Welcome the new member of our family

Name: Kai
Sex: Female
Breed: Belgian Shepherd Tervuran mix (We think part Rottweiler but the shelter didn’t agree.)
Age: 2 1/2 years old

Kai was surrendered to the Humane Society by her owners, who stated that they did not have the time to give her the attention she needed, especially for long walks. Consquently, their initial paperwork indicated that she exhibited destructive chewing, fighting with other animals, would not come when called, and wouldn’t walk on a leash. However, so far today she has come when called, she knows “sit” and “stay” and is housebroken. She walks great on a leash and is super super friendly. She loves little kids. In fact, she loves everyone. She *is* a little testy with other animals. Everyone at the shelter was so ecstatic that Kai was finally being adopted. She was the shelter favorite and no one could figure out why she had been there for so long. After we had taken her with us, a man approached us to ask about her. He was amazed to find out that we had just adopted her. He used to run a shelter with 40-50 dogs and told us that it was quite apparent that our family had found the perfect dog to rescue. He said it looked like she had been with us forever.

Here’s a picture of her, taken by the shelter. She looks really sad in this picture and you can’t see her curly tail. I’ll have to take some other pictures soon to show her off. But for now, I need to give her a bath.

Aquarians rule

Well, my golden birthday was fun. Admittedly not as fun as my 26th birthday, where I had a huge surprise party, a live band, and I ended up getting so insanely shitfaced that I peed outside in front of the whole crowd. And maybe flashed my boobs a few times with the flashes of camera phones going off in all different directions.

No, this was a different kind of fun. But hey, what do you expect–I’m getting old.

B let me sleep in. (And by sleep in, I mean until like, 9AM.) We all got ready and headed on over to my parent’s house. On the way, B “gave” me my birthday present, which was his final permission on allowing me to rescue a dog. We’ve finally moved into a house that will allow dogs, and although I must be crazy to bring another living being into our tiny cabin in the woods, I have had the burning urge to rescue a dog since I became addicted to “ANIMAL COPS”.

My parents gave me a pair of olive green Crocs, which I have been patiently waiting for for quite some time, and which will come in handy for taking the pooch outside for poops and pees. They also gave me a 2007 Sopranos calendar, which unfortunately gives away some of the plot. I have to expect that, considering I’m only on the 3rd season via Netflix. Now I can stare at Tony Soprano all day long. And lastly, I got one of those ipod dock stereo thingys. You know, so I can play my ipod music in my house instead of just in my ears? (Can you tell I’m real technologically advanced here?) Anyway, it’s excelente. Muy. Oh right, and my brother bought me a chic little cocktail book on how to mix the world’s greatest girly drinks. I think you know you have a problem when loved ones are giving you alcohol related gifts. Ah well. Cheers.

I heart co-ops

So. I have nothing of interest to write about today, but I feel that I should write because tomorrow I’ll be busy TURNING TWENTY EIGHT YEARS OLD.

I think I’ll tell you a little story.

Since moving, I’ve been trying my hardest (in between wading through the shitpile of belongings in a teeny tiny house) to meet other parents. I haven’t been very successful. One idea that I came up with was a babysitting co-op. My mom told me that this is something she was involved in when I was little. It’s where a group of parents come together and form a cooperative. You babysit each other’s kids for “points”, which can be also be redeemed for babysitting by a family in the co-op. In a babysitting co-op, everyone wins.

1. You get to make new friends with other people who have kids.

2. You get free babysitting, and by people who you know and trust with your children.

3. Your kids get to socialize with other kids their age.

I couldn’t find an existing co-op on the island, so I decided to get brave and put an ad in the paper as a “call for members.”

The ad ran yesterday and not long after I had scanned it for errors, my phone rang. It a woman inquiring about “the free babysitting.” I explained the idea to her and she seemed interested. (Who wouldn’t be?!) She then asked me where I lived, and I told her, and her response was “DAYUM! YOU LIVE IN BFE, I’M SORRY TO TELL YOU, BUT YOU DO, GIRL!” I gave her a courtesy chuckle and wrote on my pad of paper “snotty”, so that I could remember exactly who she was for later review.

I ask her the ages of her children, and she tells me that she has a 2 year old and a 3 year old. I give her the ages of my children, and she says “Oh yeah, I have a 6, 7, and 8 year old too but they don’t live with me anymore.”

Woah there. Red flags.

She then goes on to tell me that she is so bored at home all day long with the kids that she sometimes keeps telemarketers on the phone for chit chat, and hasn’t seen a restaurant in years where “you don’t order through a clown’s mouth.”

And then, her kid starts screaming. “Hold on,” she tells me while I continue to bang my head on my desk.

She starts hollering. “LIAM YOU’D BETTER SHUT UP OR MISS ESTELLA AINT GONNA WANNA BABYSIT YOU!”

I seriously thought I was going to die right then and there. After quite some time, her call waiting rescued me and we said our goodbyes.

I think I might change my phone number now and forget I ever came up with this brilliant co-op idea.

A quote

I ran across this quote today and it hit home so hard that it brought tears to my eyes.

“When we adults think of children there is a simple truth that we ignore: childhood is not preparation for life; childhood is life. A child isn’t getting ready to live; a child is living. No child will miss the zest and joy of living unless these are denied by adults who have convinced themselves that childhood is a period of preparation. How much heartache we would save ourselves if we would recognize children as partners with adults in the process of living, rather than always viewing them as apprentices. How much we could teach each other; we have the experience and they have the freshness. How full both our lives could be.”

John A. Taylor
Notes on an Unhurried Journey

Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy

Through the years, I’ve finely tuned a secret weapon that I use when I’m having a really, really bad day. It is a packet of papers kept in my closet where I have copied down my favorite “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handy. No mater how bad things get, I have never been able to read “Deep Thoughts” without cracking up. Here are my top 10, in no particular order:

1. Sometimes when I feel like killing someone, I do a little trick to calm myself down. I’ll go over to the person’s house and ring the doorbell. When the person comes to the door, I’m gone, but you know what I’ve left on the porch? A jack-o-lantern with a knife stuck in the side of its head with a note that says “You.” After that I usually feel a lot better, and no harm done.

2. The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face.

3. If you ever fall off the Sears Tower, just go real limp, because maybe you’ll look like a dummy and people will try to catch you because, hey, free dummy.

4. Anytime I see something screech across a room and latch onto someone’s neck, and the guy screams and tries to get it off, I have to laugh, because what IS that thing?!

5. You know what would make a good story? Something about a clown who makes people happy, but inside he’s real sad. Also, he has severe diarrhea.

6. I can’t stand cheap people. It makes me real mad when someone says something like, “Hey, when are you going to pay me that $100 you owe me?” or “Do you have that $50 you borrowed?” Man, quit being so cheap!

7. If you ever catch on fire, try to avoid looking in a mirror, because I bet that will really throw you into a panic.

8. If I lived back in the wild west days, instead of carrying a six-gun in my holster, I’d carry a soldering iron. That way, if some smart-aleck cowboy said something like “Hey, look. He’s carrying a soldering iron!” and started laughing, and everybody else started laughing, I could just say, “That’s right, it’s a soldering iron. The soldering iron of justice.” Then everybody would get real quiet and ashamed, because they had made fun of the soldering iron of justice, and I could probably hit them up for a free drink.

9. I bet when the neanderathal kids would make a snowman, someone would always end up saying, “Don’t forget the thick, heavy brows.” Then they would all get embarassed because they remembered they had the big hunky brows too, and they’d get mad and eat the snowman.

10. Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead. No, wait, not me, you.

Fighting the scale

While unpacking, I found my scale. The battery had died during its 6 month long stay at Public Storage. Instead of opening up the battery compartment to replace the batteries, I thought twice. And threw it out.

This was a huge moment for me, considering that I have stepped onto a scale every morning after my shower for years. Years. I have written down my weight in food journals, diaries, dry-erase boards, scrap pieces of paper.

I’m so tired of the numbers. I’m tired of a 3 digit number setting the tone for the day. I’m so sick of willing the numbers to fall. I’m so tired of punishing myself when they rise. I don’t want it to be part of my daily life anymore. I don’t want my self image tied to a number. It’s just so fucking stupid. I want to feel good about the way I look and I want my body to be strong and healthy. If I end up carrying 30 pounds over what is considered “normal” for my frame, but I still feel good, then so be it. My body should dictate what feels right. Not my scale, not my doctor, not the BMI charts. I refuse to let this keep me down any longer.

That being said, the Holidays were not good to my figure. I can tell because the waistband of my jeans has become uncomfortably tight. The candies, the cookies, the treats, the baked goods, the feasts, and then the pizza and fast food through the chaos of moving. The emotional eating from the stress.

And so, the waistband gets the wheels in my head turning at warp speed. I start panicking. Why did I get rid of that damn scale? Who has a scale that I can borrow? I must know the number, must know, must know.

But I don’t. I won’t. I’m not going to. I’m going to listen to my body and give it the fuel it needs and I’m going to be mindful about when it’s truly hungry and when it’s not. I’m going to allow myself to drink as much coffee as I please, and to savor my birthday dessert this weekend. I will not deprive myself. I will not punish myself. I won’t wallow in guilt or self-disgust. I’m done.

Blogging for Choice

Yeah, yeah, so I’m a day late, but this is too good to pass by.

Why I’m pro-choice:

-Because if it can’t survive outside of my body, then it still falls under the realm of MY body. Yes, let’s say it again. MY body. Not yours, not your religion’s. MINE.
-Because if you take away my right to choose, all my other rights follow suit.
-Because everyone makes mistakes. Often terrible, life-changing, stupid mistakes. You do and I do. We all do.
-Because you don’t even want to know the catostrophic chain of events that will occur if abortion is made illegal. You don’t even want to see a glimpse of what the world will become. Because unfortunately, everyone won’t all go abstinent. Many women will still refuse birth control. Maybe because it screws up their hormones. Maybe because they’re alcoholics or drug addicts or homeless and can’t afford it or can’t remember or just aren’t responsible enough. Or maybe because, like me, they can take all the birth control and precautions ever invented and still end up with an unwanted pregnancy. You don’t even want to know how many women will die horrific and gruesome deaths, how many babies will be found in trash cans, in toilets. How many children will be brought into this world addicted to drugs, damaged beyond repair.
-Because I will never regret my abortions, will always know that I made the right decision–because I was ALLOWED to make that decision. Because I was allowed the power, the responsibility to have control over myself and my body. And because I will never forget the non-judgmental, empathetic support I received from Planned Parenthood. I hope you never find yourself between a rock and a hard place like I did. But if you do, be thankful that an underground procedure with a rusted coat hanger is not in your future.

“…She heads for the clinic
and she gets some static walking through the door.
They call her a killer
and they call her a sinner
and they call her a whore.

God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in her shoes–
Then you really might know what its like
to have to choose.” -Everlast, What it’s Like

Dreaming my Dreams

This Sunday, we will celebrate a few special occasions. First off, I am going to be celebrating what my mother calls “my golden birthday.” Meaning that I will be turning 28 years old on the 28th day of the month. Additionally, B and I will also be celebrating our 8 year anniversary of couplehood.

We have had our share of bumps along the way. (Okay so maybe a little bigger than “bumps.”) There have been births, deaths, depression, abortion, separations, divorce lawyers, custody arrangements, child support orders, separate residences, cheating, deception, alcohol binges, and so much more. And yet, here we are. Still. I would never have guessed that we would have made it this far. In fact, just a few short months ago I didn’t even believe we’d still be together in 2007. Talk about STAMINA. Click the photo below for our slideshow.

Empty

PLEASE WATCH THE VIDEO HERE . Make sure to turn your speakers on!

In the United States, 30% of babies are born by cesarean. In 1970, the cesarean rate was a stable 5%. The World Health Organization advises that a cesarean rate higher than 10-15% is dangerous to women and babies. This means that OVER HALF of all cesareans performed in this country are UNECESSARY. To add insult to injury, hospitals around the country are banning a woman’s right to have a vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC) even though it has been proven to be SAFER than repeat c-section.

Additionally, 50% of women suffer complications from their cesarean and are 2-4 times likely to die than a woman giving birth vaginally.

Nearly half a million women every year are undergoing surgery to birth their babies. These surgeries aren’t saving lives. They are robbing women of the birth experiences they deserve, and making their obstetricians wealthy.

For more information, and to help support c-section awareneness and VBAC activism, please visit www.ican-online.org.

I give up