I just read Bill's blog post on Jon and Kate Plus Eight, and all I can say is amen, brother!
I used to watch the show because it was the story of ordinary parents trying to get through the day under extraordinary conditions. Then, I slowly watched as Jon become resentful that he "had" to give up work to stay at home with his wife and kids ... and the cameras. No break for poor ole Jon. Pobrecito huerfanito.
Kate made it more difficult than it had to be, too. I could tell she was trying to be less controlling and more "let the chips fall where they may," but she pissed it all away by letting her emotions get the best of her.
Of course the money they got for doing the show probably made the separation (not the divorce) easier. No fear of going hungry means less hurdles for the hurt to fester. "If I leave him, how will I survive?" Not an issue anymore.
She's a former nurse. I hear nurses talk the way Kate does all the time. All of these people who are criticizing her for being such a so-and-so are jerks and witches themselves, but they don't seem to realize it. All of a sudden, tabloid readers became good-hearted Samaritans? Get the hell outta here!
For shame! When the hell did we get license to judge anyone! Bunch of emotional cripples that are! HAH! I felt sick to see so many people almost rooting for divorce.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE???
My heart goes out to those children. They weren't given much choice and are just along for the ride. Like hell am I coming near that show again. Holy mother of pearl. If I want to experience a family in turmoil, I'll go see my dad.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
You are entering another dimension...
So here’s the itinerary, folks.
Dateline, Cartago, Costa Rica: Mass at 11 a.m. at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Which means I have less than a month to make it up to God and apologize for all the times I made the comment Jesus Saves, but Gretzky scores on the rebound.
Noon: Lunch in a restaurant to be taken over by the clan. This includes at least three educated, and well dressed, fully functioning alcoholics. One of which has absolutely no filter (who spent the first meal with her recently widowed brother, asking me when I was going to start popping out the “bebies.”) So, please, remain seated and keep your hands and arms inside the ride at all times.
That’s Friday. Saturday is a baby shower. A day of normalcy (unless they look at Bill and Lucky and ask “Who brought the testosterone?”)
Sunday, we get to go to Mass … again. Which means I’ll have one day to grovel for forgiveness for all the horse manure I’m going to pull the day before. Oh, it will happen.
Then off to the hall they have rented at the College of Engineering for a grand party with food, drink, cake, drink, dancing, more drink, videos, drinking, pictures, drinking while watching videos and looking at photos and even more drinking. And then we’ll drink some more. And then we stagger home around 7:30 p.m., where we’re probably continue drinking (hey, Grandma’s turning 100. We’re going to drink until she looks 40.)
Actually, if we all drank and got shitfaced, my Aunt “Whitey” would be so underwhelmed. The woman has a bottle of Jack for breakfast. Aren’t the rest of us wusses.
Fortunately, I’ll have the rest of the week to sleep it off before the Desert Sun sees me again.
This whole celebration is just building into this huge event. I know it’s a big deal (it got our asses down there). But it is a bit intimidating seeing everything mapped out in an itinerary by my uncle. I feel like I should walk in with my notebook and a press pass. I don’t usually attend these events unless I’m writing about them for the paper.
I’m sure I’ll have fun. I’m just a cynic. There’s so much room for me to be sarcastic. For me to dig my claws in and go for a laugh. I’ve never taken my family seriously. In fact, I plan on following some of them around with a video camera, hoping to turn the highlights into money on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
Stay tuned, team coverage.
Dateline, Cartago, Costa Rica: Mass at 11 a.m. at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Which means I have less than a month to make it up to God and apologize for all the times I made the comment Jesus Saves, but Gretzky scores on the rebound.
Noon: Lunch in a restaurant to be taken over by the clan. This includes at least three educated, and well dressed, fully functioning alcoholics. One of which has absolutely no filter (who spent the first meal with her recently widowed brother, asking me when I was going to start popping out the “bebies.”) So, please, remain seated and keep your hands and arms inside the ride at all times.
That’s Friday. Saturday is a baby shower. A day of normalcy (unless they look at Bill and Lucky and ask “Who brought the testosterone?”)
Sunday, we get to go to Mass … again. Which means I’ll have one day to grovel for forgiveness for all the horse manure I’m going to pull the day before. Oh, it will happen.
Then off to the hall they have rented at the College of Engineering for a grand party with food, drink, cake, drink, dancing, more drink, videos, drinking, pictures, drinking while watching videos and looking at photos and even more drinking. And then we’ll drink some more. And then we stagger home around 7:30 p.m., where we’re probably continue drinking (hey, Grandma’s turning 100. We’re going to drink until she looks 40.)
Actually, if we all drank and got shitfaced, my Aunt “Whitey” would be so underwhelmed. The woman has a bottle of Jack for breakfast. Aren’t the rest of us wusses.
Fortunately, I’ll have the rest of the week to sleep it off before the Desert Sun sees me again.
This whole celebration is just building into this huge event. I know it’s a big deal (it got our asses down there). But it is a bit intimidating seeing everything mapped out in an itinerary by my uncle. I feel like I should walk in with my notebook and a press pass. I don’t usually attend these events unless I’m writing about them for the paper.
I’m sure I’ll have fun. I’m just a cynic. There’s so much room for me to be sarcastic. For me to dig my claws in and go for a laugh. I’ve never taken my family seriously. In fact, I plan on following some of them around with a video camera, hoping to turn the highlights into money on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
Stay tuned, team coverage.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
They grow so fast
I had one of those giggle inducing/head-shaking moments today.
It’s my weekend but not Bill’s. So Lucky and I went to visit daddy at his office and have some dinner.
After dinner, we stopped by to get Papa a drink at 7Eleven. For fun, he got me and Lucky a small Slurpee to share. With our drinks, we dropped Bill back off at his office and drove home. As soon as we walked in the door, Lucky, walked over this his play table - it has a computer keyboard that was given to him by my boss - put his drink down, grabbed a toy cell phone, started hitting keys and talking into the phone “Yeah. Yeah. Oh, no no no no no.”
I watched in amusement and realized Lucky’s action were a reflection of his parents. I catch him doing that from time to time. It’s cute and amazing. My baby is growing up and I’m having troubles with it already.
Every morning, it seems we’re picking a different child up out of that crib. Sometimes it’s obvious he’s grown. I see the changes in his face. He’s tall enough to reach things once out of his range. He can open almost all doors. He loves flipping through his story books and pretending to read.
He’s outgrown most of his clothes. And I can tell he knows more than ever what his father and I are talking about.
I sometimes flashback to what I was told by a few other moms. “Think it over carefully,” they told me when I was considering having children. I did. And I continue to think about it. I know the toughest part is yet to come. There will be school, early mornings, extra curricular activities, oh and the dreaded teen years.
But then I realized that none of these mothers, if they had the choice, would change a thing. None of them regretted having their children. Times can get tough. And you feel every minute that ticks by when things get difficult.
And yet the weeks and months have FLOWN by. Before I knew it, Lucky was 2.
So here I am, bracing myself for the inevitable. He’s growing up. Sigh.
In other news:I got passport yesterday. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve had held a valid passport. As I said in an earlier post, I let mine lapse years ago. I never intended leave the country again, at least not willingly. The new passports look nice, all colorful and everything.
It looks better than it did when I was a child. Much to my relief, I also got back my birth certificate.
I was unaware that they take the original copy of your birth certificate and mail it off to the Department of Homeland Security or wherever. We applied for our passports at the U.S. Post Office. The woman helping took the copy of my birth certificate, which I’ve had since 1973, clipped it to an application and walked off with it.
“Um, you’re keeping it?” I asked.
“We need to send the originals,” she said.
YIPE! I’ve had that birth certificate since I was 3. It was the one I used to apply for my original passport. It’s all taped up to keep it from falling apart. That certificate has been to Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, , Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. It’s even made stops in Miami and Texas. I was not happy to let it go.
Seriously folks, I was anxious to get it back. It’s my personal information pulled out of my hands and sent to some government office. And not just that, it’s an old and fragile document.
Fortunately it came back in one piece. Phew! On the other hand, I wish I could have seen the reaction of the person who was inputting my application. I imagine she turned to her co-workers and yelled, “You guys have to look at this.”
It’s my weekend but not Bill’s. So Lucky and I went to visit daddy at his office and have some dinner.
After dinner, we stopped by to get Papa a drink at 7Eleven. For fun, he got me and Lucky a small Slurpee to share. With our drinks, we dropped Bill back off at his office and drove home. As soon as we walked in the door, Lucky, walked over this his play table - it has a computer keyboard that was given to him by my boss - put his drink down, grabbed a toy cell phone, started hitting keys and talking into the phone “Yeah. Yeah. Oh, no no no no no.”
I watched in amusement and realized Lucky’s action were a reflection of his parents. I catch him doing that from time to time. It’s cute and amazing. My baby is growing up and I’m having troubles with it already.
Every morning, it seems we’re picking a different child up out of that crib. Sometimes it’s obvious he’s grown. I see the changes in his face. He’s tall enough to reach things once out of his range. He can open almost all doors. He loves flipping through his story books and pretending to read.
He’s outgrown most of his clothes. And I can tell he knows more than ever what his father and I are talking about.
I sometimes flashback to what I was told by a few other moms. “Think it over carefully,” they told me when I was considering having children. I did. And I continue to think about it. I know the toughest part is yet to come. There will be school, early mornings, extra curricular activities, oh and the dreaded teen years.
But then I realized that none of these mothers, if they had the choice, would change a thing. None of them regretted having their children. Times can get tough. And you feel every minute that ticks by when things get difficult.
And yet the weeks and months have FLOWN by. Before I knew it, Lucky was 2.
So here I am, bracing myself for the inevitable. He’s growing up. Sigh.
In other news:I got passport yesterday. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve had held a valid passport. As I said in an earlier post, I let mine lapse years ago. I never intended leave the country again, at least not willingly. The new passports look nice, all colorful and everything.
It looks better than it did when I was a child. Much to my relief, I also got back my birth certificate.
I was unaware that they take the original copy of your birth certificate and mail it off to the Department of Homeland Security or wherever. We applied for our passports at the U.S. Post Office. The woman helping took the copy of my birth certificate, which I’ve had since 1973, clipped it to an application and walked off with it.
“Um, you’re keeping it?” I asked.
“We need to send the originals,” she said.
YIPE! I’ve had that birth certificate since I was 3. It was the one I used to apply for my original passport. It’s all taped up to keep it from falling apart. That certificate has been to Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, , Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. It’s even made stops in Miami and Texas. I was not happy to let it go.
Seriously folks, I was anxious to get it back. It’s my personal information pulled out of my hands and sent to some government office. And not just that, it’s an old and fragile document.
Fortunately it came back in one piece. Phew! On the other hand, I wish I could have seen the reaction of the person who was inputting my application. I imagine she turned to her co-workers and yelled, “You guys have to look at this.”
Friday, June 5, 2009
What's short and red all over?
I got a hair cut !
Yes I did. Cut and color. It’s part of our “Operation: Get Ready for Costa Rica.“
Getting a haircut is great but weird for me. I grew up thinking that haircuts were for men. That doing anything to your hair would damage it.
This belief was a childhood gift from my mother. So was the belief that makeup ruined your skin and that you invited trouble by looking pretty.
When I got older and A) wore nothing but jeans and baggy T-shirts - which concealed much of me, B) refused to wear make up or jewelry and C) always wore my hair in braids, my mother made it clear how disappointed she was in me. How was I supposed to know when the rules no longer applied?
Funny, now that I’m older and have no one really impress with a fabulous look, I actually do a bit more for myself.
But today, I took another leap into beauty. My hair is probably the shortest it’s ever been. And boy is it RED!
Bill made the appointment for me. I told the stylist I did not want my hair color to go too dark. She choose a warm brown tone. At least it looked brown on the swatch. When she put all the goop in my hair it looked brown. When she dried it, IT LOOKED RED. I like it. But it is a bit shocking. I keep doing double takes at my reflection. It was long past time for the cut. All my original hair color had faded or grown out. My ends were so dry and split , they could have sanded wood. Strips of gray hair ran down sections of my head. Not all over. So it looks goofy. I can’t even gray normally, sheesh.
Yup, it was time to get the hair done.
And given how much I’ve been agonizing over the Costa Rica, Bill wanted to make sure I had a boost of confidence.
But it’s short and it’s RED!
It’s not just my hair that’s getting done. We’ve been making progress, buying little things here and there that will help us along including a few items for Lucky to wear while we’re there. Of course the one item I want to buy is a ball gag for my father who’s complaining knows no bounds.
The trip must be causing his anxieties to kick into overdrive. He is slowly driving my youngest sister mad. She’s living with him for a bit. As a special service to his house guests, my father has created a list of my sister’s inadequacies that he expects her to fix IMMEDIATELY! The lists instructs my sister to fix her car, replace her tires, be a more attentive caretaker to him (her job has become inconvenient for him), clean the house and drive him places.
Yes I did. Cut and color. It’s part of our “Operation: Get Ready for Costa Rica.“
Getting a haircut is great but weird for me. I grew up thinking that haircuts were for men. That doing anything to your hair would damage it.
This belief was a childhood gift from my mother. So was the belief that makeup ruined your skin and that you invited trouble by looking pretty.
When I got older and A) wore nothing but jeans and baggy T-shirts - which concealed much of me, B) refused to wear make up or jewelry and C) always wore my hair in braids, my mother made it clear how disappointed she was in me. How was I supposed to know when the rules no longer applied?
Funny, now that I’m older and have no one really impress with a fabulous look, I actually do a bit more for myself.
But today, I took another leap into beauty. My hair is probably the shortest it’s ever been. And boy is it RED!
Bill made the appointment for me. I told the stylist I did not want my hair color to go too dark. She choose a warm brown tone. At least it looked brown on the swatch. When she put all the goop in my hair it looked brown. When she dried it, IT LOOKED RED. I like it. But it is a bit shocking. I keep doing double takes at my reflection. It was long past time for the cut. All my original hair color had faded or grown out. My ends were so dry and split , they could have sanded wood. Strips of gray hair ran down sections of my head. Not all over. So it looks goofy. I can’t even gray normally, sheesh.
Yup, it was time to get the hair done.
And given how much I’ve been agonizing over the Costa Rica, Bill wanted to make sure I had a boost of confidence.
But it’s short and it’s RED!
It’s not just my hair that’s getting done. We’ve been making progress, buying little things here and there that will help us along including a few items for Lucky to wear while we’re there. Of course the one item I want to buy is a ball gag for my father who’s complaining knows no bounds.
The trip must be causing his anxieties to kick into overdrive. He is slowly driving my youngest sister mad. She’s living with him for a bit. As a special service to his house guests, my father has created a list of my sister’s inadequacies that he expects her to fix IMMEDIATELY! The lists instructs my sister to fix her car, replace her tires, be a more attentive caretaker to him (her job has become inconvenient for him), clean the house and drive him places.
His official full-time caretaker, the second he's had in less than a year, recently quit after he made it clear she was inferior to him.
Sigh. This is who I'm taking to Costa Rica. Sometimes I try to find reason behind my father’s behavior. But most times, I’m in reactionary mode, trying to deflect his criticisms. He has fewer of them for me because he seems to approve of some of my choices. Suffice to say my father is a snob and appearances are extremely important to him.
He’s prone to bragging even about things he’s never done. Sigh.
I try not to dwell on these things and focus on looking forward to a vacation and time spent with Bill and our little one. I just need to find the strength.
Sigh. This is who I'm taking to Costa Rica. Sometimes I try to find reason behind my father’s behavior. But most times, I’m in reactionary mode, trying to deflect his criticisms. He has fewer of them for me because he seems to approve of some of my choices. Suffice to say my father is a snob and appearances are extremely important to him.
He’s prone to bragging even about things he’s never done. Sigh.
I try not to dwell on these things and focus on looking forward to a vacation and time spent with Bill and our little one. I just need to find the strength.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Doctor or Clown? How about both?
I can put another “celebrity” sighting notch in my belt for I got to listen to Patch Adams today. Yes this was for an assignment in Palm Springs.
Yes that Patch Adams. The one portrayed by Robin Williams in that less than critically revered film fittingly titled “Patch Adams.” For those of you who are not Robin Williams fans (he’s the main reason to see the film), Dr. Patch is a rogue physician who believes that conventional medicine is one big joke.
So instead of joining the circus that is the American health care system, he dons clown clothes, big shoes and a red nose and goes to other countries where he tries to make the sick and dying laugh.
I’ve never seen the film, but I remember seeing a reviewer say that the movie is just unbelievable because of the Patch character’s outrageous behavior. Today, during Dr. Patch’s speech, he scoffed at how tame the film was.
“They toned it down a lot. The noodle bath you see in the movie is definitely toned down compared to what we did,” he told a crowd of sports medicine teachers and students.
Noodle bath?
For much of the hour-plus, he was on. Patch claimed the title social activist, provocateur, geek and clown. He told us he despised capitalism. He hated HMO’s and thought people should embrace the thought of caring for an elderly loved one and felt all of us should embrace the ill just as they are, even if they suffer from a violence inducing mental illness.
This same man, however, told us he was in discussions for Patch Adams II, believed that it was OK, that he be given that special final cocktail should he ever lose faculties and insisted that depression was not a mental illness.
He showed videos of himself clowning with children in other countries. One of them, a young Russian boy, was expected to die within weeks. He told stories of children who are molested or abused.
I kept thinking, “He is doing good, he is making a difference.” I wanted to like him. But then I really couldn’t. There was something disingenuous about him. I desperately wanted him to be legitimate in heart and in action but there was something almost arrogant about him.
Maybe there were a few too many contradictions about him. I don’t know. What I do know is that these children would trade in the goddamned red nose and handful of chuckles for the arms of a loving parent. I’m sure they would trade it in for a minute of security or the chance to feel confident, normal, safe.
It’s nice that Patch gives them a laugh. I guess it’s better than nothing.
Yes that Patch Adams. The one portrayed by Robin Williams in that less than critically revered film fittingly titled “Patch Adams.” For those of you who are not Robin Williams fans (he’s the main reason to see the film), Dr. Patch is a rogue physician who believes that conventional medicine is one big joke.
So instead of joining the circus that is the American health care system, he dons clown clothes, big shoes and a red nose and goes to other countries where he tries to make the sick and dying laugh.
I’ve never seen the film, but I remember seeing a reviewer say that the movie is just unbelievable because of the Patch character’s outrageous behavior. Today, during Dr. Patch’s speech, he scoffed at how tame the film was.
“They toned it down a lot. The noodle bath you see in the movie is definitely toned down compared to what we did,” he told a crowd of sports medicine teachers and students.
Noodle bath?
For much of the hour-plus, he was on. Patch claimed the title social activist, provocateur, geek and clown. He told us he despised capitalism. He hated HMO’s and thought people should embrace the thought of caring for an elderly loved one and felt all of us should embrace the ill just as they are, even if they suffer from a violence inducing mental illness.
This same man, however, told us he was in discussions for Patch Adams II, believed that it was OK, that he be given that special final cocktail should he ever lose faculties and insisted that depression was not a mental illness.
He showed videos of himself clowning with children in other countries. One of them, a young Russian boy, was expected to die within weeks. He told stories of children who are molested or abused.
I kept thinking, “He is doing good, he is making a difference.” I wanted to like him. But then I really couldn’t. There was something disingenuous about him. I desperately wanted him to be legitimate in heart and in action but there was something almost arrogant about him.
Maybe there were a few too many contradictions about him. I don’t know. What I do know is that these children would trade in the goddamned red nose and handful of chuckles for the arms of a loving parent. I’m sure they would trade it in for a minute of security or the chance to feel confident, normal, safe.
It’s nice that Patch gives them a laugh. I guess it’s better than nothing.
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