooh, Scary!
BUT NOOOO!!! If anything, it's actually slower! And blocking the internet doesn't keep us (me) from screwing off at work. You just have to do the analog version - reading a book (right now Angels & Demons by Dan Brown) or newspaper, doodling, or writing the old fashioned way. And God knows, it's actually better for both the company and me to just let me screw off a little. I am in the death-throes of job burnout. But since I'm the main provider - I'm stuck.
Oh, have now heard horror stories coming from the new Dell call center here in OKC. Reminds me of when I was at Hertz. People left to go to AOL, To Sprint, To Lucent, etc. It was supposed to be soooo much better. The grass is greener, people. A call center is a call center is a call center, ad infinitem.
Anyway, I had a really good session with my therapist Thursday evening. He had given me an article on assertiveness to read. About the different catagories: Passive, Passive-Agressive, Agressive, and Assertive. After reading the article I decided I'm more Passive at home, but Passive-Agressive at work (Who, Me? No, surely you don't mean me?!). And since my passivity at home is based on irrational fears, I have to work on an independent, assertive me. I have to stop all negative thoughts, and turn them into positive ones. When somebody says something negative to me - I tell them I'm not going to take that anymore.
Easily said, hard to do.
Also, since I'm not exactly the biggest risk-taker, as a depressed child I did nothing that I thought would embarrass me, and my parent were always there to pick up the pieces. So I have to take risks now. One thing I've been positively ordered to do - is to start getting the 5 rotating stories out of my head and onto paper. Going to college would be easier for me. The thought of having my stories on paper where anybody can see them, criticize them (me), just scares the hoo out of me. I'm going to try, heck, I have to try. One of my (possibly irrational) fears is, what if they suck? That I like my stories is pointless.
Oooooh, Scary!
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
I just don't want to talk anymore!
Thank god it's my Friday. My anger is just building and building. One call after another, endlessly.
And now, they've gone back to blocking almost everything, so I can't look at my email. I just don't know what I'd do if they blocked blogger. I'm close to a breaking point as it is.
And, you know, who made it okay for us peons to have to work ourselves to death? For crappy-ass pay, to boot?! Where is all this crowing about "family values" when we're having to do mandatory overtime? It's like I've said before, I'll give my work (grudgingly) their 8 hours, but after that, it's just not my time to give away. And why is it someone who makes 24 million (true) a year telling me how much I should work, how much pay I should be satisfied with (and how the company can't afford to give me more), how they can't afford my meager benefits, or incentives?!
Just kiss my large, white ass - I want to go home.
And now, they've gone back to blocking almost everything, so I can't look at my email. I just don't know what I'd do if they blocked blogger. I'm close to a breaking point as it is.
And, you know, who made it okay for us peons to have to work ourselves to death? For crappy-ass pay, to boot?! Where is all this crowing about "family values" when we're having to do mandatory overtime? It's like I've said before, I'll give my work (grudgingly) their 8 hours, but after that, it's just not my time to give away. And why is it someone who makes 24 million (true) a year telling me how much I should work, how much pay I should be satisfied with (and how the company can't afford to give me more), how they can't afford my meager benefits, or incentives?!
Just kiss my large, white ass - I want to go home.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Ya Know....
I've decided I want a new kind of cruise control. My commute to work is 45-50 minutes, almost all interstate highway. I just want to set my car to drive the interstate portion so I can take a nap. You know, stay in one lane, stay a certain distance from the car ahead, stay a certain speed, those could be done without my input. Then when it gets close to something it can't do, it wakes me up and I take over.
I don't think that's so far fetched.
I don't think that's so far fetched.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
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