Guest Post: An Object of Miscellany

Well, ask and you shall receive :-)  I have been soliciting guest posts as a means of getting conversations moving in new and fascinating directions, and I've already gotten two.  Yay!  This post is written by Kenny Martin, who possess wisdom far beyond his years (we've had some very philosophical conversations via Facebook).  I'm going to respond to Kenny's post below it, but Kenny and I would both to hear your thoughts on this.  Oh, and keep the guest posts rolling in ... I'm feeling very re-energized :-)

Those against whom the fractiously tailored lives have gone, those who have been bequeathed without regard or piety, megrims, have another fault to lay blame upon aside from self. 

The genomic convolution and, by extension, the scientific methodologies at large have been partitioned as another of the archetypical points upon which the generation of the current day can relinquish both their hopes and their fears. 

There is a new absolution, and it is not contrived from spiritualism nor worship but from logicalities and concreteness. 

However, what, if anything, could be derived from this whether it be rooted in maleficence or benignity? 

The answer, I feel, is a drastic although not inevitable paradigm shift during which we choose between the subjective outlooks and the objective doctrines thereby conforming to one as a whole. However, people are not invariant, but to gauge the societal model as a whole would be the proving grounds as to acquiesce with which one reigns as the predominant model as of late. 

To speak with brevity, I will offer but one question: to which do you adhere and where does the populous as a whole reside?
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(It's me--Katie--again).

I was having a very similar discussion with a group of English teachers last week ... the idea of fate vs. free will, but when you add science into it, it brings a whole different dimension.

So can you blame your genetic makeup for how your life turns out?  Is that any different than blaming any sort of higher power you might believe in?  Different from saying, "Everyone's an asshole but me, and the world is out to get me?"

I, for one, don't think so.

It's funny, we were discussing "Fate" and "Free Will" on a 1-10 scale (in terms of whose fault it was that Oedipus wound up with the fate he did), and I fell much closer to the "Fate" end than most people ... but I believe strongly in free will as well (in other words, there are some things you just can't do a damn thing about, but how you handle events like death or natural disasters or the stock market or whatever is completely and totally up to you).

When you add in the gene factor, I don't think my mindset would be much different.  

You're handed a hand of cards in life ... how you play them is up to you.  If you are genetically predisposed to alcoholism, for example, it doesn't guarantee that you'll be an alcoholic.  If your genes call you to dark places, you can still choose to search for the sun (or take medication).  

I am also, as someone incapable of adding two digit numbers without using my fingers and only made it through the science-based parts of my schooling because my sister grew up to have a PhD in a field of biology, doubtful of "logicalities and concreteness".  I mean, it was "proven" at one point that the world was flat.  Thalidomide was given the scientific world's seal of approval.  And so on.  

So I don't think that the greater world is going to be surprised by any sort of scientific explanation for human behavior.  I'd even go so far as to say it won't change a thing, except possibly increasing the entitlement complex that permeates our culture.

I go back to alcoholism.  I don't mean to sound insensitive, but that "It's a disease" line only goes so far.  When you lie about everything, when you bully the crap out of the one person that has made Herculean efforts to salvage your relationship with your child despite your best efforts to self-sabotage, when you blame everybody else about the situation that you put yourself in, when you refuse to take treatment seriously (such as claiming to be on the "making amends" steps when in reality you haven't admitted to yourself that someone as freaking God-like as you could *possibly* be an alcoholic) ... you know, grow a set, man up, and get over yourself.  There is alcoholism in my genes as well (a lot, actually ... damn Irish ;-)), and I've managed to avoid it; somehow I've been able to take responsibility for my life and mistakes instead of drinking myself into a stupor to avoid reality (and then lying about drinking myself into a stupor to further avoid reality) ... well, I guess this rant should probably end because the point has been made.  

One of my best friends has a life slogan: "PMA (Positive Mental Attitude)".  That is how I try to live my life (I do fail epically at times, although I've gotten much better).  I think that mindset is much stronger than any sort of scientific propensities.

Honoring a Marriage That is Over

Nine years ago today, I got married.  I took marriage very seriously, and I certainly never intended for it to ever end.  As a child of divorce myself, it was vitally important to me that I make the commitment of marriage only if I was 100% sure.

Obviously, things didn't work out the way I'd intended.

Mental illness and alcoholism brought on by stress and long-suppressed memories changed the man that I married--and he was a good man--into an unrecognizable monster.

There are two people in every marriage, and there are two people that contribute to the destruction of one.  I have a boatload of faults, and I do not pretend to have been the perfect wife.  I wish that my ex-husband could have communicated his concerns to me before reaching for the bottle.  I wish that with all my heart, because we had a really good marriage for a very long time.

I will never be sorry that I was married to Pythagorus.  Ever. (And we had an extremely unpleasant phone conversation last night that falls under "bullying" and "verbal assault" as defined by my school and by pretty much anyone with a clear mind, so these words carry greater weight today, as far as I'm concerned, than they would have yesterday at this time)

The most obvious reason that I don't regret my marriage is obviously Belle, a magical, funny, beautiful, intelligent miracle of a child.

But there is a lot more.

The man I married had a wonderful sense of humor.  We spent hours laughing together, sharing stories from our days, discussing current events that crossed into bizarre territory, and finding entertainment everywhere we went.

He was unfailingly kind.  He would give the shirt off his back to a stranger, and I completely mean that.  I watched him, over the course of our marriage, offer assistance to human beings of every age and walk of life, and he did it without expecting anything in return.  I can't remember him ever raising his voice--much less his hand--to me for the lion's share of the years we dated and were married.

Pythagorus was a master at finding random adventures.  We would get into the car and just drive, talking the whole time, and ending up in many different and unexpected locations.  It's a rare person that can find excitement in the seemingly mundane, and Pythagorus was a genius at this.

Pythagorus unquestionably made me a better person.  I was at a very low point in my life when I met him, and his positive attitude and appreciation for things like sunsets on a mountain or flying a kite on a windy day dissipated the bitter, cynical attitude I had adopted toward life.  Many of the good parts of who I am today are because of the love, support, and patience that Pythagorus gave to me.

I do not trust easily, and there were things I never told Pythagorus about my past (in retrospect, I'm relieved, because he's turned into the kind of jerk that would find a way to use some of these things against me), but I did fully believe in him and completely trusted that he would always be there for me just as I intended to always be there for him.

My husband, for all intents and purposes, died several years ago.  It's only recently that I've fully realized that, and I still grieve for him.  I loved him very much, and I still miss him.

However, the man with Pythagorus' face today, the bitter and cynical and mistrustful liar that has taken over his body, is not that man.

Which makes it even worse.

When somebody that you love passes away, the pain is enormous.  Death is the ultimate closure, in a way, because you have to forge ahead with life and figure out a way to live without a loved one.  You can look back fondly, can visit a cemetery, can appreciate the difference someone made in your life and honor that person through words and deeds.

I lost my stepdad and my grandfather, both great men in terms of their families and of the larger world, within a few years of each other.  I loved them both very much, and I miss them every day.  Their legacies live on, though, through memories and stories shared at family events and, yes, through those of us they left behind.      

It is impossible to honor the Pythagorus that exists today.  There is nothing--not one single thing--noble or fine about him.

The fact that he was once a great man makes the cruelty of not being able to honor who he used to be even more difficult.  The face I once loved is still in the world, spitting out lies, bullying, manipulating, endangering the lives of other people, and thriving on mind games.

It makes it difficult to even mourn the man who was my husband, and that just breaks my heart.

But I can still honor our marriage, and so that is what I do today.   

I Wrote a Short Story--Read and Critique, Please?

My primary weakness as a writer of fiction is that I am trapped in the world of novel.  I seem to be incapable of writing anything short ... it all just wants to grow into a novel that might or might not come into fruition.

I'm making a serious effort to work with the "short story" concept, which I've struggled with.  If you're interested, you can check out a couple of my prior attempts here ("Ruffled Feathers"), here ("Fading Bouquets"), and here ("Que Sera Sera").  The following is my latest crack at it.

Please let me know what you think--comments, criticisms (only please don't say, "It sucks" without elaboration), suggestions, general "keep trying ... you'll get better" words of encouragement--all would be welcome and much appreciated.

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                                       "MATRIARCH"

                                                 by

                                          Katie Loud

Carol Butterick sighed with pleasure, careful to make sure that the noise could be construed as pain, discomfort, sadness.  She was, after all, dying.

She allowed her eyes to open a crack, taking in the sight of her family huddled around her hospital bed, as close as the IV stand would allow.  She noted with satisfaction that they were all there, the whole lot of them. They were quiet, and Carol knew that her presence was the reason why.

Nobody was looking directly at Carol--that was clearly too painful for them as they struggled to imagine a world without her.  She had, after all, been omnipresent in all of their lives for ... well, forever, as far as she was concerned.  

Her husband Herman was sitting close to her on her right side, his hand almost touching hers, but not quite.  She was glad.  

Herman looked old and haggard; he was a heavy smoker whose every breath was characterized by the wheeze of emphysema.  The doctor had suggested that Herman use a portable oxygen tank, but Carol had put the kibosh on that right away.  Herman needed to carry her wheelchair from place to place, to help her in and out of the car, to run and do her bidding as he'd done for the duration of their marriage.  That was his role.

Herman was a car mechanic, and he wore his work uniform even on weekends.  It was easier that way, since the garage laundered employee attire; the thought of his dirty, greasy clothes mixing in with hers in the washing machine ... well, it was just not going to happen, and that was all.

They lived in a small, almost stereotypical New Hampshire town, and the Buttericks were considered an odd, even a dysfunctional, family.  Carol didn't mind; it was easy enough to ignore the "Jack Sprat and his wife" jokes and the implication that Herman was what the young ones called "pussywhipped".  

That was a joke; Carol hadn't allowed her husband carnal knowledge of her body since their wedding night.  

He did her bidding, came running when she called, and handed over his paycheck.  She handled the bills, the household expenses, and it briefly occurred to her that someone was going to have to step up and help him out.  She knew for a fact that Herman Butterick didn't have a clue how to do something as simple as writing a check.

Her eyes, still slitted snake-like, moved to the other side of the bed where Amber sat.

Poor Amber, who was the spitting image of her whore of a mother.

Amber was overweight, homely as sin, spotted with acne even though she was approaching thirty, and bound to be a spinster.  Amber had been born dangerously prematurely, and the lack of oxygen following her birth had unquestionably damaged her brain.  Carol's view was that the girl's evident cow-like stupidity was a direct punishment for her mother's sins.

Amber had tried to escape, as much as her limited brainpower would allow.  As Amber's aunt and legal guardian, Carol had ignored the school's requests for special education testing.  Why bother?  The girl was numb as a stump, and nothing was going to change that.

She'd worked as a cashier at one of the town's two gas stations since her graduation from high school with a D- average.  The station's owner, a friend of Herman's, had carefully gone over the cash register with her, had patiently taught her how to make change, and Amber was a fixture at the gas station now.

The year before, she'd moved into an apartment in town with a couple of her old friends from high school.  Carol couldn't remember their names, but one of them flipped burgers at the Burger King uptown, and the other one had a baby and lived on food stamps and welfare money.  

Carol had liked having Amber at home, had become used to bullying the girl into submission.  It was an art form she'd mastered over the years, and besides, Amber had kept the trailer sparkling clean.  Since she'd moved into that hophouse down the road, nobody had vacuumed or dusted or picked up.  Herman wasn't capable of picking up the slack, not with the number of hours he worked each week, and Carol certainly wasn't going to do it.

It might let them onto the fact that she wasn't anywhere near as sickly as they all believed, and that just would not do.  It would lead to all sorts of complications, to questions best left unanswered ...

And anyway, he was back, now, her shining prince, and she knew--knew--that he wouldn't tolerate a messy house.  She'd left instructions with Herman to hire a housekeeper after her death, since she would never make her boy do anything as mundane as housework.

Carol had been married to another man once, when Herman was just another boy from town who was hardworking and came from a family that owned their own land but would never amount to much.

Jerry had been different.  Although possessed of a snake-like native intelligence, Carol Butterick wasn't an educated woman; the word charismatic  was not in her repertoire, although it fit Jerry Melanson to a T.  She had married Jerry without a moment's hesitation, had gone to live in his cabin in the woods without a second thought.  That it didn't have running water or a refrigerator was beside the point--no, what Jerry did to her at night, the way he touched her when he was in a good mood, his booming laugh, those were the things that mattered.

Jerry had a bad temper, and Carol was very cautious not to set off his hair trigger.  Of course, "cautious" was something of a foreign concept to a woman who truly believed herself better than anyone else, a woman who dropped out of school following a fight with another student.  They'd made Carol talk to a "special doctor", and her mother's eyes had widened when the word sociopath was mentioned.  It hadn't been hard for Carol to convince her mother that the shrink was all wet, and it had been with her parents' blessing that she'd left school.

Despite Carol's awareness of and deference to Jerry's quick, violent anger, he spent a lot of nights out of the house, ostensibly because he was out drinking with the boys.  It never occurred to Carol that he was stepping out on her.

So the day that her mother pulled her wheezy Chevrolet into the cabin's dirt driveway and told Carol that her younger sister, Valerie, was pregnant and had named her brother-in-law Jerry as the father was a dark one indeed for Carol.  

Jerry had quickly and, with something close to relief, admitted his affair with Valerie.  He filed for divorce and, as soon as it was finalized, married the now hugely pregnant Val.  To prove that she didn't hold a grudge, Carol had arranged for herself and Herman, who she'd been dating for approximately a month, to be married the same day.

If Valerie felt slighted at having to share her wedding day with the older sister that had tormented and tortured and basically eclipsed her entire childhood, she said nothing.  Valerie was a simple soul, and her affair with Jerry had been based solely on the fact that someone was paying attention to her for once.  

Valerie's baby was a boy, a son she named Albert, and their daughter Amber was born two years later.  

Two years after that, Jerry and Valerie got into a serious car accident.  Valerie received serious, potentially life-threatening injuries.  Jerry received a DWI summons.

Carol, who had largely avoided her sister and former husband other than lavishing expensive gifts on young Albert and, to a noticeably lesser degree, little Amber, swept in to play nurse for her sister.  

There were no questions asked when Valerie succumbed to her injuries despite the best efforts of her sister.  Certainly nobody noticed that the bottle of antibiotics prescribed to Valerie to stop her infection contained the same number of capsules as it had when Carol picked it up at the drugstore.  The numerous painkillers that should have made a woman suffering from tremendous pain feel a little bit better had likewise been untouched.

Shortly after Valerie's death, Jerry was on his way home from a late night at the bar.  His beat-up pick up truck crossed the yellow line and crashed into a small car carrying a family of four on their way home from a picnic at the lake.  He was sentenced to many years in jail, needless to say, and custody of Albert and Amber was transferred to their Aunt Carol.

Carol looked now at the foot of her hospital bed, where Albert was slumped in a chair.  His resemblance to Jerry was striking, and Carol felt a surge of pride ... and a tug of something else as well, deathbed or no.

Albert had been her shining star, the valedictorian of his graduating class, a Boy Scout, a volunteer at the local nursing home, and a three-season athlete.  She had given all of herself to him--all of herself--and, when he tried to protest, she reminded him of all that she had done for him.  It was the least he could do.  Nobody else would ever want him anyway.  If he didn't do what she wanted him to, she would consider sending Amber to an orphanage.

Albert lived under a heavy weight of guilt--the guilt of his very existence which had been at the expense of Aunt Carol, the guilt of protesting her physical desires when she had done so much for him, the fact that Amber was treated like a niece and he was treated as better than a son ...

Carol had not wanted Albert to go to college, but of course a boy of his stellar successes was college-bound. She made Herman buy him a car so that he could come home every weekend, though, and was insistent that he did.

And then Albert met a girl down there in Boston, a high society bitch who clearly thought she was better than Albert's poor white trash family, and suddenly Albert stopped coming home every weekend.  When he did return to the trailer, he brazenly brought the Boston bitch with him.  Carol had no choice but to get the message.

She was disgusted by Albert's weakness as he bought the bitch a diamond ring and wedding plans moved forward, Albert's family left out of all aspects of the planning.  Carol got in her digs when she could--she brought the girl to tears by telling her that she was going to wear black to the wedding, for example--but she mostly had no choice but to gnash her teeth and take out her anger on Amber, who actually showed a degree of gumption by moving out.

The marriage lasted just over a year.  Albert, who'd gotten some hard-core executive job that Carol didn't understand (nor did she need to), had found himself in trouble at work when his aunt (who he referred to as his mother) called him every hour.  He was reprimanded at work, first informally and then on paper.  She continued to call, telling him that she was alone and sick and needed him.

He started leaving work at odd hours to drive the three hours up to make sure that Aunt Carol was okay.  

His wife was not pleased, and between being a failure at work and being a failure in his marriage, Albert started to drink heavily.  He drank as he drove up to the tiny New Hampshire town that was his prison, he spent time with his Aunt Carol, who was the only person that seemed to think he was worth anything, and then he drank all the way back to Boston.

It was inevitable that he would be bagged for DWI eventually.  It happened the day before he was fired from his job, a rising star that fizzled like the bubbles in a bottle of alcohol.

His wife, distraught and confused, was called to bail him out.  She made an appointment for marriage counseling the next day, and for the first time he confessed about the horrible abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his Aunt Carol.  That was the only counseling appointment that he went to sober, and after the third time Albert beat her badly enough to require medical assistance, she filed for divorce.

Carol, who sat in the courtroom holding her son's hand as the divorce was granted, licked her lips like a cat who'd gotten the ultimate dish of cream.  Albert moved back home, and she bought him bottles of wine because that was what he wanted, and he did whatever she wanted as long as he had his wine.

Sometimes, though, the Albert that had crossed the graduation stage covered with gold braid to give the valedictory address, the young man with so much potential who had caught the attention of a bright and beautiful girl and earned her love, tried to stand up to her, tried to say no, both to the wine and to her.

Carol had a history of diabetes, of heart problems, of debilitating blood clots in her legs.  Her history of mental illness was unknown, of course, but Carol had figured out that stopping her medication led to a trip to the hospital in an ambulance ... and the gathering of her family by her bedside.

This was the third time she'd done it, and Herman and Amber looked worried, perhaps even a little suspicious.

Albert just looked resigned.  

His glanced upward, his eyes meeting hers.  She winked at him, a promise of wine waiting at home for him, so long as he played things her way, and he looked away.

She groaned again, an expert at making herself sound pained and long-suffering.  Herman took her hand, and Amber rang for the nurse.

Albert looked away, but she knew it was only a matter of time.  She had her boy back, and he wasn't going anywhere this time ... she knew that it was the wine that held him to her, but that didn't matter to her.

What did was that he wasn't going anywhere.

Sunday Stealing: The Twenty-Fiver Meme

Hit up Sunday Stealing ... it's a great weekly event to look forward to :-)

1.      1. Tell us about something that made you laugh last night.

I was writing a piece for Zelda Lily about this crazy mother that took her thirteen-year-old daughter (plus two of her daughter's friends) with her when she went and left two bags of dog crap and a profanity-laced note on the doorstep of a kid her daughter was having issues with.   

The sheer absurdity of the situation had me alternating between laughing and crying.

2. What were you doing at 8 PM last night?

Trying to figure out why Blogger wasn't letting me blog ... it wouldn't save anything I typed in the body of a post, and I was getting really annoyed.  I finally gave up for the night, but same thing happened this morning.  Grrrr.

So I figured I'd abandon Firefox in lieu of Google Chrome to see if that helped, and ... well, you're reading this, right ;)?

3. What were you doing 30 minutes ago?

Drinking coffee, cursing Firefox, and trying to convince my mom to go to the emergency room.

Okay, here's the story.  I staggered into the kitchen this morning and, before I'd had any coffee, my mom says, "I think I have a corneal abrasion" (I'm pretty sure that's what she said ... she's a nurse practitioner and sometimes forgets that I know nothing about the medical world).

I guess she'd gotten a scratch on her eye while picking blueberries last night.  It must have hurt a lot, because my mother is not a complainer about physical ailments.  Anyway, I finally convinced her to go to the ER and get it looked it.

Shockingly, she listened ... like I said, it must have hurt a lot.

4. What happened to you in 2006? (Feel free to republish an old post from '06.)

2006 was probably the year that the seeds were sown for Pythagorus to become an alcoholic. 

Pythagorus had a really crappy childhood (REALLY crappy, but the details of which are not something I would ever share), and he compensated by excelling in school.  He was the salutatorian of his graduating class and received all sorts of Presidential Scholar Awards when he was in college and so on.

Like many abused and tormented children, Pythagorus never dealt with the things that happened to him.  He buried them deeply and went through life with a facade of success.  He also felt a strong need to help out those he saw as "suffering".

In 2006, he stood up for people that he saw as being mistreated at their job by a power hungry tyrant of a boss.  He wasn't inaccurate in this assessment, but he was sort of foolish.  He was not given a contract for the next year.

In other words, the guy who had succeeded at everything had gotten fired.  That it had nothing to do with his job performance (and it didn't--he truly was one of the best) and everything to do with an SOB with a Napoleon complex flexing his muscles doesn't really matter.

But I think that experience reminded Pythagorus of the adult bullies that destroyed his childhood.  I think it dredged up some memories, and once they started coming, nothing could stop them ...

Except wine.  A lot of wine.  And I guess that's the anatomy of an alcoholic, as I understand it.

5. What was the last thing you said out loud?

"I cannot believe you slept in until 9:30!" (to Belle, who in general thinks 6:30 is sleeping in) 

6. How many beverages did you have today?

Two cups of coffee and SoBe Lifewater (black cherry dragonfruit ... what the heck is dragonfruit, anyway?) 

7. What color is your hairbrush?

I have two, one purple and one gray and black. 

8. What was the last thing you paid for?

Soup for Addie. 

9. Where were you last night?

Home fighting with my computer and reading a book. 

10. What color is your front door?

Blue.  I think it's called "colonial blue" or something ... I don't know, my mother's all Williamsburg obsessed.  You should see the curtains! 

11. Where do you keep your change?

In the cupholders of my car.  There's much overflowage, which I guess means I should roll coins or something, make a deposit into Addie's college account. 

12. What’s the weather like today?

Hot and sticky.  Again.  The weatherman has got to stop lying about when this yucky stretch is going to end. 

13. What’s the best ice-cream flavor?

I actually don't like ice cream all that much, but I occasionally indulge in Ben and Jerry's combination of chocolate chip cookie dough and chocolate fudge brownie.  Mmmmmmmm :-) 

14. What excites you?

Good times. 

15. Do you want to cut your hair?

Yes, actually.  The last time I got it cut, the hairdresser left it way too long in the back and made the layers way too short ... if I wear it down and don't go through the whole blow-dry/straighten/excessive hair supply routine (and this is so not me), it kind of looks like a mullet.  Thanks for reminding me to make an appointment ... with a different hairdresser ;) 

16. Are you over the age of 35?

Nope :-)   

17. Do you talk a lot?

Yes, I often do ... stupid ADHD ;-).   

18. Do you watch Franklin and Bash?

Uh ... who?

19. Do you know anyone named Steven?

I know a lot of people named Steven.  

One of the occupational hazards of being a teacher is knowing someone with pretty much any name.  When I was pregnant with Belle, it was horrible trying to find a name that I didn't automatically associate with a former student.

I've actually had three students with Belle's real name, but she has kind of an unusual nickname derived from her name that is not common.

20. Do you make up your own words?

Oh, yes ... particularly derivatives of the f-word.  It's kind of entertaining to fit it into every part of speech as well as the pluperfect tense and such ;) 

21. Are you a jealous person?

No, I'm really not.  I get really annoyed by inequality (like when people at work get ahead based on how they look in a skirt rather than the quality of their abilities), but it's not really "jealousy", just irritation. 

22. What does the last text message you received say?

"Not alone."  Haha, have fun figuring that one out ;-) 

23. Where’s the next place you’re going to?

Not sure ...I might well not leave the house at all today since I've got to plan the week for summer school, read, write, soak up the AC.  I'll probably go walk on the beach, and I usually end up at the store for some reason or another. 

24. Who’s the rudest person in your life?

Pythagorus, without a question. 

The big drama this week involved him wanting me to drive Belle to the town he lives in (two hours away on a good day, but it's a resort town, so it's more like three in the summer, so we're talking at least six hours round trip) and then acting like I was being a jerk when I asked for gas money.  

I mean, it is not my fault that he got yet another DWI, and his assumption that I have any obligation to transport Belle halfway across the state to visit him is just ... rude.  Rude and insensitive.

This is especially noteworthy because Belle had already expressed not wanting to spend extensive time in the car (not her favorite thing to do).  

25. Are you crushing on anyone that you shouldn't be?

Nah, I'm not crushing on anyone ... just waiting around rather impatiently for Mr. Right to show up ;)

Casey Anthony, the Judicial System, and Me

While I am completely disgusted by the verdict in the Casey Anthony trial, I am not surprised. The fact that this young woman lied repeatedly, made up lies to support her lies, and then lied about many of the said lies speaks to her character.

I have no doubt that she was responsible for the death of her young daughter, and I know that she will one day have to answer to a higher power.

It's just that the American judicial system wasn't it.

Some are outraged by the not-guilty verdict, speaking out vehemently against jurors and posting Facebook chains in remembrance of little Caylee. It's kind of a knee-jerk thing, and I can completely relate to that--my most recent status update is, "Karma's a birch ... hopefully Casey Anthony (and others who don't follow the golden rule) will get that memo. Soon!" (the autocorrect on my Droid is kind of a pain sometimes).

Others are looking at it more objectively, suggesting that the prosecution should have gone for a lesser charge or citing the so-called "CSI Effect" (namely, that jurors expect indisputable physical evidence in order to convict, since that's how it happens on television).

Me, I'm just resigned to the weaknesses in a system that allows this sort of thing to happen.

My distrust in the legal world probably comes in part from the fact that my father is a lawyer and I spent much of my childhood hearing courtroom stories, and I'm sure the fictional trial in Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird plays a role as well, but the real reason is more personal.

It's ironic that the verdict of the Casey Anthony trial has coincided with my ex-husband's most recent trip down Alcohol Alley, but perhaps that's not a bad thing.

I have a lot of really good friends and a wonderful family. I know that I am loved, and I feel incredibly blessed for all that I have. The support I've received from legions of people during the whole divorce debacle has kept my belief in the basic goodness of human beings from faltering.

I am very aware of the degree of detail I go into in terms of my personal life on this blog. On Facebook, however, I don't hold much back.

Anyone who is my friend on Facebook has been a party to the roller coaster ride that has accompanied my unwilling journey aboard Pythagorus' alcoholic antics, most recently a night during the last week in June.

Facebook statuses from that night include, "Driving my ex-husband to his house (two hours) from the hospital. The wine fumes are killing me (sorry, there has to be SOME levity ...)", "I could not make up my f***ing life ...", and "I am home. Should anyone need me, I'll be up all night writing an exam."

For years now, I've been advised to "move on", to leave him alone, to not help him when he asks for it, to ignore him and forget him and otherwise extend a metaphorical middle finger rather than an olive branch.

But I can't.

It has nothing to do with Pythagorus.

Anyone who knows me in real life is aware that I would do anything in my power to help another person, that you couldn't ask me to do something that I wouldn't do, that I would willingly sacrifice my happiness, my safety, my health, and my sanity if it would behoove another person, even a complete stranger. (And I don't say this because I think I'm great, by the way ... honestly, this is probably my fatal flaw)

The truth is this. If I'd just ingested two gallons of water and Pythagorus was on fire in front of me, I'd cross the road and pee across the street. With a smile on my face.

There is not another person on earth I could say that about. A lot of people have hurt me, some of them very badly, but I would help them nonetheless. See, I don't matter all that much to me.

But my children? They are my life, the sunshine of my universe, and Pythagorus has hurt both of them repeatedly and continuously for years now.

And unless he drops dead, I am powerless to keep him from hurting Belle each and every day. (Where he's not Addie's biological father, she doesn't have to deal with him directly anymore--you could say the damage has been done--except she is incredibly close to her little sister and she feels Belle's pain)

Which brings me back to the American judicial system.

As Belle's father, Pythagorus has the legal right to see her.

It doesn't matter if he blows off his nightly phone call for a week and she becomes physically ill with worry.

It doesn't matter if he is arrested for DWI multiple times within a one month period.

It doesn't matter if he is completely tanked when he calls or visits with her.

It doesn't matter if he loses any job he manages to get.

It doesn't matter that he has to hold some kind of record for the number of times one person has entered a hospital emergency room with a blood alcohol level over .40 (and, no, that's not a typo).

As her father, he has the legal right to see her. Period.

And because Belle is my heart and soul, I do everything I can to make the whole situation easier for her.

I'm civil, even pleasant, to Pythagorus on the phone (I talk to him first to find out whether or not he's drunk, since there's a lot of processing that I have to do with Belle when he's not in his right mind).

I supervise their visits because Belle does not trust many people, and Pythagorus has to "approve" of who'll be doing the supervising (trust me, I'd love to let my mother or my sister do the supervising ... it's not like I enjoy it).

I lied and gave him a job reference under my maiden name so he could obtain employment.

I speak positively about Pythagorus to Belle. He was, for example, an incredible father when she was a baby. She was an early riser (4:30 a.m. was pretty standard), and he would let me sleep in on weekend mornings, taking her to Wal-Mart to look at the fish and to parks and stuff.

She hears plenty of good things about him, and it comes from me. Furthermore, I make sure that Addie understands that she is never to bash Pythagorus to Belle; it's unfair and pointless, and besides, Belle's not stupid--she sees what he is.

The fact that Belle has any regard whatsoever for her father is because I have gone way above and beyond what any sane person would expect to maintain it. Even while Pythagorus sabotages Belle's love for him over and over again, I have for years done everything in my power to keep it alive.

Because of the judicial system.

On June 21st, Pythagorus called me on the home phone and asked me to come pick him up at the hospital that's ten minutes away from my house. He was drunk as a skunk and I had to write a final exam to give the next morning, but I drove him home. When we got to his father's house, I reinjured my back trying to get him out of the car, and his father finally had to call his cousin to get him out.

When Belle and I called him a few nights later, he was completely trashed on the phone and made plans to go to Chuck E. Cheese the next day. Belle was very excited, of course, and of course we didn't end up going to Chuck E. Cheese the next day. I was, of course, the one who had to process that whole disappointment with Belle.

He called me a few nights after that, once again gracing the emergency room of a nearby hospital with a staggeringly high blood alcohol level, and once again wanting me to pick him up and drive him home. I told him that I didn't have anyone to watch Belle and that I couldn't let her see him like that. He, of course, did not take that news kindly and screamed some pretty awful things at me. Yes, because I didn't want his daughter to see him so intoxicated that it took three people to drag him out of a car.

My mother freaked out on me for trying to help him after this latest episode. My doctor, who I had to see once again for my re-hurt back, told me I had to stop enabling him. My friends and family think I should just tell him to go to hell and have said as much.

I did have an epiphany of sorts after Belle's last visit with him (it lasted less than an hour, and he spent much of the time in the bathroom, no doubt vomiting up the vestiges of cheap wine), though. When I asked him why his father had driven him to Chuck E. Cheese, he finally admitted that he'd obtained another DWI.

Later that afternoon, I decided to Google his name and DWI, just to see if his DWI had been the 21st of June or the next week (the time I refused to pick him up because of having Belle with me). Imagine my surprise to learn that his DWI was the first week in June. The first week!

I knew for a fact that he'd driven after that date (Belle and I met him for a short lunch on Fathers Day, and he drove himself), and putting that knowledge with the two subsequent drunken ER phone calls makes my blood run cold. He could easily have killed someone (and it probably wouldn't have been himself--drunks seem to possess a warped kind of luck) driving in that condition, and I can only imagine what Belle would go through if she had to live her life knowing that her pathetic drunken loser of a father had killed a minivan full of children or whatever.

That was when I decided that I'm done.

But, you see, I really can't be done. Because of--you guessed it--the judicial system in America.

Try this on for size. Pythagorus goes to jail. Finds God. Goes to an inpatient rehab center for several months. Obtains employment. Wants to up the ante in terms of his visitation with Belle.

I am not convinced that the legal system wouldn't say, "Sure, he's gone through treatment, he's her father and he has the right to see her, let's give it a try." Despite the fact that he's gone through extensive inpatient treatment (including a memorable four month long stint) as well as outpatient, partial inpatient, AA, and so on before and it clearly didn't work, the judicial system doesn't deal in potential worst case scenarios.

Which leads me back to Casey Anthony.

Could she have killed her daughter? Of course. I don't think that anyone in the world would argue that the possibility (heck, even the probability) is there.

But because there wasn't a sense of reasonable surety on the part of her jury, Casey Anthony will soon be a free woman.

Could my ex-husband conceivably be legally permitted to have Belle in a car that he's driving someday? Well, sure ... because we can't infringe on his rights based on a 'could be', namely that his extensive history of drinking and driving and otherwise emotionally torturing his child doesn't prove with reasonable surety that he would do so again.

Americans are afforded a great many freedoms, not the least of which is the presumption of innocence. While this isn't inherently a bad thing, I believe that it's why Casey Anthony was found not guilty of killing her daughter ...

And it reminds me of the gut-wrenching fears I have regarding my own daughter's safety.

Sunday Stealing: The Nameless Fourth of July Meme

And now it's time once again for Sunday Stealing, which has somehow become a staple under the "highlight of the week" category for me. Good thing, because I'm having kind of a rough week ...

1. Last movie you saw in a theater?
Oh my gosh, I think it was Hop. That's completely unacceptable, since it wasn't even a good movie. Anybody want to go to the movies ;-)? Well, I'm seeing Harry Potter 7-II in another week and a half, so that'll be some redemption, anyway.

2. What book are you reading?
One of my students encouraged me to read his favorite book series, The Ranger's Apprentice by John Flanagan. In general, I always read books that students recommend, but young adult literature is not my favorite, so I've struggled a bit with that this year.

Well, this kid is awesome, and I think it really hurt his feelings that I was dragging my feet, so I finally brought the first two books home on a weekend a couple of weeks before school ended and plowed through them. They were really good.

He brought in the next two, and I finished them pretty quickly.

This young man was then faced with something of a dilemma. You see, he's pretty familiar with my desk, my lack of organization, and so on.

He finally said, "Ms. Loud, I'm considering lending you the next books in the series to read over the summer, but I have to know. Do you lose books?"

I laughed. "Nope. I sometimes spill pizza on them and fold over the pages instead of using bookmarks and occasionally fall asleep and drool on them, but I never lose books."

I'm on the eighth book right now, with two more to go :-)

3. Favorite board game?
Either Trivial Pursuit (I'm a fountain of useless information) or Scattergories (because I always win :-)).

4. Favorite magazine?
People. I have an unhealthy obsession with celebrity gossip.

5. Favorite smells?
The ocean, apple pie cooking, and lilacs.

6. Favorite sounds?
My seven-year-old daughter's sweet little voice, especially when unexpected (and inappropriate) things come out of it accidentally and just sound so funny that you have to bite back the laughter while you're dishing out the discipline.

To wit, Addie, Belle, and I were cleaning the living room (like, deep cleaning ... removing all furniture, bleaching baseboards and such. Hard core), and Addie decided to alphabetize the DVDs. Why? I have no idea. But anyway, she did, and she talked her sister into helping her. I went to Subway to get lunch while they spread out stacks of movies all over the room. When I got back, the following conversation transpired.

Addie: I just realized that I am missing five--five--of my Harry Potter movies!
Belle: (mumbling so I won't hear what she's saying and taking on a bratty tone as she prepares to antagonize her sister) That means you only have two left.
Addie: You're a dick!
Me: (to Belle, since I had no idea what had brought forth such a reaction from the usually mild-mannered Addie) What did you say?
Belle: Oh, she said, 'You're a dick!'

Oh my gosh, it was so hard not to laugh ...

7. Worst feeling in the world?
Getting a phone call from a drunk Pythagorus asking for me to come get him and drive him home (a two hour drive), reinjuring my back when trying to drag him out of the car, then having him call a couple of days later and act like nothing happened. He has fallen off the wagon three times in the past two weeks. In fact, I think his wagon has totally derailed. Belle is a mess, I am just sick and tired of the whole situation, and I want to scream.

8. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?
Where is my phone? Yes, I sleep with my phone. No, I don't think it's healthy. And no, it's not dirty ... it's because I sleep deeply and my phone is also my alarm clock. And when I get the occasional text at midnight, I like to be able to hear it.

9. Favorite fast food place?
This is horrible, but I'm kind of a fan of McDonald's french fries. I also used to really enjoy the Baconator from Wendy's before my pancreas decided to go nuclear every time I eat something with that much fat in it.

10. What’s under your bed?
A bunch of boxes belonging to my mother. When you live in the attic of your mother's barn, you have to work around boxes of stuff belonging to her. It makes for an interesting storage situation ... and that's all I have to say about that.

11. Finish this statement. “If I had lot of money I’d….?
Buy a house of my own (not a mansion or anything, just a real house), set up trust funds for Addie and Belle for after they graduate from college, give a sizable amount to my mother, my father, my sister, and my brother, and donate the rest to a good charity. And yes, I'm serious.

12. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
Nope. I believe I already mentioned that I sleep with my phone. What's more fun than an object that states, "DROID" at all hours?

13. Storms – cool or scary?
Scary!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! In fact, storms are probably my biggest fear :-(

14. Favorite drink?
Captain and Coke ... or apple juice if we're talking non-alcoholic.

15. Finish this statement, “If I had the time I would….”?
Organize my stuff instead of adding to the mass of crap in my rented storage unit each time the attic barn starts to really overflow.

16. If you had to dye your hair another color, what would be your choice?
I'd probably go for green or pink or something really crazy. Otherwise, what would be the point of dyeing my hair ;-)?

17. Favorite place to relax?
The beach.

18. Name all the different cities/towns you’ve lived in?
Dover, Portsmouth, Plymouth, North Hampton. All in New Hampshire. Man, am I boring ;-)

19. Favorite sports to watch?
On TV, baseball or football. In person, hockey.

20. Would you like to be born as yourself again?
Only if I could give myself a number of caveats first.

And I guess that's all she wrote.  One quick request ... if y'all could send happy thoughts to the amazing Bud Weiser of WTIT, Sunday Stealer extraordinaire, who had surgery on Friday, I'd much appreciate it, and I'm sure he would, too.

In Case You're Interested ...

Because my mom is picking Addie up from rehearsal tonight (she drove herself to school and home, but her Friday night practices get out at ten and she's nervous driving that late when she's tired, an accommodation I'm more than happy to make), I am having a rare quiet evening at home.

I wasn't going to post here tonight because I'm very much behind on Zelda Lily and need to get a couple of pieces up there, but I was really touched by the reception that my WiP excerpt received (both the accolades and the critiques were wonderful feedback ... thank you!) and a few people asked for more, so I'm going to put up the second chapter.

Copying and pasting seems like kind of a cop-out, but it's kind of where I'm at tonight ;)

Oh, and if you didn't read the last excerpt (namely, Chapter One), you should probably read it first.

Oh, one more thing ... this character seems kind of Mary Sue-ish from the first two chapters, but he's really not. I am going to be reworking them a bit, though, since I just noticed when I was rereading it while fixing the paragraphs.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

From Annual by Katie Loud

2.

Christian checked the time as he walked to his red Saab convertible. He wouldn’t be able to go home and shower before soccer practice, and that bothered him a bit. Most of his teammates found it absolutely hysterical that Christian and to a slightly lesser degree his best friend Roy Pentinicci labored in the hot sun for forty hours a week all summer. Although their teasing on the rare days he showed up with green ankles didn’t really bother Christian, the sense of bewilderment in their eyes did.

His father was one of the wealthiest men in the country. There wasn’t a reason in the world for him to slave away mowing lawns, weeding gardens, erecting stone walls, accompanying balding, sweaty men with bad grammar.

But then, Christian had always been something of an enigma to his peers, a fact that bothered him not in the least. They wondered where his drive to excel came from, of course, why he worked his ass off to earn straight As at the prestigious Stephens Academy, what made him attend intensive extra baseball practices when he was already one of the best high school pitchers in the northeast. It seemed unfair, of course, that Brian McKenzie’s son should be brilliant, talented in numerous areas, and model-handsome, but Christian was just too likable a guy to hold it against him.

So people asked Roy, who was not quite as likable and not technically a McKenzie, why on earth the two of them worked for a landscaper instead of just pushing paper at one of Mr. McKenzie’s many offices. Roy had been taken in by Brian and Belinda McKenzie when his famously dysfunctional family imploded in the fall of his freshman year. They were his legal guardians, but they were not his parents. He explained that his Porsche was a strings-attached present for his sixteenth birthday, the strings being that he pay his car insurance with money he worked for. As a three-season athlete and an honors student, this was impossible to accomplish during the school year. Hence, a summer job was necessary. That Brian McKenzie had made the same arrangement with his own son (and bought him a far less ostentatious car) when Christian turned sixteen a year later was what confused, almost frustrated people. What could possibly be the point?

Christian toiled without complaint, Roy with characteristic token grumbling. They both knew full well this was a life lesson that Brian McKenzie wanted them to learn young and completely, something akin to the two of them leading Christian’s younger sisters and brother out with shovels whenever it snowed rather than hiring a plow truck to clear their more-of-a-private-road-than-a-driveway. They worshiped Brian McKenzie equally.

Christian was early for practice, so he took a quick locker room shower, watching the greens and browns disappear down the drain with something akin to relief. He got dressed, put on his shin guards, and walked to the field. Although practice didn’t start until four, there were already a number of boys in gym shorts and Stephens Academy Soccer t-shirts running around on the field. One of them, a good looking dark-haired boy with brown eyes that dominated his face, saw Christian walking down the hill to the field and ran over.

“You just leave work?”

“Yeah, took a shower here.”

“Clearly a better man than I am, McKenzie. I got the hell out as soon as I possibly could.”

“Pete told me he offered you next summer in advance.”

Roy nodded. “It was strangely nice to hear.”

“You seen Bobby?”

“Nope.”

“Yup!" Both turned and looked up the hill as their longtime friend Bobby Smith started down, his gait unsteady. “Yup, you’ve sure as fuck seen me now.”

The other team members had started moving toward them, drawn by the decibel of Bobby’s voice. A tall African-American boy, Jamie Costello, took in the situation and sprinted suddenly to Bobby’s side. Jamie had been tight with Bobby, Roy, and Christian for years, and he knew that Bobby needed to make it into the goal; as long as he was in his element, nobody would notice that he was extremely drunk. Roy followed Jamie, getting on Bobby’s other side, and the two lifted him up and past their teammates to where Christian was busily moving the net into position in anticipation of Bobby’s arrival.

It was an old drill.

License to Throttle the DMV

So I got a letter from the state DMV yesterday informing me that I have six points on my license and that a "driver improvement" class is recommended. Oh, and should I get any further points on my license, I will lose it for a year.

Now, I'm the person that tells students that breaking the dress code just because so-and-so got away with wearing a skirt more than four inches above the knee does not make it right. I believe in rules and, when necessary, I believe in consequences. That's why I'm not going to belabor the point that three of the points are from speeding tickets dating back to 2003, when I was commuting over three hours a day (sometimes the law of averages are just not on your side) and the other three came all at once for my allegedly passing a school bus (which in retrospect I should have fought in court since I DID NOT PASS A SCHOOL BUS, but it happened right around the time that everything was blowing up with the ex-husband, and it seemed easier to just pay the $100 fine).

Nope, my point is a bit simpler. The aforementioned ex-husband, who drove drunk and recklessly for months and received two DWIs within a couple of weeks, is slated to get his license back in August (that's a year after losing it, ladies and gentlemen) because--drum roll--he took a driver improvement program. The reason for this is actually what I'm further annoyed by. Basically, he received the second DWI before his court date for the first one, so technically it's only considered one offense.

I take full responsibility for my speeding tickets. I sped. I did. Penalize me, by all means. And penalize me if you must for not being in a position to fight the stupid school bus thing (I'm a teacher--I would not and did not pass the freaking school bus). But how DARE you imply that going 78 in a 65 MPH zone is remotely comparable to aggravated drunk driving?

So let me get this straight--three minor offenses (we're talking 78 MPH on a 65 MPH highway) nearly seven years ago, and I'm set to lose my license for the same amount of time as a serial drunk driver? Am I the only one confused by this?

From the Mouths of Babes

Conversation over Belle's breakfast waffle ...

BELLE: Why didn't Daddy call to say good night last night?

ME: Remember, he told you he wouldn't be calling because he's in the hospital.

BELLE: Oh, yeah. Why is Daddy in the hospital?

ME: He's getting help from the doctor so he will feel better.

BELLE: Does that mean he's going to stop drinking again? (Gives a cynical laugh that should never come from the mouth of a five-year-old)

Children realize so much more than what we give them credit for. It breaks my heart that my children have had to endure what's happened in the last year--and to hear my innocent, angelic little girl sounding like a bitter old woman :(

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

So Pythagorus fell off the wagon yet again. Hard.

I don't feel guilty writing that here, by the way. No, I think in the great scheme of things, I took the highest of the high roads this evening. And it's not like it's the first time this has happened (okay, I feel a little bit bad for writing that here).

So basically, he wanted to see Belle for dinner. He knows I don't get out of work until three and started texting at about 3:30 wanting to know where I was since he'd been waiting for two hours. That pretty much gave me an indication, and talking to him on the phone made it even more clear. Once I saw him, there wasn't a doubt in my mind, but I already had Belle so I decided to just try to get through dinner, get Belle home, then bring him back (an hour and a half drive, by the way) to his parents' house.

He picked a fight with me all during dinner, kept making cracks at how I always accused him of drinking when he wasn't, swore up and down he hadn't been drinking, staggered across a parking lot holding Belle (and I could kill him for that, I swear to God), and thought that chewing on cough drops and a wad of gum bigger than Pamela Anderson's boob would overpower the stench of wine. However, he passed out in the car when I was bringing Belle home, so I figured at least it would be safe to bring him home.

I was quite wrong there. I'm not getting into it, but suffice it to say that my arm hurts and has a bruise on it, that I was tormented emotionally (which hurt even worse), and that he further proved that he is the most insensitive human being on the planet. When somebody knows some of your dirty and horrendous secrets, what does it say about him that he brings them up and basically rubs your nose in the worst thing that's ever happened to you?

And you know what I did? Nothing. I didn't take him to the hospital to be admitted or to the police station to be arrested, although either would have documented his blood alcohol level when he was having visitation with Belle and would certainly have solidified my position that he not be allowed unsupervised visits with her. Nope, I didn't want him to get in trouble, so I let him take it out on me instead. I am such an idiot.

Divorce is a foregone conclusion now. However, I can't help but notice that the behavior he is exhibiting now is EXACTLY what he was doing last year when this whole alcoholism thing reared its ugly head. He blamed his job, he blamed me, he blamed a lot of things for his problem, but the truth is, he makes his own issues. He has had more fresh starts and second chances than you can imagine, and he's pissed Sutter Home chardonnay all over them.

So why has it taken me this long to figure that out? Why do I always end up feeling sorry for him? I realize that alcoholism is a disease, but this is beyond what I've ever seen. This was the last time I expect to see him--someone else can supervise his visitations with Belle, and sad as it is to say, I'm not sure how much longer he'll be around for. His liver must look like swiss cheese by now :( Anyway, I think he's finally driven the point home for good: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I'm a slow learner, but I'm not a complete idiot. I've got it, Pythagorus. I've got it.

And now I've got my life back, too.

Of Pancreases and Pinot Grigio

On my "hot date" with Belle last night, I ate fried chicken. I know better, but I did it anyway. Yeah, fried chicken. Dipped in blue cheese dressing. It was freaking amazing.

It also wreaked havoc on my pancreas to the point where I was biting belts and stuff to keep from screaming. No fun, but again--my own damn fault. I don't get a pancreatitis attack every time I eat fried chicken (or cheese or french fries or pizza or whatever might have a high fat content), but I'm aware that the potential is there. It's like playing Russian Roulette with a taser. I'll be really good for awhile and not have trouble, so I'll forget just how awful the pain is (multiply childbirth by maybe fifty--yes, I'm serious).

I feel bad for my Facebook friends--I posted asking for advice on whether to go to the ER for pain meds (my Darvocet was all gone :()or not since I usually end up being admitted (IV pain meds controlled through a hospital environment are far better for my situation)and I just don't have time for that. Anyway, my friends are wonderful--they kept me focused on their input while the pain was at its worst (I was also in the parking lot of Addie's school waiting for her to get back from a competition) and I went home and took a lot more Advil (and Valium and Ambien) and went to bed.

Not a pleasant experience, but it almost certainly wouldn't have happened if I'd been smart and avoided the fried chicken (and the blue cheese). I have to take ownership of that--sometimes I don't treat my body well, and there can be consequences.

Part of me wanted to go directly to the ER, get some fentanyl action going or a morphine drip, demoral mixed with the anti-nausea stuff that would have solved all of my physical problems. Bam, I'd be floating in lala land. I wouldn't have to worry about what I'm teaching tomorrow (emergency sub plans, and I'd be so out of it I wouldn't realize how much I was shafting my students). I wouldn't have to figure out how to get Addie and Belle to and from school--if I'm in the hospital, someone else (my mother, maybe my father and stepmother, aunts, uncles), but it wouldn't have to be me. Laying out clothes, driving to work, taking the dogs out, all the issues big and small belong to someone else while you're in the hospital. And most importantly, no pain.

Well, I decided that the hospital wasn't an option no matter how much it hurt (unless I lost consciousness, which has happened before). That was that. I told myself I could hold on until Monday when I can get some more Darvocet through my regular doctor (who understands the particular struggles with being my regular doctor), and I've managed to do it. I had chicken broth for dinner and a really great bottle of water for lunch, and I'm still in quite a bit of pain, but I did it. I balanced the pros and cons of the situation, and I realized that taking care of my girls and going to work was more important than feeling no pain.

So that's the pancreas part of the post. Now, onto the Pinot Grigio (have some for me--the pancreas is rather fussy about alcohol, too).

So, after going several days without a coherent conversation and three days with no contact at all, Pythagorus calls. He promised Belle a week ago that we would meet at the bowling alley today--didn't happen, along with more than half the phone calls he was supposed to make to her. Well, not to worry; Pythagorus has figured out what he needs. He needs--drum roll--to be hospitalized for all the stress and anxiety in his life.

The stress and anxiety in HIS life? I mean, is he shitting me? I know this might sound insensitive, but when you're over thirty and you've basically destroyed your relationship with your children and all you have to do--and I mean ALL--is go to work and not drink, wouldn't you think this would be doable? The truth is, Pythagorus' stress and anxiety come from two places: first, the fact that he screwed up badly, and he cannot handle the fact that he made a mistake. Second, he was raised by a family that belongs on Jerry Springer and, instead of going to counseling and dealing with it, he drinks and berates (and/or avoids) me when I hold him accountable for anything.

Yeah, so Pythagorus can't handle his own failures, so he wants to go to the hospital to hide. If the hospital saw my amylase and lipase levels right now, they'd force me in. And yet, I refuse to let that happen.

It occurs to me that this is an interesting metaphor--and in a way, the crucifixion-reminiscent stabbing pain in my stomach is like a scream of triumph, like Mel Gibson's William Wallace screaming, "Freedom!!!!" as he is literally pulled to pieces.

I wonder what Pythagorus sees when he looks in the mirror sometimes. He was not a lying, sneaky coward when I married him ... but somehow I don't think "hospitalization for stress and anxiety" is going to bring back the man I once loved.

Damn, I think my pancreas is laughing ;)

Is Alcoholism "Recoverable"?

There are many wise people out there on the internet. In fact, there are many wise people who read this blog. Therefore, I want to throw this out there and get your input.

In your opinion, is alcoholism "recoverable"?

I know many functioning alcoholics. They are able to get up and go to work. They are able to love and support their families. Their alcoholism is a sickness, yes, and certainly has adverse impacts on many facets of their lives, but when push comes to shove it's between these people and their livers, not to sound cavalier or anything.

No, I'm talking about the don't go to work, don't pay the bills, get arrested for DWI twice in less than two weeks, be taken to the emergency room twice (TWICE!) with a blood alcohol level over .35, emotionally abusive, borderline physically abusive, lying, sneaky, irresponsible, not bathing regularly, continuing to drive when plastered, going to AA and claiming a week's sobriety when buying wine, having a session with a substance abuse counselor when under the influence, break the hearts of people who care about you alcoholics.

What do you think?