Adventures in Parenting: The Superman Syndrome.

As parents, we cultivate this image of being one hundred percent always able to fix everything: impervious to illnesses, low blood sugar, and kryptonite. The magic-fix goes from the woes of our children’s lives to the much-debated issue of world peace. If something needs fixing, then we are there to stand by with our magical powers, magical wands, and glittery unicorn horns so that we can say the right, whispered words for the solution to the problem in question. Considering all the shit we are suddenly capable of pulling off, on top of being given the child in question after childbirth, then we should also be given our very own Superman suit… preferably with colors coordinating to our varied complexions.

The problem, here, being that we soon begin to believe the hype. We truly believe that we have all the answers, all the right moves, and maybe can leap a building in a single bound. (We’ve all heard the stories of mother’s lifting cars from their children, so it’s a minor leap to assume we could leap buildings.) So, we’re be-bopping along with this inflated ego, thinking that we can solve it all when we are painfully, cripplingly, and horrifically dropped down to earth.

Not a punch is thrown.

Not an enemy in sight.

It’s that moment when your child is ill. And no matter the medicine, the doctor visit, or holistic remedies we look up, there is nothing we can do to take away their misery, their pain, or their racking cough. It’s in that moment when all the grist for the rumor mill stops and we suddenly realize that we were suffering from The Superman Syndrome.

Magical Moments.

Recently, I read a blog entry (somewhere, at some point) about how we should all stop.and taking a minute or twelve to “just be.” In effect, it’s a minor time out from everything just to focus on your connection with the world. In similar vein, I read one about taking a time out to list the magical moments in your life. And no matter how mundane, the moment (for you) is magical.

So. Here’s a list of mine.

1. When TS asked for real food (pasta) as opposed to junk this morning.
2. The absolute, unalderated joy on the brown huskey’s face as he enjoyed the sights, the smells, and the car ride.
3. When the Ninja-Cop did not pull me over when I was definitely speeding.
4. The solitude of working in a cemetery, uninterrupted for a whole hour.
5. The moment the jewelry counter clerk opened up her register at Wal-Mart, making my quick stop truly quick.
6. The joy on TS’s face when I gave him M&Ms.
7. When TH said, “honey, go sit down; relax.”

Ridiculous Doesn’t Even Begin to Describe…

Today, I received a phone call from my lawyer.

Prior to this, we had finished our work together. A lawsuit is all well and good, however, there wasn’t much case for one. Not only that, but it was hard enough to contend with the bullshit of unemployment, hearings, and all that crap in relation to unemployment. By the time I finally heard a [positive] response from the adjudicator, I was living on nerves. I can’t imagine how much worse it would be if I were in the middle of a lawsuit.

Anyway.

So, the lawyer calls me to inform me of a good new/bad news situation. He said that when he had decided to call me, he only had the bad news to deliver. Between his receiving of said bad news and his call to me, some good news came on down the lane.

Firstly, it would appear that Greed, Inc appealed my unemployment claim. My lawyer nor I were informed of this, actually. I think it’s pretty fucking rude that you want to shit all over someone’s life and don’t even bother sending them a damn note or something. If not to the person you’re shitting on, then at least to their appointed counsel. So, anyway, the step after the initial appeals process is the bringing of the case before a review board.

Lastly, apparently the review board denied their request. Ha, ha!

You know, I mentioned repeatedly that if anyone was going to have their case appealed, it would be me. And of course, that is exactly what the fuck happened. Yet again, I can’t help but feel singled out for some malevolent purpose here. And what really gets me is that I don’t know why they’re fucking doing this.

The next step, if they appeal this decision, it goes before a court.

In Which Reality Comes Into this Piece.

I’m sorry to do this to you guys, but I need money and I need it bad.

The thing is that I want to bank money like it’s nobody’s business so I can get the fuck out of this hellhole. Never mind that this place is entirely low on space (three people crammed into a house with a starter house’s dose of furniture), but there’s the little issue of BED BUGS. So, I need to bank money to re-buy mattresses, bedroom furniture, and couches. Never mind the fact that I would really like to buy a house to get the eff out of dodge.

So, here it is.

I will do Tarot readings until I am a zombie.

The price for a standard five-card pull will be $15. If we want to go bigger and badder, the price will obviously go up, but I promise no more than $30 in a go.

Please, please, please. I just… I need to get the hell out of here and I need to have a clean, proper environment for my family.

In Which I Rage About Fake People.

This entry is brought to you by the letters B (for books), C (for characters), the number 7 (because it’s my favorite) and the entry as written by the Insatiable Bookslut, GreenGeekGirl. Recently, a blog post was written about the top five literary characters that GGG wanted to punch in the face. This, to me, is a novel (hurr, hurr) concept. And the clearest form of flattery is to steal an idea, use the fuck out of it, and present it with a link to the original post. As can be seen, I’ve done the linking part. Now, it’s time to do the first two.

7. Kitty Norville in the first book of series of same name.

Let me first say that Carrie Vaughn is an amazing writer. I have every book in the series and I’ve read them all a hundred times. Every time a new book comes out, I’m all over that like white on fucking rice. I am nothing, if not, loyal. And when it comes to series that make me happy for some reason? I am even more fucking loyal. So the fact that the main character, in any capacity, has made it to this very list should convey something. Oh, yeah. It conveys something, all right.

Kitty is a whining, fucking bitch.

Now, let me just say that these books are about werewolves. Photobucket (Yes, I do paranormal romance. Do you want to make something of it? I have no problem Google searching you, hunting you down, and making you feel guilty by crying in your face.) So, in the grand scheme of things, the fact that this book is written about a lead female who is not the alpha bitch of the pack should lead one to conclude that it’s the werewolf-equivalent of a coming-of-age tale. And if it’s not, well, I just gave the premise away. (Oh, well.)

However, this character is the epitome of a whiny git that for the first half of the book, you’re just trying your damnedest to not rip your hair out by the roots while you’re screaming, “GROW A FUCKING BACKBONE.” To say that her whining, sniveling, puppy-dog-eye act is overwrought and irritating? Well, that’s the understatement of the fucking year. It can be so bad that I had a friend I loaned these books out to. She called me up in a snit, demanding to know if Kitty grew a pair because if not, she would not be able to tolerate the whole nine-book series. Yeah, she’s just that bad.

The real problem is that, of course, if you know anything about wild wolf packs, the character can’t actually grow a back bone without causing a lot of issues later on… which she does anyway. It is that aspect and that aspect alone that really redeems the character in the reader’s eyes and makes you more than willing to see her grow up, start her own pack, and become the biggest, baddest, bitchiest alpha bitch in the history of werewolf alpha bitches. Whoops, should I have something about spoilers there? Ah, well.

6. Alcide Herveaux from the BOOKS, not the show.

Charlaine Harris is one of my all-time favorite paranormal romance authors. Her books are gritty and suck you in from the fucking get-go. The fact that she has only two more books coming out makes me one sad bibliophile. I mean, honestly, what the fuck else am I to look forward to every fucking May? And in reality, it’s not like I can get into the television series, True Blood, at all. (I have a serious issue when it comes to books and the camera-versions not matching up and from what I have seen and heard, the HBO version is nothing like the fucking series.) So after May of 2013, I will seriously have to start contemplating killing myself or tolerating Sookie Stackhouse withdrawal. That being said…

I fucking hate Alcide Herveaux.

Whenever I re-read the series and I come to Club Dead, I Photobucket instantly clench my teeth because I know that Charlaine Harris is going to introduce this beautiful, sexy, and smart man who seems like a really fucking fantastic match for Sookie. And of course, since it’s a book in the romance genre, that’s all you want to read about is how she can get it on, guilt-free, with the love of her life. It’s all about the happy ever after ending here, people, but I can pretty much assure you that Alcide Herveaux is the antithesis to happily ever fucking after.

We begin the tale with him being forced to help Sookie out of a bind because his dad is a gambler. You start to feel really bad for him there. And immediately, there’s some kind of zing going on between the two. You can feel it even in the book. After they say their goodbyes at the end of that book, you start to look forward to seeing him again. And hoping that he will do his damned best to taking care of Sookie and getting her out of the ‘terrible vampire atmosphere’ that she constantly finds herself embroiled. WRONG.

After this, he gets all whiny because she rejects him. And then, he uses her to get things that he wants, after whining about Photobucket how she doesn’t care about him the way that he obviously cares about her. EVEN THOUGH, he’s incredibly busy being hung up on his homicidal ex-girlfriend. Then, when Sookie kills her in self-defense (the homicidal ex-girlfriend), he gets even more down with the whining, suspicious, asshole behavior that makes every woman want to punch a guy in the gonads with a nail-studded baseball bat.

They’re at the point, now, in the books where they have an okay relationship but I still feel homicidal menace inside of me whenever I read the words, “Alcide Herveaux,” on the page.

5. Princess Irulan.

I don’t have a personal problem with her, per se. She’s doing Photobucket what she can to survive. However, she takes her survival skills completely out of hand when she starts plotting against Paul in the book, Dune Messiah. I mean, for fuck’s sake, how fucking fucked up can you be that you spend YEARS slipping birth control pills into the food of your-rival-in-love? And THEN, you get cold feet when you’re ordered to have her abort the fetus when she finally manages to get knocked up because she spends months away from you? Yeah, yeah. Okay. That makes total fucking—NO IT FUCKING DOESN’T. And of course, as a way to make nice-nice and live guilt-free, she takes care of the products of that conception for the rest of her life. Oh, yeah. WAY TO WIN, PRINCESS IRULAN. WAY TO WIN.

Quick note: I love Virginia Madsen, but I always liked her better as the Princess Irulan than Julie Cox. (AND ALSO, THEY ARE APPARENTLY REMAKING ANOTHER ONE SUPPOSEDLY. THEY’RE REMAKING THE DUNE MOVIE YET FUCKING AGAIN. I reserve judgement.)

4. Random Redcoat that Kills Murtagh.

Let me relate some history here.

Way back in the early 2000s, I had a boss who read as avidly as I did. My reading tended to be more towards the science fiction or horror areas, if I wasn’t so interested in some historical tidbit that I had to track down. This woman got me started on the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon. This is when I first discovered historical fiction, outside of ancient Egypt, and learned that I loved the fucking hell out of it.

Now, Murtagh is the character to end all bad-ass characters. Photobucket He is the fucking awesome to the le sauce. Let’s think about all of the badassery that is Theodore fucking Roosevelt. And then, let’s apply that badassery to Murtagh Fraser who is the Scottish Highland version of Theodore fucking Roosevelt. It would surprise me greatly if Diana Gabaldon didn’t have a long list of TR’s badassery to hand when she was creating this fucking kickass character for her novel. And then, let’s add all of that knowledge to the fact that some asshole Redcoat fucking kills the shit out of said badass because he was unfortunately forced to fight at the Battle of Culloden. And that’s when pure hatred sets in. It would have been like having Teddy join some far off battle years after his presidency and then some random fucking asshat gets a random fucking shot off and KABLAM! The end of the badass to end all badasses. The problem, of course, being that in Murtagh’s case… that’s exactly what fucking happened.

And that random Redcoat?

He went straight to hell.

3. Throat Cancer that killed Michael Fucking Crichton.

Every fucking book that I have ever read that had Michael Photobucket Crichton as the author has led to a very happy, contented avid reader. We own every single one of his books, to date. That includes Eaters of the Dead and Five Patients. In this household, when we do something, we go ALL THE FUCKING WAY. That being said? The throat cancer that he fought and battled quietly for years? Yeah, that deserves not just a punch to the face, but also a decent kick to the nuts with a pair of steel-toed boots and quite probably, a serious beating with the nail-studded bat we decided to use on Alcide Herveaux earlier.

RIP Michael Crichton (1942 – 2008). You’re literary awesomeness knew no bounds and will be missed.

2. Erich von Daniken.

It is the sign of an unfair world that this asshole is still alive when the greatness that is Michael Crichton is dead. Just sayin’.

When I was younger, I was fascinated by the alternate history theories. I spent a good portion of 2005 researching aliens, pole shifts, and Atlantis. During all of this fun and exciting research, Photobucket or at least what purported to be fun and exciting at the time, I ended up finding about Erich von Daniken and well-known book called, The Chariots of the Gods. I bought it… and read about five pages before I threw it across the room in a rage, delivered it to my local library, and never looked back. After that, I settled back into my theories about Atlantis, but gave up on the alien spiel. It seemed just so asinine to me. I actually wrote a post, one day, about how all these assholes out there think we are just not smart enough to, you know, evolve on our own.

And that’s the reason that Erich von Daniken deserves a rapid punch to the face.

He thinks that humanity is too fucking dumb to have created shit.

Well. That and for giving birth to the horror that is my final tick on this list.

1. Graham Fucking Hancock.

Even prior to my exploration of alien alternate history theories, Photobucket I discovered Graham Hancock because I was doing a lot of research into things like the apocrypha, the Dead Sea scrolls, the theories that Moses and Akhenaten were the same… So, because my purchase history was this big, huge eclectic thing, his book, The Sign and the Seal, popped up a few times. I figured, “Eh. Why not?” It seemed interesting that he would think he could find the ark of the covenant. And it seemed like a pretty good theory, what I nominally knew about the ark and history made it all that much more intriguing.

I had a seriously bad lapse in judgement.

BAD.

This guy is the tool to end all tools. Let’s not even discuss the fact that, like Erich von Daniken, he thinks that humanity is to fucking dumb to have created such beautiful things as architecture and artwork, or discover advanced mathematics or anything. Okay, no. Let’s discuss. THIS TOOL THINGS WE ARE SO FUCKING STUPID THAT WE NEEDED SOME HELP IN GETTING OUT OF OUR SHIT-TOSSING PHASE BY ALIENS. Aliens came down and helped us to evolve and then built beautiful things that we later took credit for and they even put the great history that is their knowledge in a secret chamber underneath the Sphinx’s foot. Oh, yeah, baby. Humanity was so fucking infantile that it couldn’t possibly have grown up enough in any period of time and thought, “Hey. Permanent structures made out of stone would be more appropriate to protect us from invaders, animal attacks, or the elements.” Nope. No. We just couldn’t have possibly have EVER evolved to that point.

And of course, there is the toolish quality of his asshole book that I mistakenly bought.

I didn’t get far in it, I’ll admit. I was getting frustrated with his stupidity almost from the get-go. There were many a times where I tossed it, literally, against a brick wall in my frustration. It was either that or I go absolutely bat-shit insane and set fire to the book while dancing naked with soot casually designed in tribal tattoos all over my body. What got me the most was that he decided that to explain why the there were Ethiopian Jews who practiced a type of Judaism that hasn’t been practiced in over a millennia, he had to choose the most convoluted and asinine reason possible. Oh, I totally agree that people traveled to Ethiopia to escape the rampant Jew-hatred going on. However, he decided that the Jews got there by traversing the unknown desert of Saudi Arabia, into Yemen, before quietly crossing the slight isthmus between Yemen and Ethiopia, or possibly via the Red Sea. Um. Call me silly here but doesn’t it make more sense that, maybe, JEWS WENT THROUGH FUCKING EGYPT?!?!?! A FUCKING COUNTRY THAT HAS BEEN THERE FOR FAR LONGER?!?!? THAT THEY KNEW EXISTED?!?!?! THAT THEY PROBABLY STILL LIVED IN BECAUSE, LET’S FACE IT, JUST BECAUSE THEIR ANCESTORS HAD FLED DOESN’T MEAN THAT THEY THOUGHT IT WAS ALL THAT BAD LIVING THERE?!?!??!

ISN’T IT?!?!?!?!?!?

Not only that, but this tool has some seriously bad hair.

And that right there? Merits a serious punch to the face.

And as a final testament to my rage-filled awesomeness, I present the world with an award I earned via Insatiable Booksluts for just such rage-filled commentary as one can find above.

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Brothers And Sisters Are as Close as Hands And Feet.

I have a kid brother. I don’t talk about him a lot because he and I are not close. To be completely honest, he and I do not get along well. We never really have, as far back as I can remember. A lot of the time, I blame this on the fact that he’s a Scorpio and I’m a Leo. The two are not well-known for being best buddies or anything. In reality, I think it’s just because I can’t understand him anymore than he can understand me. We’re like polar opposites.

Contrary to popular belief, this bothers me more than I let on.

I’m one of those people who have no problem going out of their way for others. Yeah, I might complain about it but I don’t mind lending a helping hand when it’s needed. In fact, I’ll move as many boulders out of others’ paths as they need help with. I’ll turn myself into as much of a contortionists as possible. I will move Heaven and earth if I have to so that someone else will be happier and have a smoother ride. Some people may find this difficult to believe, but I really am there to lend a helping hand. In the case of my brother, he needs that hand more often than others.

MLB has had a really tough time with things. I honestly don’t know what it is or what happened that made things that much harder. It would be easy to just blame the fact that he was diagnosed with ADHD. It would be so much easier to just lay the blame for all of his problems on an issue that has rapidly become overdiagnosed (my thoughts) in this country. However, it’s impossible to do that. This isn’t just about being unable to keep his attention span on any one thing for a long enough period of time. This isn’t just because he used to present with slight Tourette’s as a child. This isn’t just because of something that could be treated, relatively simply, with drugs.

There’s some other underlying pathology that we don’t know about.

I think what kills me the most about all of this is that I want to help MLB. It’s just that every time I say something to him, it feels like it comes out wrong. It’s almost like I am purposely trying to get his hairs up. Almost always, any conversation between the two of us (had almost entirely via FB messages) ends with a rather snotty, snarky, and pissy good-bye to be reopened at some later date. Almost always when he posts a real status, it degenerates between the two of us as a fight or an obvious overabundance of snark.

I feel badly that I managed to get out of the depression that ate me alive and he hasn’t been able to follow suit. Instead, he wallows in it. I know that a lot of that could be because he enjoys his misery: it breeds and breeds until you know nothing else so why bother leaving it? However, I don’t think that’s specifically the case here. I think there’s a lot more that I just don’t know about.

And besides, if I did, I might not address it properly, anyway.

What gets to me is that I feel like I have the answers he needs to hear, but he just won’t listen. My mother and I have discussed this occasionally, and not just specifically about MLB. It’s a being an adult kind of thing: you can always look back at others’ mistakes and see the twenty-twenty that they’ll only pick up well and truly after they’ve made the mistake. When it comes to MLB, I know what he’s going through and how hard it is. He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t seem to realize that I’ve fought addiction and I fought it hard.

And I came out on top.

I love my little brother. I really do.

I just wish he would realize that.

In Which I Expostulate About Shit.

I hate it when people tell me what to do, especially since it never works out in anybody’s favor. I’m contrary to a fault, which means that I’m more likely to do the exact opposite of what others advise me to do. The silliest thing about that is that, usually, I am asking for the advice in the first place. This is mostly because I like to gather opinions like Satan likes to gather souls. However, what makes me really likely to tell others to ‘fuck off’ is when they get stubborn enough to stop advising and tell me what to do.

It’s a bad habit, I admit, but one I find very difficult to break.

Now, one would assume that because I know this is a bad habit and since I know the end result, I could change it. This is beyond ‘so not the case.’ I don’t think it’s really possible to change dramatic portions of your personality like that. I think it’s more likely that in acknowledging the fault you can mitigate the drastic end result, but you can’t actually rectify the whole personality trait. It would be like a redwood tree trying to grow birch bark: it’s just not going to happen, no matter how much it’s wanted. The only thing to be done is to release a sigh, chalk it up to a dream, and work around the problem in question.

In my case, being contrary.

To be perfectly frank, I strongly believe that this fault of mine stems from being a fiery Leo. (And it probably doesn’t help that, since my name means ‘elven ruler,’ I’ve taken that shit to heart.) Anyway. Leos are supposed to be obnoxiously competent assholes who do shit their way or no way and just know that is how it is, will be, has always been. So, in asking for others to commend me to a path, I’m just asking to piss others off with my high-handed behavior. And, you know, flaunt how awesome I am. But mostly, doing shit my way because I’m awesome like that. (You see what I did there? Hurr, hurr.)

In all honesty, this contrary thing is just a part and parcel to who I happen to be. It’s something that I’ve forewarned a lot of people about it. Unfortunately, for all people involved, then they tend to forget about it until I nod, smile, and do the exact opposite of what they think is in my best interest. I don’t do it to fuck up relationships or friendships or family ties. And even as I’m doing it, I’m thinking, Wow. This is going to cause some ruckus. So, I know that it’s going to shake the boat, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it, either.

I think the big issue that everyone has always told me what is in my best interest. A lot of the time, I really feel like I’m some half-retarded savant that was lucky enough to survive the day-to-day. I mean, I know that I’m not retarded, either by half or completely, but a lot of the time I feel like people think of me that way. A favorite phrase of mine lately has been, I’m not as dumb as I look, folks. I can remember my mom saying that a lot of the time for various reasons over the years and I guess it soaked in. And to be honest? It shouldn’t be the phrase du jour for me. I shouldn’t have to fucking say that shit. It should just be fucking obvious.

For years, I had MEH get to tell me what to do. And I just went along like some dumb shit because I didn’t know any better. Since then, I’ve been pretty positive that it’s my way or the highway. That’s what I’m supposed to be like, right? I mean, I’ve got the whole Leo thing. So, when people nowadays start telling me what to do, but in the flowery “suggestive” way that they have, then I get really fucking pissed. And I see red. And I could give a shit less.

Last night or early this morning, I had a dream about alien abductions. It was actually pretty fucking creepy, à là The Fourth Kind. I looked up the meanings behind being abducted by aliens via Dream Moods this morning after I woke up. According to the site: To dream that you are being abducted by aliens indicates your fear of your changing surroundings or your fear of losing your home and family. You feel that your space and/or privacy is being invaded.” Just for shits and giggles, I figured I’d just look up the word abduction and see what came up. I couldn’t really remember being abducted by aliens via the dream, anyway, so why the hell not, right? According to the site, to dream of being abducted indicates that you are being manipulated by your circumstances or by someone. You lack control of your own life.

Well. Isn’t that something.