Attila the Mom and the Panties of Fire

Blog-friend digi-birder found a really funny
story the other day that I haven't been able to get out of my mind.

You know me. Something starts rattling around in the old black hole I call my brain and it's hard to let go of.

'According to UK tabloid the Sun, a 33-year-old Welsh housewife ended up in hospital after wearing Ann Summers vibrating Passion Pants to her local Asda supermarket in Swansea.

Unfortunately, she became "so aroused by the 2½-inch vibrating bullet inside that she fainted" then "fell against shelves and banged her head". This prompted the attendance of the paramedics who "found the black leatherette panties still buzzing".'

There is so much wrong with this that I just don't know where to start.

How about the obvious...

WTF???

Now that's out of the way, and I can start asking questions. Inquiring minds, and all.

First of all, I'm not a prude, and don't have any judgements about how people get their jollies as long as it isn't harmful, abusive or disrespectful of others and doesn't involve children or animals.

There are quite a few things that make me feel sexy and get me in the mood. Perfumed bath oil. Candles and wine. Lady Love by Lou Rawls. The muffled thumping of my sons who are duct-taped and locked in the hall closet.

But the grocery store?

Not so much.

I don't get it. What's the turn-on? Standing next to an old guy who's buying bunion cream?

Oooh. Aaah. Oooh. Aaa---

Sorry. Not doing it for me.

Fighting my way past the humongous race-car carts full of somebody else's screaming sproggin?

That actually makes me want rip out my OWN fallopian tubes.

Is the canned-goods aisle sexy? Is there something more to Tuna Helper that I'm missing?

What about the produce section? Boy those eggplants are looking mighty naughty today! I better strip those ears of corn down and see what's underneath! I ought to give those melons a squeeze!

Eh---no.

And I don't know about you other ladies, but after an extended round or two of playing hide the salami, my girly parts feel pretty damn sensitive. As in, "If you're looking for round three, Bucko, go play with your golf clubs. There's 18 holes out there somewhere just begging for your attention!"

Well, Hubby and I are getting older, so that hasn't happened in awhile, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, it begs the question...

How do you turn the damn Passion Panties off if you're out and about and it gets to be too much? Is there a remote control? Do you have to actually reach down inside your pants and flip a switch?

Or does it have a clap feature? You know---clap on, clap off. A clapper for your snapper!

I have to say that I find the whole notion a little disturbing.

I can't imagine what I'd do if I was standing in line at the deli counter and some lady next to me was eyeballing the kielbasa and buzzing like an electric toothbrush.

What will they think of next?

Not Enough Hours in a Day

Sorry I've been MIA for the past several days. I've missed you! Lots and lots going on in the Attila house these last couple of weeks.

First of all, we're all back to school. Little Guy is doing great. Knock on wood.

Big Kid and I started classes last week, and let's just say that it's been a page out of Mother Murphy's Law book. Anything that could go wrong did, and came with an extra helping of raisins and Pepto.

Luckily, I didn't have to deal with the dreaded Admissions Lady this time. We both got registered, our books came on time, and everything looked great to go.

We started reading our textbooks a week before classes, because although Big Kid processes information better in print, he's a slow reader. I was planning ahead and thought we'd get a jump on classes to make everything smoother.

It's hard to give him a book and say "read!" without being there right beside him (Look! A Butterfly!), so the two of us spent an hour or so a day out on the back deck under an umbrella, reading about police procedures and law and mainlining iced tea.

I arranged our physical classes so that we could take them on one day (which would be Thursday). That way we only have to travel into the city once a week. We're each also taking a class on the Internet as well.

Anyway, about an hour before it was time to leave for the classes on Thursday, I pulled up our registration account to make sure I had the room numbers down correctly.

One of the classes was gone. Totally gone. I called the school and found out that the class had been canceled due to lack of participation a few days earlier. Nobody notified us, or even dropped us an email.

Which kind of pisses me off, because they sent me 3 emails reminding me to pay for the damn classes in the first place.

And since Thursday was the last day to "Add" classes, we had an hour to find Big Kid a new one (because I still had to drive to the city for my class), or he wouldn't qualify for his health insurance.

AAAAAIIIIGGHHHHHH!!!!

There were no more Criminal Justice classes at that particular campus on that day, so we had to sign him up quickly for another Internet course. Which had started 4 days earlier. And the local (at least most local to US) campus bookstore didn't have the textbook in stock.

AAAIIGGGHHHHHH!!!!

Big Kid's first assignment for that class was due on the next day. Read 2 Chapters, watch about 4 hours of Forensic Crime shows (reality and drama) and write a 3-page essay comparing and contrasting real life with fiction.

AAAAAIGGGHHH!!!

Luckily, he was able to get an extension from his instructor, Hubby drove into the city to the main campus and got the textbook, and Big Kid was able to complete the assignment by today. But it completely threw him for a loop and into major panic attack mode, so I spent several days holding his hand, stuffing his face with Key Lime pie, keeping him calm and on task, as well as helping him organize his notes in a coherent way (which is an allowed accommodation---except for the pie part, I think).

We went to the doc for a med check on Friday. As I said a few posts earlier, the doc had started him on a different kind of med last month for Big Kid's ADHD. It's not traditionally used to treat this, but the results have been absolutely amazing. The doc had given us a month's worth of samples, because it's relatively new.

The kid is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He doesn't have that cross between "zombie eyeball and Charles Manson" look he's come to have when he's on his bi-polar meds.

He's focused, he's calm, he's natural and he's pretty damn funny. Over the last couple of years I've forgotten how truly sharp and witty Big Kid is. He's really a joy to be around. Most importantly, he's not manic. There's no nightly rebound with depression or rage. It's been a month without any huge outbursts.

Sure, we've had arguments (there is no magic pill to cure "asshole", as we say), but instead of escalating, he's been able to get control of himself in the very early stages and discuss things rationally.

The only problem is that since this medication isn't normally used to treat ADHD, it might not be covered under our insurance. And it is very very expensive without it. We could do dinner and a movie twice a month as an entire family for what this stuff costs.

The doc prepared us for the fact that there might be a fight over it, but since we've tried every less expensive treatment on the market first, we had a good shot at getting it approved.

And we did. Whew!

Why am I feeling so financially stressed about this? Other than that I am notoriously cheap?

On top of paying for two college educations (with books), we decided to buy an office building.

Yep. After a month or so of negotiations, our business bought a building in a historic mining town (active mine and active casinos) farther up in the mountains to open an additional office. It's been a HUGE back and forth with the seller---how much would we need to put into the building to rehab it---needs a new roof for starters, how much was he willing to go down on the purchase price (hell the seller inherited it and has been trying to sell it for 2 years).

We've had to get estimates, surveys, inspections, etc, but finally signed on the dotted line last week.

My brother (who did our kitchen and bathroom) is scheduled to come down on Wednesday with a crew to start renovating the place. Hubby has been busy hiring and training staff. I've been busy using my contacts to find crown molding, flooring and other stuff at close to wholesale.

We'll have one office space for our company, one office to hopefully rent out, and a large spiffy conference room we hope to "timeshare" with some of our local companies who do business up there (like realtors) who don't actually have offices in the town but might need a place to have a presence.

I need a nap.

How's your last week or so been going?

xo

Girls and Their Toys

This is the first week of school back for all of us, and I've been up to my eyeballs in chapters upon chapters of Police Procedures, Substantive Criminal Law, and Legal Ethics. Pretty dry stuff. Haven't had much of a chance to post and read, so I'm reposting a little ditty I wrote earlier this month as a guest post on Dutchy's blog.

I thought it was pretty funny, and wanted to save it on my blog just in case Dutchy has some terrible blog accident or something (knock on wood)!

Be back as soon as I catch my breath! XOXO

If you've ever read my blog before, you already know that I'm a bit anal retentive.

Ok, that's probably an understatement.

If you have, I'm sure you understand my sentiments about "If you want a job done right, do it yourself!"

No wishy-washy half-assedness around here, By Golly, and I've never been the kind of girl who indulges in---well--- appliances to help me along, if you know what I mean. [wink wink, nudge nudge]

That said, over the years, between boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and friendly strangers, I've always found that doing my "business" myself by hand has ultimately given me the greatest satisfaction.

I guess this would be perfect if I was a hermit, but I crave companionship. It's not as fun doing it all by myself.

But really, how many times can you say to someone (especially to someone you love) "Apply yourself a little more to the left!" or "Not so choppy!" or "Steady strokes are the most efficient" or even "Damn, you made a mess before I even got started. Could you get a towel and clean this up?" before you want to get your hand in there and finish it once and for all by yourself?

Most of the time I could have simply chased him/her/them out of the room and polished off the job on my own in two minutes with less mess and fuss and be enormously happy!

Luckily I'm married to a very understanding guy who, after he gets done with what he feels is HIS part, is probably relieved to roll over and take a nap, be banished to the garage, or better yet the TV room to watch football.

There he can feel manly without having to bow under the weight of my disappointed gaze.

Since I hit the big Four-Oh this year, however, I've been craving change.

Plus my hands are a little tired.

Late one night I was up and caught an infomercial on cable. Grown-ups sitting around a table communing with froofy cocktails and eating exotic dips with chips. Men looking aroused and yet relieved, women appearing satiated and yet still excited.

One was actually smoking a cigarette with a gratified smile, even in this overly PC day and age.

I wanted to be there with them. I wanted to BE them! What were they selling that grabbed me so fervently in my girly parts?

A bullet. A silver bullet. A magical silver bullet. With unlimited power! I pulled out my credit card and ordered right away.

Within a week, I got my bullet in a discreet brown box. No absurdly flashy company logo proclaiming the contents that had to be hidden from my husband, children or mail carrier in case they shock or traumatize easily.

I can't begin to tell you how it's changed my life!

Its smooth silver body is not too big or too small. It's absolutely the perfect size to get the job done! It has multiple accessories, but I'm not quite that adventurous yet.

I can use it for hours.

It doesn't complain that it's tired. It doesn't complain that I'm impossible to please.

It doesn't complain if I don't shave my legs.

Hell, I could accidentally pop a fluffy, and it won't run out of the room screaming that I'm gross and I've ruined everything!

After an hour or two alone with my beautiful silver bullet I feel so energized that I could take on a crowd of 50 or more---men or women alike. I could take on the high school football team. I could take on the Rotary Club or the Chamber of Commerce.

Dare I say it? I could even take on the PTA, and give those bitches something to smile about. They'd be so contented they'd have trouble walking out of the room!

My bullet has turned me into an insatiable slut of the first order.

I've never done a product-placement post, and this isn't one now. It's an honest-to-gosh endorsement.

I truly believe that every man or woman could enhance their lives with this product. This silver bullet would be the perfect gift for everyone on your holiday list, especially for those who have inflamed joints or arthritis.

I wouldn't give it to kids though.

In this day and age, where almost everything can be accomplished electronically, I think that introducing this product at too young of an age could be potentially harmful.

If young people don't learn how to "do" it by hand, how are they going to cope if say---the power goes off, or there's an internal electrical malfunction in the unit?

And if they don't know how to take care of themselves manually, they might just stumble around bereft, walking into walls, literally starving for some "lovin' in the oven".

Some of today's kids are stupid that way. If they go to a library to use the computers and the Internet connection is down, they'll pace in circles muttering, "Well damn! I've got nothing to read!"

Doh!

It might be a great going-to-college gift for a young person. I mean, if they haven't figured out how to "do it by themselves" before then, they'll probably never get the hang of it.

For a wonderful view of this amazing bullet, click here. Don't worry, it's safe for work.

No lascivious, drooling pictures of nymphos showing their stuff.

Oh wait, were you expecting this?

Ha. ;-)

Asshat of the Week---Charlene Corley

And this week's Asshat goes to:

Charlene Corley and her company C&D Distributors of South Carolina!!

Recently Corley, who owned the small parts supply company with her sister (now deceased) pled guilty to committing fraud and laundering money, and faces up to 40 years in prison.

The two exploited a loophole in the Defense Department's automated system, and bilked the Pentagon (and the tax-payers) out of 20.5 million dollars over the last six years.

C & D was caught when a purchasing agent noticed a bill for shipping two 19 cent washers that totaled over $900,000.00. The rest of the invoices (going back to 2000) were inspected, and the total actually spent by the sisters on shipping was around $68,000, vs. the $20+ million billed.

For example:

"$455,009 to ship three machine screws costing $1.31 each to Marines in Habbaniyah, Iraq".

and

"$293,451 to ship an 89-cent split washer to Patrick Air Force Base in Cape Canaveral, Florida".

The Pentagon's excuse? Apparently if parts are destined for high-priority conflict areas, there is no oversight.

My opinion? They could have taken that last $900,000 and hired 18 more accountants to keep better track of this kind of stuff.

The sister(s) don't have the money any more. The government is going to sell their fine mansions and expensive car collections to try to recoup some of their loss. Unfortunately, the sisters liked to travel with lavish accommodations, so that money is gone forever.

That's all fine and dandy. But....

Personally, as part of her sentence, I think that the government ought to put Ms. Corley in a room with the families of soldiers who were injured or killed in the war.

Maybe a better armored-vehicle could have saved the limb or the life of one of our guys if she didn't have her eye on Rolls Royces and Ferraris.

Asshat.

It Must Be Global Warning

We're having a conundrum of pantsy proportions.

Is there someone I can write to complain to?

When my good friend Beth blogged about a problem she was having with GMAC, she got some satisfaction.

Apparently, GMAC has people who just sit at computers and Google "GMAC" to see who's talking about them. I have to say, it's a great customer service idea.

Beth complained about a bass-ackward situation she was having, and somebody from the company responded in her comments section, and gave her some contact information. Wow!

Ultimately, she got the problem resolved. Way to go, GMAC!!

My adorable Hubby is a big man. I think he is practically perfect in every way, except for his fugly feet, which are evil and scare the crap out of me.

He's not obese by any means---not even on the insurance tables. He's 6'4 and has a large frame. I'm 5'11 and built like a line-backer (huge hands, huge shoulders), so any guy who makes me feel like a petite flower is practically perfect in my book!

At least Hubby can cover his feet up with shoes. Did I say that they were really fugly and evil?

Hubby is also very loyal to brands that have served him well.

Which brings me to my point.

Since we've been together (about 15 years) Hubby has always worn DOCKERS pants. His weight has fluctuated a bit over the years, so he's always worn between a 42 x 32 and a 40 x 32.

Don't sneer. With his bone structure, when at 40 x 32, he's practically svelte.

I'd do him.

Oh hell, I know that doesn't count. I'd do him no matter what, because to me, he's just the sexiest thing that walks on the planet next to Colin Firth. And Colin Firth is shorter than me, which is on my no-no list.

Plus Colin Firth probably wouldn't be interested in doing me anyway, but I like to think I'd reject him first because he's short so I'd be the one deciding.

Yes, yes, I know. Girl logic. And I'm digressing again.

Last spring, I noticed that some of Hubby's DOCKERS (I'm capitalizing to try attract some corporate attention here) were getting a little worn around the edges. He'd been dieting, and although his 42's were a bit loose, the 40's he had stored away were a bit tight.

He wouldn't be able to wear them for golfing, when he has to do all kinds of bendy stuff like hunting for his balls in the weeds (really it's his golfing---I didn't tear them off and toss them there).

Although he owns his own company, and every day is Casual Friday, I pointed out the worn out pantsy thing, and he asked me to order some new pairs for him. It was approaching summertime, and more beer and barbeque is consumed, so he didn't feel comfortable with ordering a less than 42 size.

I ordered a couple of pairs from Bealls of Florida, which arrived right after he had left to go back east to spend time with his Mom. I put the box on his side of the bedroom, he came back, life got in the way, and then 2 days after the 30-day return period, he took out a pair and tried them on.

They tore in the crotch. Not at the seam, but right through the fabric.

You know, women are usually more adept at that. If we have to wedge our heinies in a pair of pants with a shoehorn, we're confident the fabric can take it---and the pants are usually made of denim or some sort of steel alloy. If we get resistance at the hips (depending on the fabric), we either abandon ship or grease up our thighs with Crisco and lay down on the floor to stuff ourselves in.

It also helps to have a friend to hoist us up from the prone position, or else we'd remain on the floor wallowing like a walrus out of the water.

Guys just seem to have some inner confidence that says, "It's my size, so it must fit", and yank them up, no matter what the obstruction. Like hips.

Hubby was suspicious. "Did you buy these from some Internet Hucksters who sell fakes?"

Oh fer pete's sakes. They're not Coach handbags or Rolexes. The tag on the inside doesn't say "DUCKERS".

I had Little Guy try on the second pair. He wears a 38 x 32 in Levi's and other standard brands and they fit perfectly.

Hmmmm.

I bought another couple of pairs of DOCKERS, this time from Kohl's.

Same thing. Although they are Hubby's size (and DOCKERS aren't really exclusively the ONLY kind of pants he wears---he's got some Ralph Lauren and Columbia Sportswear golf pants in the same size), they fit Little Guy, who is 3-4 sizes smaller.

So what's up with that? It's not like Hubby woke up with a bigger, rounder butt. Is it aging? Gravity? Old people ass redistribution?

For all this time, was DOCKERS pandering to the big fat oblivious guy by deliberately sizing the pants to make them feel smaller (oh, the horror!), and suddenly got a "truth in advertising conscience" or what?

Who in the world would I call about that? What would I say?

My hubby's ass is too big for his pants?

It's a conspiracy! Where's Oliver Stone when you need him?

Bits and Pieces

We've had a busy week getting ready for the new school year. Little Guy is geared up for his senior year, and Big Kid and I are all registered for the fall semester at college.

I got Big Kid right into the doc's immediately after he got home a couple of weeks ago, to try to find something different (that won't make him manic) for his ADHD. The doc started him on a med that isn't traditionally used for this (it's a wakefulness medication used to treat sleeping disorders like narcolepsy).

I was doubtful.

And boy was I wrong.

It's amazing. He's totally focused----he had a driving lesson last week and his instructor said she could see 150% difference in his concentration and confidence. He went and filled out a bunch of job applications and had his first interview yesterday. They asked him to come back tomorrow for a second one. The best part is that there has been absolutely no manic rebound at night---rage or sadness---whatsoever.

I'm afraid to jinx it, but I'm starting to be very very hopeful.

In other news, blogging friends Carm and Kim welcomed Christopher Thomas into the world yesterday! Mom and baby are doing great. If you get a chance, drop by and offer your congrats!

I want to extend a big BIG thank you to Flamenco Mom for posting her Sofrito recipe. Just goes to show that Gluten-Casien-free cooking doesn't have to be boring. I can't wait to try it! Spicy meatballs, here I come!

Leaving you today with a snicker: Reasons NOT to hyphenate your Name. Like Butts-McCracken and Busch-Rash. ;-)

Have a great day!!

*Graphic from T-Shirt Hell

A Lid for Every Pot

I've been taking a break from disability advocacy this summer to recharge my batteries for the upcoming year, so I haven't been making the activist blog rounds as much as I used to.

While the guys were away, an old friend of mine from the city we used to live in and her husband came to dinner. They'd just dropped off their daughter at camp for a week. There is a fabulous summer program up here in the mountains for kids and adults who have moderate disabilities and is only several miles from our town.

My friend and I, who I'll call "P" met when the kids were little---geez about 13 years ago.

We were among the few parents who were fighting for full inclusion for our kids in that school district, and had first met at a teacher's conference we were--um--auditing/infiltrating, where the main speaker stood up and told the teachers that they didn't actually have to meet the goals outlined on the students' IEPs and could just go through the motions, because there was no accountability practice in place.

P's daughter has Down Syndrome and is a couple of years older than Little Guy. I have so much admiration for her---she's a better asskicker than I am.

We kept in touch sporadically over the years, but last year I saw her daughter's name at the registration when we checked Little Guy into camp, and we hooked back up. This year, we made plans for an evening at our place.

So several weeks ago, over dinner and wine, I shared Little Guy's prom pictures, and P "oohed" and "ahhhed" over them. She discussed how she tried desperately to set her daughter up with another student for their prom, but it didn't work out.

We talked about the hope we both have that our children will find partners---someone to love and share their lives with. We talked about how hard opportunities for dating can be. I asked her if she knew of several couples I'd met through the years (the dis advocacy community here isn't huge) who have mutual disabilities, met, fallen in love and married.

She said, "I'm so glad to find another parent who feels like I do!"

Her husband cringed. He actually cringed. To be honest, I was a bit appalled at his behavior. She just rolled her eyeballs.

"He doesn't want our daughter to have sex! Ever!"

I've run into this kind of attitude among quite a few parents over the years. Thank HEAVENS hubby and I are in agreement with each other.

Of course in the minds of parents, our babies will be our babies forever, whether they have disabilities or not. Contemplate the fact that they are also beings who might one day want companionship, love and yes--- sex? The horror!

Recently I read a fabulous post from Jacqui at Terrible Palsy that addressed this topic. It totally freaked me out because it was very timely with stuff I've been thinking about. I got so verklempt that I couldn't even comment. She writes so very eloquently.

Little Guy now has a special friend who is a girl. They went to the prom together a few months ago. Since he's been back from his trip, they've gotten together for lunch and swimming dates. Fortunately her parents are on the same page in their quest for social opportunities, so we've all been pretty enthusiastic and supportive of this budding relationship.

I'll call her Hot Cutie, because as Little Guy has said, "she's smokin'!" She really is.

Like Little Guy, Hot Cutie has autism and some developmental delays. They are both somewhat high-functioning, and for the most part are developmentally in a similar range. I often wonder what they talk about, because although they "like" each other, they don't have a lot of interests in common.

One week Little Guy was obsessing a bit about getting hurt and crying. I think it's because of his injury to his hands and the fact that he was so proud of his bravery (ie: not crying). That week Hot Cutie was obsessing a bit about her church, because she had just come back from a retreat.

I played lifeguard and sat at the side of the pool with my book. It was pretty hard not to overhear though, because they both kept trying to include me in their conversation.

Little Guy: Have you ever smashed your fingers? Did you cry?

Hot Cutie: I smashed my toe once and it bled. I prayed and the pain went away.

Little Guy: Did it bleed all over the place? Did you cry?

Hot Cutie: I don't think I cried. But I healed fast. My mom says it's because I'm a Christian.

Little Guy: Have you ever poked your eyeball out? Would you cry?

Hot Cutie: I don't think so. God is watching over me with His eye.

Little Guy: My dog threw up yesterday. I threw up when I had the stomach flu. I had diarrhea too. Did you throw up when you were a little kid? Did you cry?

Hot Cutie: I don't get the stomach flu. I've been touched by the fire of the Holy Spirit and it protects me from throwing up and diarrhea.

[Lovely lovely topic of conversation here. God and Dooky]

Little Guy: A fire? Did you get burned in a fire? Did you cry?

Hot Cutie: No, but I don't like fire alarms. I get scared.

Little Guy: Me too! The one that scares me sounds like Whooot! Whooot! Whooot!

Hot Cutie: The one that scares me sounds like "Weeeeee! Weeeeee! Weeeeee!"

Little Guy: Have you ever heard an alarm that sounds like "BWWWWWRRRAAAAA!! BWWWWRAAAAA!?" Did it make you so scared that you cried?

So the two of them went on mimicking fire alarms (in an eerily realistic fashion) for the next 15 minutes and laughed their asses off. Our dogs went nuts and ran all over the yard barking. Our neighbor's dog went nuts too. We live on the side of a valley, so I'm pretty sure that their antics were echoing throughout.

The neighbor to the left came out on his deck and called out, "Is everything all right?"

I assured him that it was.

After a couple of hours of swimming, and then Taco Bell, we drove Hot Cutie home. I pulled up in front of her house, which has a closed gate at the front of a long drive. Her family has a couple of VERY large dogs that look scary as all get out, but are actually big noodles.

Little Guy (opening his door): Wait there, I have to let you out.

Hot Cutie: I can get out myself.

Little Guy: No, I'm being a gentleman. You have to wait for me to let you out.
She climbed across the seat and got out on his side. They walked up to the gate and opened the latch together.

Little Guy: You have to walk up there fast, because I have to go to the bathroom and I have to make sure you get inside ok.

Hot Cutie: Do you want to use my bathroom?

Little Guy: No, I can wait.

Then he said....Can I have a hug?

She put her arms around him and said in a soft wondering voice...

You're my boyfriend!

As we were driving home, I couldn't help but think how blessed we are that Little Guy has found someone to spend time with. Will it last? Will she be "the one"? Who knows? I'm just grateful.

14 years ago, the "experts" told us that Little Guy would probably never be able communicate meaningfully. Now he's getting the wonderful experience of having a high school sweetheart.

Mom, are you crying? Are you sick? Do you have diarrhea?

The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank

Dang, I miss Erma Bombeck. She had such a way with words.

The title of this post has been our theme for the last year when dealing with The Kid Who is Not Related to Us. He's back from his almost 6 weeks in California, and a lot of people have been asking how he is.

Bless you. :-)

For those who are coming in late, click on the tag at the bottom of the post if you dare. It's been a bumpy ride.

Last year, when the guys went to visit their Original Dad, I had one specific request.

"Don't tell Big Kid that he can come live with you."

There were several reasons for this.

1). Original Dad has a habit of making promises he doesn't follow through with (much less remember), and the obvious subsequent conclusion is that I either turn out to be "the bad guy" when those promises don't pan out, or the recipient of the explosive fallout from disappointment.

2). Thinking things through isn't one of Original Dad's strong points. He rarely has a plan past the initial idea.

So last summer, when the guys were visiting him, after I made the request, what happened?

Original Dad and his current wife sat the Big Kid down and offered to let him come live with them in a year (which would be NOW), if he "did well in school".

All of you who remember last year at this time, Big Kid had not yet gotten an official diagnosis of Bi-Polar disorder, wasn't stable on his meds, and I was bipping out over his health insurance, not to mention all the diseases he thought he was riddled with.

Oh, and my adventure with butt-spelunking. Mustn't forget that.

I called Original Dad and yelled at him: Are you insane? Are YOU going to pay for college (Big Kid didn't qualify for resident status)? Who's going to set him up with disability services? Are you going to facilitate? Are you going to make sure he gets to and from the campus (Big Kid doesn't drive and gets lost a block from the house, any house---in fact, during that visit, he got lost and some people called the cops on him for loitering)? If he doesn't go to college full time, are you going to pay $500+ a month in meds when he loses his insurance? Do you have a doctor set up? A neuropsych? A therapist?

Doh. Dad didn't think about any of that. And of course, the answer was no to all. So in his mind he retracted the offer, but forgot to inform Big Kid.

Anybody having a problem with the term Original Dad----all I can say is---Bite Me.

After we separated, my ex left the state for a job opportunity, which is completely understandable. Since then, although he's had several offers to return to our state, he's refused, due to other family issues that have nothing to do with his relationship with me or our children.

Without going into nitty gritties, let's just say that at best he's been an indifferent parent. He's gone 2 years at a time without seeing them, even though he has practically unlimited visitation.

Ex calls an average of once every 3 months unless we call him first. He hasn't sent the guys so much as a card for holidays or birthdays in about 7 years (but sometimes he remembers to call within a day or three).

Hubby has been to every football game, every IEP meeting, every school play, choir recital or awards ceremony in the last 13 years. He's financed the freight for specialists, camp, and private prep school for the Big Kid (we took out a second mortgage for that one). He's taken the guys camping, swimming, fishing, and ATVing. He's taken the Big Kid out at least 3 times a month for "Sushi and a Movie"----just a guys' night out for the two of them----for years. He's paid every dime of Big Kid's college education so far.

Original aka "Disney" Dad vs. the "actual" person doing the Dad Job? You do the math.

I know, I'm a little ticked off.

That said, for the last year, all we've heard from the Big Kid is: "I hate this town. I hate this house. I hate my life. This town sucks. This house sucks. School sucks. My life sucks. You suck. I can't wait for the summer so I can go to California and live with my REAL Dad."

And during our most desperate times during the past year, when Big Kid was flipping out and we called his dad as a last resort before calling emergency services, hoping he could talk some sense into the kid, all we got was, "I wouldn't allow him to behave that way in MY house"!

So we gave them their wish.

Big Kid thought life would be butterflies and ice cream cones in California.

His Original Dad thought he could do a better job of parenting.

HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!

They didn't last a week together before both were calling and begging us to let Big Kid come home early.

More in another post.

Here's some weirdness:

The Big Kid has always had my hair, which is silky and straight as a board.

Until now.

After 5-6 weeks in the humidity, his hair is now curly. He's been home a week, washed it a few times, and it's STILL curly.

It looks like that squirrel William Shatner wore on his head in T.J. Hooker.

How bizarre is that?

Busy, Busy...

This week has been as busy as all get out!

Big Kid is home, so I've been running him around to the doc's (new meds, woohoo!), school and to fill out job applications.

Today I promised Dutchylicious to guest post while she's on vacation.

Come over and visit me at 12 Days of Anarchy so I won't feel so lonely!