Just in case there were any questions. It's still me. :)

It's September once again.  Only this September makes it seven years since Steve died; the same amount of time we were actually married.  The grief is seven years old, the healing is seven years old, the boys are seven years older.  And yet the rage is bigger and newer than ever.  I am angrier than I've ever been, but it's a weird anger.  It's there all the time, fermenting until some event or thought acts as a catalyst and it erupts like a psychic Vesuvius, flowing brief and hot until I can wrestle it underground again.  Isn't that what Mark Ruffalo said as the Dr. Banner in The Avengers? My secret is I'm always angry?  Yeah, that's my secret. I've warned my coworkers and my poor corpsmen to watch out for Queen Bitch of the Universe; she may be in attendance more often than not. Not that I want to be bitchy, or even plan to be.  But, I've already caught myself snapping at the kids (which, frankly, may be attributed to them really, really, REALLY needing to go back to school.  2 days, baby!), which I apologize for, and everyone, absolutely everyone, drives me insane!  Just the thought of them converting oxygen to CO2 makes me want to stab them straight in the throat.  *sigh*  Probably doesn't help that fate tried to beat the shit out of me by letting the young man I had great hopes of being with on a permanent basis decide that his life was far too complicated to complicate further. Kind of like, "I need some space.  Without you in it." (totally stolen from Jeff Foxworthy)  Gee, that's information that would have been a little more useful to me 6-8 months ago, rather than being dropped like a hanta virus infected rat.  And right at this time of year.  Awesome.  I drank myself into a good mood last night but woke up this morning with both my laptop and my wallet open.  That can't be a good sign. There's not too much more that I can pierce, since I do have to maintain a professional appearance, and my face is off limits.  As is my tongue.  I need to be able clearly articulate when I think a doctor is being a complete jackass.  I could stick a few more holes in my ears.  I'm desperately trying to avoid a major purchase, since I can pay off the Tahoe (another September extravaganza) in about 6 months. I am a pragmatic person 11 months out of the year, and then September rolls around and I kind of lose my shit.  Deep down I know I should get a grip and stay in control, but, as I may have mentioned before, I am a tad irritated.  

Me (explaining to her husband why my patient is comatose in between her contractions during her long, unmedicated labor): "It's mother nature's way of conserving energy so she can deal with her contractions and then have the strength to push."

Husband (gazing at wife who has abruptly awakened and is now breathing through contraction): "So, it's like sleeping with a snooze alarm."

Me: "Yeah.  A snooze alarm from hell."

I had a massage today and I swear my massage therapist was channeling one of the more motivated of the Gestapo elite.  I'm not so sure a "relaxation" massage should have me wishing for bamboo shoots under the fingernails because it would be less painful.  I've been having a lot of low back pain which is due, I'm sure, to 13 years of lugging epiduralized women around in bed, using equipment that was designed by a random engineer and not by someone who would actually use it (i.e. hardly functional and not nearly ergonomically correct), and packing half my life in my Big Ass Bag everyday to work.  One might think the BAB could be lightened, but I've tried and I can't.  I NEED everything in that bag like I need air to breathe. Honest.  Anyway, little Miss Mengele today suggested next time we work on my psoas and deep abdominal muscles but she warned me "it will be painful.  I just had it done and I screamed."  Awesome.  I'm already breathing like I'm in transition, let's add the sensation of crowning a 12 pound baby into the equation.  That should be fun.  I did feel better afterward, but then I screwed it up by staining the big toy.  You know, those big wooden play structures seen in all the best playgrounds and yuppie housing developments? Mine has been well loved and well neglected for the past 8 years.  Why not stain it when there's. more than likely only two years left before I tear it down, use it for firewood, and set up a bitchin' outdoor living room in it's place?  Lots of climbing up and down ladders, figuring out the best logistics so as not to paint myself, literally, into a corner, and cussing the amount of Solid Color Weatherproofing Deck and Fence Stain in Russet it takes to cover wood that has seen 8 years of Pac NW winters.  Sucks it up like a sponge.  Not to mention the amount of lichen that had grown on the roof of this bad boy.  I did attempt to do the responsible, anal personality I try to hide, thing and clean all of it off, but it proved more stubborn than I.  And as it's about 15 feet in the air at the peak, I think I can be forgiven for saying, "Fuck it!" and painting over all of the little symbiotic vegetation. (Before you judge, please reference the above "2 years before I trash it" explanation above.)

It was also 88 degrees today, which, for we poor Pac NWsters, is akin to living on the surface of the sun. Despite the level of SPF I slather on on a daily basis, my face looks like half of Richard Dreyfuss' in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. As I turn into Queen Bitch of the Universe the hotter it is (see, there are reasons I no longer live in North Carolina or Utah), I'm trying to convince myself it's actually cooler by watching Slap Shot and Fargo.  So far it hasn't lulled me into thinking my brains are not boiling in my head, but I remain optimistic.

The Senior Chief retired. This is a video commemorating his 22 years of service in the Navy. It never fails to make me tear up. I am so proud of him and so honored to be considered his "second wife." Congratulations, fair winds and following seas, Senior, and thank you for so many years of your service. Love you! (P.S one of my amazing corpsmen can be seen at the end) \

I love Mike Rowe in every way, shape, and form. And he just solidified it.

Mother of a teenager.  That should almost be a cuss word.  In fact, I may start using it as one.  Some may remember, that in FB's 5th grade year, some of the little girlies on the bus were found to be engaging in oral gratification for some of the boys.  This "in fellatio delicto" activity spawned a conversational tsunami of sexual and pharmacological rhetoric that I subjected FB to while trapped in the car on the way to see Michael, The Incredibly Gay Hairdresser.  This door having been opened, I thought perhaps I was free from revisiting the subject ( I seriously scarred him, I swear.) until the summer before he enters high school.  Which is next summer.  I may faint.  Refocusing on what I meant to write about, last night I went into FB's room to tell him it was time to ready for bed.  He was sitting at his desk, something he never does during the school year, by the way, writing something.  Something he didn't want me to see as he covered it with his hand as I walked in. Our conversation was as follows:
Me: "Hey, have you brushed your teeth and washed your face?"
FB: "Not yet." (Now moving his arm to fully cover what he was doing.)
Me: "You should get on that."
FB: "Okay." (Not moving from where he sat)
Me: (pause) "Like, now."
FB: "Okay" (Still sitting)
Me: (Backing cautiously out of his room) "Alrighty then."

I faked like I was going to my own room, and as he walked into the bathroom, ran back to his desk to see what exactly needed to be hidden from the all knowing eyes of the mommy.  I saw this: "Athena is the smartest, coolest, most beautiful..." and it left off where I had so rudely interrupted.  Now, I hardly thought he was composing an ode to the Greek goddess of war, so I assumed it was some little hussy that caught his eye.  I kid. (No.  Really I don't.  Any girl that catches his eye is assumed to be a hussy until proven otherwise.  Demon women!) So, as I went in to say good night I subtly questioned him regarding Athena.  And by subtly, I mean I sat on his bed and asked, "So, who's Athena?"  I am smooth.  After I discovered she was his friend from school (and actually in his grade and not some 15 year old from the Boys and Girls Club...yes, that has happened) my hackles relaxed enough to ask if he liked her.  Once we established he did, I reiterated my whole sex/love/responsibility talk but I added a new sidebar: "Bitches Lie." (And yes, I used that phrasing.  Don't worry; he couldn't believe it either.)  I informed FB that there are good girls/women who won't lie and manipulate, but there are a lot of them, i.e. "bitches," who will.  Then we had a little association game.  "I have a condom for you, don't worry."  Absolutely NOT!  Use your own, make sure the package isn't damaged and it's not expired.  "I've never done this before." Lie.  "I'm on birth control; we don't need a condom."  Big lie.  "I'm clean; you're safe."  Liiiiiiaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr!  I informed him my job is to keep him safe, he, meanwhile, has three jobs.  Stay true to himself, be safe, not make me a grandmother.  That's it!  That's all it takes!  Our next topic for "how badly can I scar my kid before his 18th birthday" is "don't stick your dick in crazy."  Thanks to Shelley V for the topic!