My romance with my migraine medicine has officially come to an end.
I don't regret a minute of it, but it's time to call it quits.  I wish I could make a clean break of it, but I have to be weaned off, the same way I was weaned on a few months ago.

At first it was wonderful.  No headaches of any kind.  I woke up pain free, stayed the day that way, and fell asleep comfortably.  I slept through the night.  I had a few months of normal life.  It was amazing.

It was great, now it's gone.

The side effects?  Horrible.  They started a bit with the 25 mg dose, became a bit bothersome with the 100 mg dose and when the 100 mg dose proved ineffective for my headaches the doctor suggested that we up it to 150 and assured me that the side effects wouldn't change and would most likely just level off in another month.

Wrong.

The normal ones, the ones most people get- dizziness and fatigue and tingly hands and feet- are there, sure.  Getting worse by the day.  But the sore and bumpy scalp?  The hair loss?  The visual disturbances?  Menstrual irregularities?  Mental blocks and physical slowness?  Insomnia?  Joint pain?  The other ones that are supposed to only happen to a handful of people?  Check, check, check, check, check, check, check.

Depression and anxiety are listed as symptoms.  I can see myself slipping into those two cubby places if I'm not careful, out of sheer exhaustion and frustration.

I'm especially tired of the visual disturbances.  You know that movie trick that all the horror films are doing, how everything moves skittish like spiders and you aren't quite sure what you are seeing even after you've seen it?  That's how things look more often than not.  Even photographs.  It's making driving difficult.  And walking.  And living.  Everything is very trippy.  Straight lines don't exist anywhere anymore.  Nothing is still.

I can't sleep.  Partially because the headaches are back and my pain tolerance is nil because I let my defenses down for those few months.  Partially because insomnia is a side effect of this medication.  Partially because I'm a natural born insomniac.

April is the worst time for me arthritically speaking and I'm sure this drug is making it worse.  The air is heavy and moldy and chilly but it swings hot every few days so my joints don't know what to make of it.  It hurts.  I don't take any prescription medication because I have found that I can better manage my pain and rheumatoid levels through diet and exercise (plus- holy crap side effects!  you've never seen side effects until you've seen what arthritis medication does to a person) but the fatigue and weakness that this migraine medication is giving me is wearing me out so badly that exercise is hardly an option.  Plus joint pain is listed as a damned side effect.

The medication suppresses the appetite and makes everything taste like crap so it's all I can do to force food down my throat to keep weight on.   I feel like I'm only eating for nutrition and to keep my weight stable these days so no one questions my health or sanity.
That's not fun at all.
Eating is supposed to be enjoyable, not a game to keep the needle above a certain number on the scale.

This medication also suppresses the urge to drink alcohol.  Not that it's necessary to booze it up on the regular, but I miss enjoying cocktails with my friends.  Now I only take a drink to look normal while I try not to let my face or body contort into a strange position while I listen or allow my mouth to stutter in the off chance that my brain comes up with something half intelligent to talk about and the synapses that work to push a thought from my mind to my mouth are firing half correctly when it's my turn to speak.

My scalp feels bruised, like my hair has been pulled into a tight ponytail.  My jaw feels clenched.  I wonder if my face looks strained.  It feels that way.  My hair is falling out in clumps.  I have tiny pimples all over my head, save for my face- thank all that is holy.

I can't do math.  Even simple things like telling time or reciting a phone number.  Counting money?  Forget it.  I'll put it on my MAC card.  I can't come up with the right word.  Or the wrong word.  Any word.  My reading comprehension is for shit.  Forget following directions.  A recipe.  Nothing.  Letters jumble.  Words jump.

Dyslexia.  Is that listed in the package insert that came in the white paper bag?
d's are b's and p's are q's and L's are 7's and 6's are 9's and N's are Z's.

dogs are gods.
soft course they care.
saw there ever airy dough?

I've enjoyed emailing back and forth with Christina who is on the same medication and we don't edit our emails, so lots of stuff looks exactly like what I just typed up there if I wasn't super careful, but it's all good because we adage the same bandage.  spark the same langostino.  spank the same slang.  speak the small strut.  speak the same language.

See why I'm done with this medication?

But those few months?  I wouldn't trade them for the world.  I knew the risks, the possible side effects, but I was desperate. Thirty years of crippling migraines makes a girl take a chance on just about anything.

So what if I couldn't do math or I couldn't read or I wasn't so fast on recalling what the name of that thing next to that other thing was.  And opossum everything side wright got typoed like orville.  I got to be a normal person for a little while when I wasn't trying to be creative or productive.  I didn't hurt so bad that I cried at the grocery store, calling my husband from the parking lot in a panic because I didn't know what else to do because I couldn't see well enough to dial 911.  Am I dying?  Or is this just another headache?  How can I be sure?  I didn't have to tell my son I couldn't play anything other than racecars because I couldn't stand up.  I didn't miss work because of pain so bad that I prayed for death because I just couldn't take another minute of hurting like that and how can I be a decent mother anyway if this is how I'm sentenced to live so I may as well die on the floor of my bathroom, waiting to see if I puke again or if my belly is finally empty, feeling sorry for myself because there is blood running out my ear because it's cocked lower than my nose and throat.

Headaches are no joke when you've got them bad.

Back to the doctor on Wednesday to tell her this isn't working for me.  Maybe there is something else I can try and maybe there isn't.
At least I had Paris Topamax

progress

I've been terrible about sticking some BABIES promo stuff up here but that race is still on.

And many many thanks to you guys, I am one of the top ambassadors to the promotion!  Now, I don't know what that means, but I really do hope to score some stuff to donate to families in my community. 

I wish there was a way of knowing how many clicks have come from this blog, but I know there were enough to get me an email from a BABIES PR person offering me a seat at the Red Carpet screening in NYC this Monday.  Sadly, I had to turn down the offer.  New York is close, but not next door and the Chinatown bus can be scary at night and hotels are mad cash in the big city and I just hookied work yesterday so I can't really do it again so soon plus Jake is coming home from a week's vacation tomorrow and I really miss that kid and I have class on Monday night and and and it's just bad timing so I'll have to give up my seat to another lucky lady I guess.  Boo.  Why can't Red Carpets be held in Philadelphia?  We're classy.  Ish.

I emailed my contact at Allied Marketing, the group that is doing the PR here in Philadelphia to see if there is any word on donations from the corporate sponsors that are donating prizes to this clickity contest and he said no.  I do hope he is looking into this as deeply as he promised.  If not, I have a back up plan. 
I always have a back up plan.  Back up plans always require a bit more work than front up plans, but I don't mind.  I haven't done much of anything yet but plaster a few pictures and videos and ask you guys to click.  If I have to put forth some effort so be it.

And excitement!  I have a phone date with the Director of BABIES on Tuesday the 27th, and I'm going to tell him all about my Not-So-Little Community Service Project that I'm doing here, and how you guys have come out in full force to stand beside me and behind the families who struggle to make ends meet each day.

I can't say "thank you" enough.  I also can't say "click here" enough:

earth day

In the spirit of Earth Day, how about instead of buying a bunch of new crap we take stock in what we already have and actually use it? Reduce the amount of stuff you own, reuse the bottles and products you already have, and recycle whatever you can.

I've almost come to a point in my life where I am ready to start believing that a new shampoo won't completely change my life and eye cream won't make me so beautiful that someone will pay my bills for me. I've bought into the hype before and I've been known to have piles of bottles of goo stored in my linen closet. I've gone through those boxes and thrown out anything that I don't remember buying or odd smelling and used things that are still relatively fresh.  Then before I buy anything new, I do a good bit of research on additives and ingredient sources and company policies and whole bunch of other douchey stuff before I spend my hard earned dime on something I am going to put in my house and on my body.

If I can make something in my own kitchen, I refuse to buy a product that does the same thing.  A little bit of do-it-yourself goes a long way.
Salicylic Acid = aspirin
Sugar = glycolic acid (white, brown, molasses, and honey all works, just use the grittiness that is appropriate to your skin's need)
crushed aspirin + honey  is an amazing acne mask and it costs about 5 cents to make.  Compare that to Neutrogena's acne line.  
Or dab a bit of plain white Colgate on a pimple. 
Age old cures, where do you think the cosmetic companies come up with their ideas?

Shampoo that makes your hair cry for a hat makes for great shower gel or hand soap. You can also use it to wash your bras and other delicates.

Hair conditioner that leaves you limp and greezy works great for shaving your legs and bikini line or as an in-shower skin conditioner. Just put it on your arms and legs while you wash your face and rinse it off before getting out.

Lotion is lotion is lotion. Unless it smells so flowery that you sneeze it can be used. If you don't love it enough for daytime, use it at night. Eye creams and night creams are great for hand cream and lip balm if they didn't live up to your facial expectations. Add some regular table salt (for oily skin) or sugar (for dry) and make an exfoliater. Put your unloved lotions in the bathroom at work. Give it to your mother-in-law. Whatever. Just use it and remember to stop listening to advertising ploys.  Companies don't care about you or your children.  They care about your dollars.  Choose lotion according to your ingredient and scent preference. 

Old makeup should probably just be tossed. If it is still new but not your color trade it with a friend or let a little girl play dress up, provided of course that you don't have coldsores or stys or other scabby nasties. I had a pink eye shadow that I thought I would love but it made me look like I had conjunctivitis. I mashed it up with some lipbalm I scraped out of the tube, jammed it back in the tube with a coffee stirrer, stuck it in the fridge for a day, and now I have a super cute lip gloss.
I really am the smartest girl I know.

That tub of Vaseline (nasty petro-based goo that it is) that has been with you since birth can be used to make you beautiful on the outside but read up and think twice before buying that stuff again. It is made of petroleum and petroleum kills your family in their sleep. Baby oil has its uses too, but isn't very healthy for you. Petro chemicals are everywhere!  Ground up dinosaurs and rotted ferns and all sorts of anti-Earth Day Ick.
Petroleum isn't always listed as "petroleum".  I didn't know much about all this until Jake had a severe reaction to petroleum (I was told to treat the rash with Aquaphor, which is almost pure petroleum.  What a mess that was.), any little bit of petrochemical on his skin gives him a flare, which leads to broken and bleeding skin.  It's nasty stuff. Unfortunately, most diaper creams are petro-based.  I didn't use them for long, they made him scream when he was first born.  No wonder why.  Most people with eczema have a reaction to petroleum.  Most eczema is treated... with petroleum.  Go figure.

If you care about our world and the people who live here and you aren't opposed to using animal products try emu oil. If you care about emus (emi? emuses?) try beeswax or olive, coconut, and jojoba oils. They aren't that expensive when you buy them at the grocery store. They package them fancy and mark up the price when they are sold as cosmetics. When they are sold as food items they might not be in pretty jars but it's the same stuff.

What else do you have in that closet? Old towels? Use them to scrub your floors. Just cut them up and make yourself a ragbag. So much more ecologically sound than papertowels. And you can throw them in your washer when you are done using them. Old batteries? Find out if they work and use them. Or toss them. Garbage is garbage and you're going to have it and don't feel bad about throwing it out. Just try not to make so much of it in the future. You'll have more cash in your pocket to buy quality stuff and your children won't drown in your sea of chemicals and containers.

This stuff is hard to do. I don't think I'll ever be totally plastic free and locally grown and all that other crunchy hairy armpit stuff, but making just a little effort makes me feel better (than other people).

I bitch and moan a lot because of all this pressure to go green or go to hell but going green is so expensive and I don't really have the bank required to buy those crunchy all purpose cleaners that don't really clean anything anyway but they smell nice. I found a great glass cleaner "recipe" online that costs about 8 cents. Well, maybe 18.

1 cup vinegar (I use regular Heinz white vinegar)
2 cups water
1tsp dish detergent

I added a little bit of blue food coloring and mixed it in the Windex bottle with the Mr. Yuk sticker on it so the boy wouldn't be tempted to drink it. Not that it would hurt him, but whatever.

Glass cleaning works better with old newspapers, so if you aren't already doing that you should try it.

I've also been putting some of the crappy vodka that someone brought over last Christmas on a cottonball and using it to wipe the computer screen and the television. It evaporates right away and doesn't leave streaks. It works to disinfect toilets and sink handles too.
The only other thing it works for is to flare my temper and give me a raging headache, and that's no good for anyone.
Me? I'm not so good with the vodka. I get punchy.

I've hit a major milestone because I associate the smell of vinegar with the concept of clean rather than the idea of 1970s vaginas! This is huge!

Also, I've finally run out of the store-bought wood soap that I've had kicking around for a couple years, so I refilled the bottle with one part olive oil and one part distilled white vinegar and one part water and it has been working wonders on my prized Ikea crap. I know you aren't supposed to store it for very long, or in a plastic bottle, but I've already violated both those rules and the world hasn't come to an end. I feel like buying a glass spray bottle is both dangerous and wasteful. I've also heard you can wipe your furniture down with a little oil and water and then use some vinegar and water to clean the residue, but that sounds like a lot of work.

My genius Re-use tip of the day is to take your empty tissue boxes and use them as mini wastebaskets in the car or by your bed. They are generally cute, and probably match your decor since you bought them because they did. They are also good for storing cotton balls and Q-tips and stuff because they are a lot more compact than those horrid bags and weird rectangle boxes that cotton stuff comes in. I keep my nail files, polishes, removers, clippers, and cotton balls in a tissue box. I'm famous for not being able to keep that kind of stuff together. They make nice portable snack boxes too. You can keep granola bars and raisins and chocolates and whatever else you like to dip into during the day partially hidden from your co-workers on a shelf. Jake loves to fill them with cars and crayons and then stack them up neatly in the corners. But he also likes to step on them so maybe this would be a better idea for grownups.  If you are anything like my sneezy snotty drippy self these days, you have tons of empty tissue boxes lying around.

People love to say that my house can't be clean because I don't use bleach.  No, my house isn't clean when I don't clean it.  I have a boy child who misses the toilet on occasion, but none of us suffer from urine-borne illness.  No one has come down with staph infections, salmonella, H1N1, or any of those other curly squirmy germies that Clorox and Lysol magnify to the nth degree on the commercials.  We are all very fine and well and, if I must point out to you, healthier than anyone we know.  We eat well and exercise and follow the rule that no one lick behind the toilet until it has been swabbed with vodka and somehow we all stay afloat.

And I feel better because no one can die by drinking anything I keep in the house.  (You know there is never more than three or four fingers of vodka in that bottle, and Jake knows better)

We might not be able to save the world in one day, but making small changes every day is easy.  The more junk you stop buying, the more money you have.  Simple as that.  Who doesn't need more money?  Buy only what you absolutely need for one month.  Skip the cute summer melamine plates at Target.  (Melamine is petroleum-based.  All plastics are.)  And the dollar bin when you walk in.  And maybe the snack aisle at the grocer.  And the new planters at the home store.  And, let's see, what else do I have trouble with this time of year?  Where does my money go?  What takes up space in my house?  I use this blog as a way to motivate myself to be a better person.  Sometimes it works, sometimes not so much.

Think about the packaging of the products you are buying.  Is it worth it?  Stop taking bags for things that can be tossed in your purse or bookbag. 

We are all used to recycling by now.  Did you know most municipalities don't accept water bottles for recycling unless you've taken the caps off?  You can recycle the caps at the nearest Aveda store.  Look at your trash and compare it with your neighbors each week.  Challenge yourself to have less than the Jones'.  Less than yourselves. 

Because that's what Earth Day is all about.  Be a better guy than the next guy.

Months and months ago, six?  seven?  I'm not sure, I decided to take an Improv Comedy class.  A friend was signing up, and she mentioned that I might like to as well. 

My guts said no.  I have terrible stage fright.  Debilitating.  Performing is not for me.  Doing things and saying things in front of other people is not for me.

People who know me in real life are shocked to learn that.  Mostly because I'm so, so, boisterous?  Is that a nice word?  Like a step down from that.  Rollicky?  I'm always telling stories and jokes and yammering on and on about nothing in particular.  I'm funny.  Outspoken.  Quick.  Friendly.  Open.

Not shy, that's for sure.  But shy is different than having a strong stage presence.

Doing things all by myself while standing on the same floor as you is one thing.  Rising above ground level and working with others?  Barf.

But it's time to get over that.  So my mouth said "yes", against my lurching guts' better judgment.  I made a promise to myself to get through the first three levels of class.  To not quit.  To get on stage for the class show at the end of the third level and prove to myself that getting on stage isn't going to kill me.  Nor probably make me puke or pee or poop on myself.

And from there?  Who knows.  Maybe start teaching a night class at the Community College?  Moonlighting as a Parenting Facilitator, like the ones I knock around during the nine to five?  Start doing trainings and conferences with the other big guns here at Ye Olde Jobbe?  Try out for a bit part in the local theater?  Something?  Nothing?  Who cares?  At least I'd beat one of my two raging phobias (I've gotten a manageable grip on the severed heads thing, sort of).

Something happened in the first few classes of Level 3.  I felt a little disappointed that my friends weren't there to see me.  I was proud of and amused by what I was doing, and I knew they would be too.  I was upset that they couldn't be a part of this.
So, I signed up for the comedy team auditions.  Those were held on Sunday.
It was my first time ever on a stage.  Mandatory Elementary School Plays excluded.
Have you ever been on stage?  It's hot on stage.  There are places where you can easily fall off stage.  The lights are blinding.
But I knew most of the people out in the seats anyway so blocking them wasn't an issue.
Philly Improv is a nice close community, so even if you don't exactly know someone, you know of them.
And this morning I woke up to a call back in my inbox.
Of course since I'm a maladjusted headcase I immediately felt like it was someone doing me a favor. But so what if it was?  Maybe it wasn't.  Even if it was a tiny bit of one?  I know it was a well deserved one.

If I don't make this second cut?  So what!  I made it On A Stage.
And I didn't pee or puke or poop on myself.
I won my game in the first inning, it had nothing to do with call backs or teams or how well I performed.  Those are all gravy.  Perks.  Surplus.  Superfluous.  Fringe.  Sparkles.  Shiny.  Lagniappe.  Oh, hello!  There's your Big Word of the Day.
I did what I set out to do, and when I got up on that stage it wasn't even a bit bad because doing improv is so much fun that it doesn't even matter where I'm doing it anymore.
A half hour of improv?  Yes please.  In the basement of the Adrienne or the side room at the Bride or on stage at the Actor's Center, it's all the same.

I have to pay to go to class.  Boo.  An audition is a half hour that I don't have to pay for.  Yea!
The call back is two hours in a theater that I've spent forty hours doing improv in.  How can I be nervous about that?  Some of my friends got call backs for the same team and I'm glad they'll be there to add to the normalcy factor of the whole thing.  Technically we'll be competing, but I don't feel that way. 

I wondered if I would feel competitive at the audition.  And I didn't.  Not one bit.  Weird, right?  I get competitive about who gets to push the elevator buttons on the way to a meeting and who spits first when Jake and I brush our teeth together at night.  And when I found out that people got call backs that I didn't, I was happy for them.  And people who didn't get them, I was bummed that they wouldn't be there with me.  It's all in good fun like that.  It's who fits where at what time and with who and for what.

I've never seen anyone be truly bad at improv.  Uncomfortable, yes.  Distasteful, disrespectful, discombobulated, disoriented, displaced, sure. 

If I don't make it (and let's face it, I'm less than a year at this gig) I plan on taking a few workshops over the summer and actually getting out to see some shows.  I was hoping to do the Storytelling class, but there is just no way in hell my wallet nor my calendar is opening up for that one this month.  Maybe next time around.  And then next time auditions come up, I'll try again to see if there is an opening somewhere I do fit in.

Because if there's one thing I know about me, I certainly don't fit in everywhere but I can always find somewhere I do.

madness

I'm doing laundry this morning, trying to get Jake's things together so he has some clean clothes to take to his grandparents', and Jake is running around playing in the kitchen/dining/living room, which is sort of one room.  Rowhomes are like that.  Fifteen feet wide but as deep as they come.  Living room up at the street, then the dining room then the kitchen then if you're lucky, the laundry last, near the back yard.  That's how my house is.  The Naw'thenah's version of a shotgun shack.

So, I'm back there and Jake's up front and I hear:

"What the?  WHAT? Mom!  Mom!  I found a bag of grass!"

My brain is all "What the?  WHAT? A bag of grass? Who the hell brought a bag of grass to my house and left it here?  What if it's hash?  What if Jake tasted it?  Would he do that?  Not if it's in a proper drug bag, I taught him about that.  But what if it's in a ziploc and he thought it was oregano or something?  Do small boys taste oregano?  Does anyone, really?  Oregano tastes like dirt.  It's only good fresh.  But I only know that because I've tasted it dried.  So yes, people do taste oregano.  Who has even been here?  No one since the birthday party.  Were people high then?  Probably.  Maybe.  No?  There were lots of family and friends, and teenagers and kids in their twenties and gah- I don't remember, it's not like people advertise their highness, plus they would have gone outside, out of respect for the fact that it was a child's birthday party.  And who calls it grass anymore?  Why does Jake call it that?  Who is my boy running with?  Who am I running with?  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.  What is happening in my house right now?  Why are there drugs in my house?  How long has it been here?  Where was it?  What else is in here?  Does Dave know about this?  Is it his?  Bogart. That's a whole nother problem that I should probably address.  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.  Should I tell Jake it's spices?  That's lying.  Bad.  He knows all about drugs, and I don't want him thinking it's okay to have them in our house.  I certainly don't want to set an example that we lie about them.  Bad bad bad.  Should I tell him that it's not ours?  No, because that is an age old excuse that translates to 'I'm holding it for a friend'.  That's not okay either.  I'm just going to tell him the truth.  It's grass (grass, ha!  reefer. groovy.), and while I don't want my friends doing drugs, sometimes they do because they are grownups who make their own choices and sometimes when our friends who make the choice to do drugs come over they might accidentally drop their drugs and when that happens we put them in the freezer until they ask for them back flush them down the toilet call finder's keepers flush them down the toilet put them up where they are safe flush them down the toilet.

My mouth is all like, "Bring it here please"

So we meet in the kitchen and Jake slaps it up on the table, sighs while he looks at me and he says, "can we talk about this?"

Brain: "Thank you Jesus, Thank you Allah, Thank you Sunshine, Thank you Rain.  It's Easter Grass."

Mouth: "Yeah, about that.  I think maybe the Bunny forgot that here.  Maybe we should just save it for next year.  What do you think?"

Jake: "That's good.  You can put it in the basement next to the wrapping paper that Santa must have left here at Christmastime".

Worst
Mom/Santa/Bunny/future Toothfairy
Ever.

But, I'm trying to be a good citizen.  Please click below over and over and over again:

Kelly at Dare to be Domestic did this meme, and since I'm running short on brain power, I think I'll play along.

But first, read this if you are new here and click here as many times as you can stand to:


a. area code: Philadelphia will always be the Two One Five in our hearts, but my cell is a Two Six Seven.  My office phone is 215, and I think if I got a home phone number (which I haven't had in over a decade) it would probably be a 215er too.

b. bed size: Queen. And that is not nearly big enough to share.  It's high time to break Jake of the habit of crawling in there in the middle of the night, but I have to admit that I like it better when he's in there.  ME!  The girl who doesn't share the bed with anyone but her cat!  I was doing just fine until I sat in on a parenting group and listened to a mom my own age who lost her child suddenly one day.  She wasn't a normal "client", she was a mom just like me, middle class, white, with a three year old boy who choked on a grape.
A grape.
While he was snacking and she was in the shower.
She went to parenting class because she was having a hard time taking care of her daughter after the loss of her son and thought she would find some support there.
She said that she was struggling with keeping her son in his own bed in the weeks before he died and did everything in her power to keep him there.  Parents who are reading, you know how it is.  It's such a battle.  And sometimes voices get raised and you hold that little hand just a little too hard while you march that kid back to his room in the middle of the night...
Well, of course she would give anything for one last night with her boy in her bed with her.
I don't want to be in her shoes.
But I also don't want to get kicked in the head and guts and kneecaps all night either.

c. chore you hate: Housework.

d. dog's name: I don't have a current dog.  But I've had Benji, Hershey, Jake, Sam, Fritz, Wimpy, Kelly, Shadow, and Marley.  I think that's it.  And I'm not calling my son a dog.  I had a dog named Jake before I had a boy named Jake.  Everyone has had a dog named Jake, right?
I like big dogs.  If a dog isn't over 75 pounds, I have no use for that dog.  If a dog is under 20 pounds, I'm looking at a cat who doesn't know how to use the litter box.
Useless.

e. essential "start of the day" item: A shower and a double check to make sure my zipper is pulled up.  Anything else can be purchased on the way to work.

f. favorite color: Orange.  Followed by green.

g. gold or silver: Gold.  The yellow kind.

h. height: 5'7"

i. instruments you play: my favorite joke here is: the skin flute.

j. job: I'm a Social Work Program Monitor.  Doing lots of stuff lately that isn't in the Job Description.  But that's okay, in these days you do what gets tossed your way 

k. kids: I love that movie.  I plan on showing it to Jake on his 12th birthday and tell him that all stuff happens to you if you do drugs and have sex.  Maybe I'll show it to him on his 11th birthday, because I'm quite sure that I had done drugs by the time my 12th birthday had rolled around.

l. living arrangements: We own a two bedroom rowhome in the south part of the city.  It's not a bad life at all.

m. mom's name: Janet.

n. nickname: Sometimes my mom calls me Sis, sometimes my dad calls me Sparky.  When Jake hears them call me that, he'll call me that for a few days too. 

o. overnight hospital stay: Just the birthgiving and the time I had to have my face rebuilt.

p. pet peeve: there is not enough time in the day.  Everything.  Everything everyone does annoys the piss out of me.  But you've probably figured that out by now.  I can't even stand myself most days.  People are so gross.

q. quote from movie: I'm so bad at this, I'm not even going to try.  Say Anything is probably the best movie for quotes.  Now that I mention that, I'm thinking maybe I should have said Better off Dead.  Hell, just click on both those titles and it will take you to the IMBD quotes page.

r. righty or lefty: Righty

s. siblings: One brother, two step brothers, and I used to have a step-sister but I haven't seen her in a decade and a half, no love lost.

t. time you wake up: the alarm is set for 6.30, but this has no bearing on the time I get up.

u. underwear: I buy it by the bag.  I love bagged underwear, provided you get a good bag.  There is nothing worse than buying a bag and getting stuck with 4 to 6 pairs of faulty drawers.  Fruit of the Loom bikinis size 6.  No elastic band, please, if you're offering.  I hate those big inch-wide elastic bands.  They leave marks and make me feel like a fatty.  There is nothing less flattering than when your clothes leave marks in your skin.

v. vegetables you dislike: raw onions, olives, artichokes, and anything else briney or pungent.  There is a reason we were given noses.  It's so we don't eat anything that smells disgusting.  Like onions or briney vegetables.  Or cheese that smells like homeless peoples' balls or feet.  Or fish that smells like hookerpus.
Do I know what homeless peoples' balls smell like?  Absolutely.  It's not like you  have to get that close to smell them.

w. ways or reasons you are late: Jake.  That's it.  I was never late until he was shoved up in my guts.  That's not even a period joke.  But that was late too.  I was the most punctual person you've ever met until he was here.  Now I can't get anywhere on time.

x. x-rays: teeth, of course, I've had a few bone scans done, and I've had my hands done a few times because I keep forgetting how long my arms are and my hands have gotten caught up in doors and stuff plenty of times.  Most recently I got my neck x-rayeded:

Everything's fine.  My neck is super long, yes.  I'm gangly.  But I'm more careful with my head than I am with my hands.  Rest assured.

y. yummy food you make: Chili.  And I don't care what you people from Texas say, you need beans in there.  I hate chili without beans.  It's like meat sauce.  Ick.  Who wants that?  I'm also the queen of pasta sauces that aren't boring old marinara.  Which is the impetus behind Wednesday Spaghetti.  Do you do Wednesday Spaghetti at your house?  I invented it a couple years ago when I noticed that the world would be a better place if we just sat down and ate together like we used to.  There's a blog for it and everything.  Please let me know if you want to join the WedSpagger movement.  All you have to do is sit down and eat with your friends or family. 

z. zoo animals you like: Let's pretend that doesn't say zoo because I'm morally opposed to zoos.  Of course I am, right?
For the record, Jake has been to the zoo, just not on my watch and not on my dime.
And let's flip to the B-side and say that I even worked as a volunteer at the Philadelphia Zoo for awhile, until my  heart couldn't take another day.  If I didn't work there, I would probably be a card-carrying member of the zoo.  The animals are all cared for according to specifications, but the specifications are just not up to my standards.  I couldn't take it.  Lots of disease (including in the petting zoo.  I'm sorry, but if I was required to wear rubber gloves to feed the petting zoo animals because of all the salmonella and other nasties, why are we letting kids in there?) and tiny cages (read: Rubbermaid Shoeboxes with holes poked in them for those animals that are part of the "shows" that are put on in the Kiddie Zoo) and teasing goes on behind the scenes.  It's fucked up.
You know how I'm reading the Complete Works of John Irving?  I had a hard time getting through parts of Setting Free the Bears.  I wonder if Irving volunteered in a zoo, because that night guard?  Yeah...
I have fond memories of going to the zoo with my parents, and Jake will have fond memories of going to the zoo with significant people in his life.  Just not his mom.
I don't go to the zoo.
But you can, and I think it's totally fine.
I also don't feel that he needs to go to the zoo because it's educational, he needs to go because it's fun to run around and see everything and eat junk all day.  What the devil does my White American Child have to do with seeing a penned lion from 20 yards away?  How is that educational?
"Look, dear.  See the lion?  That's how they lie still on the savanna when they don't have to work for their food.  See how his sides go in and out when he breathes?  See the flies get swished by his tail?  See the matted fur?  And the scabs?  See him yawn?  If you see one of those in nature, run.  Moving on."
My favorite animals that don't live in our houses and can't usually be found here in the States are: Giraffes, Lions, and Tigers.

My least favorites are any sort of non-human primates.
Then again, toss the human primates in there too.

You guys ask me how I do my job?  It's because I'm not a big fan of people.  See p. pet peeves and z. zoo animals.  I could never work with animals because I love them too much so I have to stick to something I can be objective about.

Work is wearing me down this week (and last and next too) and I have a million things  I want to say because I really wanted to take this month to tie work stuff in with life stuff with emotion stuff with this BABIES campaign that I'm trying desperately to pull off.

Let's take care of that first.  Read this if you aren't a regular around here and then click this one thousand times:


Thank you!

There is so much public health stuff in the news right now.  Is that what happens when there is a Democrat in office or is it just a coincidence?  I forget.  It's been so long.
Used to be I would stay awake at night afraid to go to sleep lest I get bombed by terrorists.  Now I'm afraid I may have accidentally ingested Propyl gallate because I took a piece of gum from a stranger.  (that's a great link if you care about food additives, btw)

Glory be.
I almost forgot that I was living in a First World Country there for eight years a minute.
Here's here to the return of bourgie problems.  Finally.

Other stuff that doesn't matter in the history of the world but is certainly mattering right here, right now:

We (they) were all up in arms because the City almost started taxing us for soda.  Soda!  Please yes tax.  For cokesakes!  You tax us for consuming alcohol.  Why should unhealthy non-alcoholic beverages be any different?  I loved how when the Roving Reporters from the news channels asked the people on the street what they would do if the tax would go through, the people always said "Ima buy mines sodas outsidda da City.  Yous're gonna see.  I'll goda Jerseyda buy mines sodas.  I'll goda Del'ware Cownny an' stock up on Sadderdays".
Ha!  I love it.  I call billshut.  Do you know why?  I'll tell you.  Because I work with people who are soda addicts, and they are so addicted that they can't even drag their rear ends to the CVS across the street where a 20oz soda costs 99 cents.  Instead they go downstairs to the newstand on the first floor of our building where the same size, same brand costs $1.59.  And they do it two or three times a day.  That's how I know these dissenters wouldn't cross the border to buy sodas.  The City really shit the bed by not passing that bill.

Oh well.

They didn't pass that Garbage Tax thing either.  Instead they are temporarily raising the property taxes by 12%.  Which is WAY LESS than $300 for my house.  Didn't I tell you that my property taxes are pennies on the dollar compared to your property taxes?

What else?  My brain is hardly working.  Public health stuff, right.

Philadelphia has been a smoke free city for years now, and Pennsylvania soon followed.  In most bars and all restaurants you can't light a cigarette until you are twenty feet away from the door.  It's a lovely way to live.  I grew up in a house where both parents smoked.  I must have smelled terrible, but no one ever noticed because that's the way most people smelled.  Now I can't handle walking past someone smoking on the street.  One person.  It's like we've all been princessfied about cigarettes.  Isn't that incredible?  Can you believe that we used to eat our food in a cloud a smoke?  Even us non-smokers?  And that's just the way life was?  Is your town smoke free?  Is our country?  I don't know.  I love how this ban inconveniences our own President.

Score.

I'm not sure if it's state wide or country wide or just here in the city, but you can't fry anything in transfats.  People complain because their french fries and chicken fingers and other fried delights just ain't tastin' right these days.  But you know what?  I'm okay with that.  I'm okay with that because when I take my boy out for a night on the town and he tells the girl that he'll have french fries and chicken fingers (yes, Jake orders for himself with no parental input) I know that at least he isn't getting transfats with that.

And yes, they are much worse for you than the other kinds.

I've been checking labels for partially hydrogenated oils (trans fats) ever since eleventh grade when this boy that I liked told me that he wouldn't eat crackers or cookies that his mom didn't make because he didn't eat trans fats.  They are in everything.  Check your labels.  Bake your own cookies.  Use real butter.  It's retro*cute.  It's tastier.  It's healthier.

I work with so many people (hell, I don't even mean clients by that statement- then again, I know people outside of work like this, so forget I even said work with and replace it with the word "know") who have no idea what good nutrition is.  Who have no idea that fried chicken and fish isn't healthy because it's chicken and fish and chicken and fish is supposed to be healthier than beef and pork.  Never mind that it's mass produced under horrid conditions.  I'm not even going to address that.  Who think that ham is healthy because it's meat, and meat is one of the food groups.  'French fries are vegetables and so is the ketchup you  put on them' sort of people.  Hawaiian punch is juice, don't try to say it isn't, let alone argue that 100% juice isn't all that great for anyone.  How do you fix this?  Where do you start? 

Something else that Pennsylvania started doing?  Putting calorie, cholesterol, sodium, transfat, and something else that I forget information on menus in chain restaurants.  Holy crap.  What a way to lose your appetite.  Twice now I've gone somewhere with friends, we've all opened the menus, looked at them, closed them, and left.  Not to mention any names (Applebees and Fox & Hound), but holy shit.  I won't ever eat at those places again.  Even the garden salads are loaded with sodium.  Luckily I'm not a fan of the chains, as there are thousands of local amazing independent restaurants that actually cook food that they buy from real local distributors, not shipped frozen from Head Quarters.  But in lots of towns all over America there isn't much of a choice where you can eat if you want to eat out, and chain restaurants are all you've got.  The additives and preservatives are what makes the food so damned bad for you.

Food is supposed to go bad.

Hear that?


Food is supposed to go bad.
Get rotten.
Spoil.
Sour.
Bruise.
Mold.
Crust.

It's scary that it doesn't.  That things have eternal shelf lives.  Convenient, yes.  Especially for girls like me who hate to grocery shop and love to stock up in case of nuclear fallout.  And companies who love to stock up in case of a mad rush on a Friday night.  But it's scary.  Because chemicals keep them fresh.

I have this joke that I tell when people tell me that I look young.  It goes something like "it's because I'm pickling myself from the inside out."  And then I raise my bourbon/whiskey/scotch/gasoline to them and take a sip and laugh and say "no really, it's because I have excellent genes, I read food labels and eat fresh food that doesn't come with labels whenever I can, and I try to stay out of the sun except for when I'm at the beach".

But what if I am?
Pickling myself from the inside out?

I am going to be the prettiest old lady ever.

1) Last year for Mother's Day, Dave bought me a subscription to Rhapsody.  I love it.  Almost all the music you could ever want at your fingertips.  Almost all the music.  No Beatles, limited Kinks, is what I'm always whining about, but it's amazing for newer stuff, mainstream stuff.  I guess as long as the band co-operates, it's on there.  Or something.  I don't know.  Anyway, I use it all the time. 

Except for when it's broken.  Then I cry because I don't really own many CDs or a radio and I've never even touched an iPod (true story, I'm a techtard).  Or I go to Pandora.  Like Saturday.  When I had the house to myself so I did some spring cleaning to the tune of Talking Heads Radio customized with David Bowie, T. Rex, Ray Davies, and Velvet Underground.  Did you know you can customize your Pandora stations?  Just use the Options dropdown and add in what you like.  It really is easy.  And free.  They aren't paying me to say this, I just love it so much. 
Because I was born in 1976 (I like to call it The Year of Our Lora) I also favor Cake Radio.  So delicious. 

Don't know what I'm talking about?  Pandora.com.  You won't be sorry. 

2) I love Gay Discoteque Electronica Housebeat shit.  All of it.  So does Jake.  Probably so does most small children.  It's fun.  And glitteryrainbowholleratchersister.  And makes me want to sashay and throw glitter and wear lots of make up and tight silver pants.

I also love hard core punk rock.  So if you make fun of me for what I just told you?  I'll punch your focking lights out.  Hear?

3) I think instead of blog awards we should start dedicating songs to one another, like the way we used to call up the radio station back in the day and ask the DJ to play a song for someone we liked.  Remember that?  We'd tell our name and our crush's name and what school we went to?  I wish someone would dedicate the song Killer Queen or She's My Man to me. 

4) When I was a kid I used to rush home from school just to play my dad's records.  We didn't have any furniture in the dining room other than the giant console stereo so I'd lay them all out and toss my watch behind my head and let it land where it may to decide what I'd listen to.  Then I'd pour over the liner notes and learn all I could about the album.  Beatles and Stones and Jethro Tull and Marshall Tucker and Simon and Garfunkle and Moody Blues and King Crimson and King Diamond and Neil Diamond and Neil Young.  There's nothing like listening to something on vinyl.  I just bought a record player for the house.  We have two record stores with in a three block radius from the front door.  You can smell the records from outside the shops.  That's the second best part.  The first best part is that your fingers never forget how to flip through records.

Come over.  I'll put something on for you and when the record ends we'll listen to the hiss hiss click hiss for a couple minutes.

5) In high school I used to listen to Led Zeppelin's Tangerine over and over again.  I thought it was so romantic and tragic and haunting and beautiful.  I still do, but I'm over the listening and relistening phase.

For the most part.

6) The show Deadliest Catch makes me sick and sad that people will sacrifice their lives just to make a buck because we are so selfish.  It's not like we need crabs (or diamonds, but I don't see Discovery doing a series of the diamond trade.) to live, we just like the way they taste (or look).

The show Deadliest Catch also makes me very hungry for crabs.  I might have to make a mad dash to Baltimore, and soon.

7) I think it's wildly ridiculous that I live in a large city, but I find myself stepping in horse poop sometimes.  Today I cut a horse off in traffic and waved at him like he knew what I meant.  I'm really glad I didn't spook him.  That could've been a disaster.  Last week I parallel parked between two horses.  Life is funny.

8) When something seems like it should last forever, I do my best to try to hold onto the feeling so I can call upon it when I need it most.  Lately the forever I've been bringing back is chocolate malteds in my grandfather's kitchen.
Carnation+milk+kitchen chair+closed eyes= a forever 

I love fucking with the time space continuum.
It's no match for me.

9) I carry a small slip of paper with me nearly everywhere I go.  On it is written the town in Vietnam where my uncle was stationed during the war.  He wrote it down so I could do a bit of research.  I can't find anything anywhere, but not for lack of trying.  I know it's a small town, and I'm guessing maybe the name changed or maybe the town changed or maybe maybe maybe.  Who knows. 
But what I do know is that he and a whole hell of a lot of other people sacrifice(d) a whole hell of a lot for us.  Sometimes for no reason at all.  And sometimes they have to do things they don't want to do and don't necessarily believe in.  Horrible, horrible things.
I don't know anything about what my uncle did over there, he doesn't talk about it.  But I keep that paper as a reminder of everyone who is and ever has served in the armed forces. 

And not just ours.

10) I have an audition coming up next Sunday for a spot on an Improv team.  I do want it, of course, but it will take up tons of time and I'll miss out on some awesome summer workshops and me being on a team is going to require some major babyjuggling between Dave and I.  So if I don't get it there is still a silver lining.  I love silver lining.  It helps with the greyness. 
Keep your legs broken for me- or something. What's that they say in showbiz?- there are lots of people trying out and just a few openings. 

I'm telling you all this because I think it's hard to admit failures, and I think that too often I keep things that I might not be the ultimate tops bestest at underwraps just so I don't have to tell anyone that I didn't come out the winner.
But I know you guys, and you're all pretty gentle.

These facts brought to you by the following awards.  Oh, and please keep clicking on the BABIES thing on the left in the sidebar.  It's for a good cause.  I'm too tired to copy and paste a new picture.

Please check out the bloggers below.  They are some of my internet besties, and I am all over their blogs all the time. I promise you won't be disappointed if you drop by their places.  They are all the type of people who blog as if they are talking to you.  Like they have pulled you in to their kitchen by your arm, away from the crowd in the living room because they just have to tell you something.  Or show you something, like Hope, who puts up the best pictures.  You'd never think that Jon is only in college, not that he blogs like a grumpy old man or anything, he's just so smart.  And Alix is a riot.  I love when she complains because it's really quite funny.  And it's a good thing that Kelly lives a dozen states away from me or else the police would probably be called in.  Or the National Guard.  And Sammy is an insomniac with an Urbanity blog.  That's a deadly combination.

from Jon at Me vs. College and Alix at Casa Hice. 

from Kelly at Dare to be Domestic

From Hope at Hope Chella.

From Sammy at To Unravel.

Thanks to all of you!

Today is my eight and one half year anniversary with my company.  That's a long damned time.  Longer than most anything I've ever done in life.  Longer than high school and college combined.  Not as long as high school and college and grad school, but getting there.

We are in the middle of reviewing grant proposals for next year's funding, and while it seems that some agencies want mad cash for big things which they may or may not be able to pull off, there are some guys who just want a bit of money to do what they can with the resources they know they have available.
That's really nice to see.  Do what you know you can, not what you think you might be able to but also might fail while trying.  There's been to much of that lately.

In my eight and one half years here in Big City Public Health and Social Services I've learned a lot of stuff.
What tops that list?
It's that it's not the giant things and the huge ideas that work best, it's the little things that make the biggest and most lasting impacts and differences.

People that live here and visit here laugh at the little old ladies who wake up early each morning to sweep (and scrub, and disinfect, and sweep again) their front steps and sidewalks.  But can you imagine if each of us took ten minutes each day to sweep in front of our houses?  We'd have the shiniest city this side of the Mississippi.

It's not the million dollar donations.  There aren't many of those anyway.
It's the nickles and dimes.  Nickle and dime us to death, please. 

It's not hours of community service that make all the difference.  Minutes a day add up to hours a month add up to months a year add up to... you get what I'm saying.

I'm proud of myself.

Not for what I've done today, necessarily, pushing pencils and flipping through reports.  Checking balances and balancing checks.  But this is all part of it.  I'm proud of what I've done this week, this month, this year, for the better part of this decade.

Want to do a bit of something good today?
You can start here, by joining in on my little project.
Click on the picture below:


Better yet, get out there and sweep your step.

During the current run of 80 degree weather, I've thought of at least one million things to write about, but I couldn't bring myself indoors to get them down on paper.  Screen.  Paper.  Screen.  Whatever.  Here.  I couldn't bring myself inside from the outside to get them down in words.

See why I don't do promos?  Because I have no self-discipline.
I'm doing a community service promo for the movie BABIES (visit here for more info).  Please click repeatedly on the photo below today, even if you've been doing so all month.  If I get more clicks than anyone else, I win baby stuff which I will not keep.  I'll distribute it to needy families in Philadelphia. I'm so sorry this stuff sometimes takes you to Facebook, especially if you don't have crappy Facebook.  You DO NOT have to sign up for Facebook for your clicks to "count".  One thousand apologies that this stuff blows like that.  

 Thank you to all of you who have been clicking, and especially those of you who have been promoting my project on your twitters and facebooks and blogs.  You guys are amazing.


Are you enjoying  your pretend summer as much as I am?  Yesterday I had a bit of downtime in my day, so instead of taking the bus, I walked to my appointments.  All hail Field Days.

Philadelphia has cherry trees just like DC.  And Tokyo.  Why we aren't noted for it I'll never know but I'm sort of glad because we don't have tourists hogging up all the space and on days like yesterday I can walk east to west all by myself and get showered with cherry petals and birdsongs and rays of sunshine and pretend I'm the Princess of Philadelphia for miles and miles until I get to the Schuylkill where my reign ends because the magnolias take over and the college girls are younger than I and prettier than I but luckily the magnolias have already shed so most of the sidewalks are covered in pink and maroon and white and I step down the silken aisles like I'm a bride.  As long as I don't look down I'll never know I'm not dressed in white.  okay, ivory. okay, champagne. okay, scarlet.  who am I fooling? you guys? never.


I love West Philly.  I mean, I wouldn't want to live there.  It's pretty rough in some parts.  And I couldn't afford the mortgage in the parts that aren't.  And I don't want to rent among the college students.  But I love being there.  I love walking through University City on a 90 degree day in April, working my way north into the ghetto.  Into neighborhoods like ones most people only see on the news.  Those are my favorites.  Why?  I don't know.  That's a post for another day.


On a 90 degree day in April, everyone is happy.  
There's no fighting.  Yet. 
There's no finals.  Yet.

The fortunate ones, the Ivy Leaguers, lucky and rich enough to live south of Market, sit on their front porches, wearing next to nothing.  Catching the sun and the wind.  Getting reacquainted.  Watching the world go by.  Eating sandwiches from around the corner.  Smoking joints.  Drinking cheap beer.  Forties.  Rum in red juice.  Thick as blood.  Just as sweet.  Every bit as essential.  Laughing.  Loving.  Living.  It passes, folks.  Enjoy it now.  Remember this, you'll need it later.  Boys smiling at the pretty girls.  Girls studying those pretty girls, learning tricks.  'Maybe I can try that', she thinks, 'I'll try it in front of the mirror while no one's looking'.  Gaping at the pregos who are happy it's warm enough to show off their ripe bellies.  Waving at the new mommies who are happy it's warm enough to show off their ripe babies.  Listening to the music that was written when I was in high school.  Before these jokesters were born.  The Gangster Rap Music.  Twenty years ago it was controversial.  Now it's mainstream.  Retro.  Kitchy.  Cool on a hot day.  "I had that tape"  "Tape?  What's that?".  Move along, old girl, nothing for you to see here.  Go about your business."

The unfortunate ones, down on their luck and so poor they're living north of Lancaster, sit on their crumbling steps, wearing next to nothing.  Catching the sun and the wind.  Getting reacquainted.  Watching the world go by.  Eating sandwiches from around the corner.  Smoking joints.  Drinking cheap beer.  Forties.  Rum in red juice.  Thick as blood.  Just as sweet.  Every bit as essential.  Laughing.  Loving.  Living.  It passes, folks.  Enjoy it now.  Remember this, you'll need it later.  Boys smiling at the pretty girls.  Girls studying those pretty girls, learning tricks.  'Maybe I can try that', she thinks, 'I'll try it in front of the mirror while no one's looking'.  Gaping at the pregos who are happy it's warm enough to show off their ripe bellies.  Waving at the new mommies who are happy it's warm enough to show off their ripe babies.  Listening to the music that was written when I was in high school.  Before these jokesters were born.  The Gangster Rap Music.  Twenty years ago it was controversial.  Now it's mainstream.  Retro.  Kitchy.  Cool on a hot day.  "I had that tape"  "Tape?  What's that?.  Move along, old girl, nothing for you to see here.  Go about your business."

We're all the same today, and everyday.  But today and days like today more so than others.  Black to white and high to low and rich to poor and north to south and east to west and everything in between everyone everywhere is doing the same thing at the same time.  It's the best part about spring.  And the city.  And being me.  Because I get to see it and be it and eat it and breathe it and live it and love it and it gives me the strength to keep on.

Giving into the craving

I ate a pack. I couldn't help it.  I failed to mention that the urge to eat cigarettes?  I still have it, all these years after giving birth.  Candy cigs didn't make it go away, but it was a quick and socially acceptable fix.

also pictured from left to right:
1) the Ikea alarm clock I bought for Jake when his Curious George one broke but it ticks too loud so it has been relinquished to the living room. 
2) the button jar
3) Jake's racecar trophy that he won at his aunt's house (read: that his uncle found in a box somewhere)
4) the jar full of every fortune that has been broken free of every Chinese cookie eaten at my house.  When we move, I'll leave the jar behind.  I like doing that with fortunes.  I wonder if the people who move into my old apartments like it as much as I do.
5) antique milk jar full of old marbles.  And a rogue die.
6) blooming onion.  If you don't eat your onions fast enough, they sprout.  And if you plant them, they grow flowers.
7) a kalanchoe.  If you are bad with plants buy a kalanchoe.  They cost $3 and you can't kill them.

What's in your Front Window Shrine?

***

and while you're here, please click on the BABIES icon below and "meet" one of the babies from the documentary.  Click every day as many times as you can stand please.  I'm doing a little community service project that ties in with the movie promo.

I didn't really have too many weird food cravings when I was pregnant.  Once I wanted cherry pie filling on roasted duck.  But I didn't eat it, because, eww.

I had plenty of food aversions.  I hated everything creamy.  And sweet.  Even fruit was too much.  I couldn't touch anything salty.  Fried foods made me feel sick.  So I just avoided sweets and salties and frieds.  Easy.  Healthy.

But you know what I really wanted?  More than anything?  Cigarettes.  I wanted to slice them down the middle with a razor blade and sprinkle them on iceberg lettuce and eat them with my fingers.  Or eat them like Pixie Stix in front of the television.  One after another.

And I've never been a smoker.
I just really wanted to eat cigarettes.
Really really more than anything.
Well, not more than I wanted a healthy baby.
So I didn't eat cigarettes.

Yesterday I met someone who did.  For the first time, I met someone who said aloud that she craved cigarettes, and she actually ate them.  Three or four packs a day.  Plus the pack or two she smoked.  Five packs a day she ingested.  A young mother, still a teenager.  She planned on having an abortion but she couldn't get the money together. 
Cigarettes are something like $5 and change a pack.  $5 times five packs equals $25+.  Abortions are $200.  $200 divided by $25 equals eight.  She could have afforded an abortion in a week's time if she didn't give into that craving.  I didn't tell her this, but I wanted to.  I wanted to tell her this- loudly and profanely while I wrapped one hand around her scrawny teenaged neck and stole her baby with the other.

"I couldn't afford the abortion so I was going to give my baby up for adoption.  It wasn't going to be my problem if something happened to the baby.  It was a craving.  My body needed it or I wouldn't have craved it."

And then the baby started kicking and she decided that she loved that baby so she gave up the plan to give up the baby.  "Fuck those people who wanted my baby", she said, "they can find someone else to give them a baby.  I'm keeping mine".  She was mad that they wouldn't give her the crib and clothing they bought for the baby she promised them.  "That shit belongs to my baby", she reasoned, "not some other bitch's baby who decides she doesn't love her baby enough to keep it.  Now I have to sleep with my baby in my bed but I love that because it's so fun like he's my teddybear dollbaby.  But if I roll over on him and kill him, it's not my fault.  It's that c*nt who won't give me my crib's fault.".

And of course she laughs at her craving and her behavior and her joke about smothering her boy and swears that her baby is just fine.  That there is no residual damage. 
He's a newborn.  Three months old.  He's underweight (oh, but she's trying to fix that by feeding him solid food.  It's so cute!  He just loves it!).  There is no telling what will surface in the future.  And what will be the fault of this and what will be the fault of what she does with him today and the next day and the next.

I've never been so angry at a client.  I've dealt with people who smoke crack and shoot smack, tip their glass and sell their ass, do anything you can imagine through their pregnancy, and I can understand.  I understand addiction.  Poverty.  Desperation.  Mis-education.

Never have I felt so furious between the hours of nine and five. 

The pure selfishness she exhibited.  I've left a mother and said to co-worker "she doesn't deserve that baby", but I've never meant it like I meant it with this one.

So now what?  Call children's services?  Of course not.  I don't have a leg to stand on.  She ate cigarettes, feeds solids too early and demands furniture.  Big deal.  Follow up with her case worker?  No.  It's not my business, not my place, not my job.  The case worker surely knows what he's dealing with.

One of the most frustrating things about my job is that I'm not directly involved anymore.  It's nice, to be free of the burden of other people's problems.  To walk into a room and to walk out and never have to look back.  But sometimes I miss those days where I could invest time and energy, and even if I didn't change someone's perspective/life/habits/ways, at least I could say I tried.  And while I was trying, I usually changed my own perspective/life/habits/ways.  I miss that.

I respect that different people do different things with their children.  But sometimes I just can't get over what goes on in some families, some houses.  Especially when unborn and new babies are involved.

Speaking of differences and new babies...

I'm doing a little project.  Read more here.
And please click on the BABIES trailer below.  You don't have to watch it all the way through, you just have to click to help me try to help families in Philadelphia.



Once again, thank you for helping me with this.  You guys are awesome.  You guys are making a difference in the world.