Heidi's Hell Hole

Everyone has something they're genetically predisposed to. Cancer, high cholesterol, being a loud mouth, etc. I've got a few things I'm genetically predisposed to, and therefore, I cannot control, and they're clearly not my fault.

Speeding: Um, yeah, not my fault. My Dad taught me how to drive. Like me, he pretty much views the speed limit as more of a suggestion, not a law. He also got his boss to lend him the use of his Ferarri Pina Ferina for the day when I turned 16. (Hell no I wasn't allowed to drive it, are you crazy?!) (And yes, I was spoiled. My Daddy loves me. Neener neener neener.) So, with those factors in mind, is it really any surprise that I speed a lot? No. And as you can clearly see from my superior argument, it's not my fault. Speaking of arguing...

Arguing: My Mother can argue and negotiate something to the death. She can also bring up the most obscure point, and somehow tie it into whatever argument she's hoping to win. My father, on the other hand, doesn't back down and doesn't give an inch. Watching those two growing up, I learned quite a bit. Lesson number one: anything can be somehow related to the topic at hand. Lesson Number Two: badger, pester, and annoy until you win. Lesson Number Three: Never back down. Even if you've got irrefutable proof you're wrong. (Arguments and debates are always a fun time in my house.)

Swearing: Back to Dad again. He can get very creative when he swears. (Man, Dad, bet you never realized just how much you taught me, huh?) Now, keep in mind he spent a lot of time in the Military. From my understanding, the Military prides itself on creative cursing. So, again, it's no shock that I swear. A lot. I am trying to reign it in, for Pook's sake. I will die if her next word is a curse word. And, well, the Spudleys soak up stuff like sponges, and well...Let's just say I don't want that phone call from Bryan's exwife asking where they learned such language. Funny, though, both my parents were shocked when they learned the extent of my filthy vocabulary. Can't imagine why...

Puncuality: More precisely, the lack thereof. My mother would be late to her own funeral. I don't know if it's lack of planning, inability for time management, or whatever. She's late to everything. Well, so am I. As much as I try, I'm always 2-3 minutes late to work. And everything else. I blame it on my Mother. (Granted, my boss doesn't find that little excuse nearly as viable as I do.)

 

Of course, there's all the crappy health stuff, too. Breast cancer, skin cancer, alzheimers, dementia, poor eyesight, high cholesteral, yada yada yada. Those things can be either avoided entirely or managed with the help of a doctor. Unfortunately, the only remedy for speeding is the local PD saying "Ma'am, it seems we've had this conversation before." "No, we have not. Your partner and I have, however." The only remedy for my agrument skills is someone saying, "You're kidding me, right? You don't seriously believe the crap you're saying, do you?" The remedies for puncuality are either A) a very laid back boss or B) getting fired. Lucky for me, I got the first one.

Lots of families have Christmas traditions. My family was no different, but Boyds being Boyds we had to do things differently. Here's some of the traditions in my house:

H1 and I would get up at 4 AM to compare stocking loot. We'd grab Dad's Maglite flashlight and rifle through it all, stuff it back in, and sleep for another hour or so. Then we'd race into Mom & Dads room and screech, "GET UP, GET UP, GET UP! SANTA CAME, GET UP!" To which they'd mumble, "Yes, we know. Now get the coffee going."

Another iron-clad tradition was the food. Every major holiday we had olives & deviled eggs. Food played a big role in my house growing up. H1 always got 2 cans of olives in her stocking, and I got a can of Frenches French Fried Onions. Weird, maybe. Delicious, yes.

Most kids lay out cookies and milk for Santa. Oh no, not us! We lived up to our Arkansas & Idaho roots! We left directions to the microwave, a can of soup, apple juice, deer jerky, Chapstick, a toothpick, and baby carrots for Rudolph. (Though one time H1 and I were debating as to whether or not we should lay out apple or grape juice and the Old Wolf muttered, "I think Santa would like a cold beer.")

How did we find out Santa wasn't real? Well, for starters, the Old Wolf wrote a letter from Santa to us every year. We started to wonder why Santas handwriting was a spot-on-spot match for his. The coup de grace came when we caught Mom on the phone, arguing with "Santa" over the Visa bill for H1's guitar and my porcelain doll. When I questioned her on it, she replied, "Santa's interest rates are damn near usery!" Later on that night, the Old Wolf made me see the light. As it turns out, the Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy aren't real, either. Who knew?

One rule my mother enforced: Thank You cards. You couldn't play with it, wear it, or spend it until you wrote and sent Thank you cards. H1 & I learned real quick to get those sent right after gifts were opened. And hey, nothing wrong with some manners, right?

 

Anyway, that's all she wrote for Christmas 2008. Merry Christmas, y'all! Love you!

 

 

My mother and I have always had a very rocky relationship to say the least. She pitted Heat and I against each other, telling both of us we were her favorite, knowing full well we'd argue about it. Whate she didn't count on was that Heat and I always knew that our brother, her son from a previous marriage was her favorite. John could do no wrong. None.

She also decided when we were about 10 that she was tired of being a wife and mother. While she stayed, it became obvious to us at a very young age she didn't care like she should.

At one point when I was a teenager, Mom told Dad she thought I would kill her by slitting her throat. I laughed, at the time. I wept inside, and later in private. I never let her see me cry.

When I told her that my ex had beaten me, she called me a liar. Said I was telling her that just so I could get attention. She still doesn't believe me because she didn't see any bruises. It never occured to her that I dressed to cover them. It never occured to her that I didn't tell her because I was so ashamed. I was raised better than that. But of course, I was just trying to get attention.

When her and my Father filed for divorce, she outdid herself. She was mad at everyone. If you said one positive thing about my Father, you were her enemy. She spread lies about him all over town. She got him fired from his job. She calls his girlfriend, the woman I consider to be my Stepmother 'the skank' despite me telling her not to. I've been her enemy several times for standing up for my Father and Stepmother, and because let's face it: I am my Father. A younger, prettier, more feminine version but still. I. Am. My. Father.

For years, I have put up with this. Weeping silently to myself. Or weeping to Bryan while he holds me and curses my mother. Or on the phone with my Father, who tries to talk me through it. I cannot tell you how many times Bryan has said "Heidi, I'm sorry...She doesn't love you." While I angrily tell him she does, but that she doesn't know how to show it.

Some of my darkest and happiest memories include my Mother. I remember when she had breast cancer when I was two or three, I think. I remember walking into the hospital and not understanding. If she was sick, why wasn't she eating chicken soup and getting better? I thought she didn't love me and I was angry and ran out of the room.

I also remember snuggling up next to her in her big King-sized bed. I remember her scent. I remember her tickling me and calling me silly names. I cherish those memories.

I will have to hang onto those memories now. They are all  I will have left. You see, I don't think my Mother will ever contact me again. I am both crushed because I love her so much and I am strangely elated. I feel like a poison is slowly draining away from me.

She was upset that I didn't call her on Thanksgiving. I tried to explain that I was very rushed and couldn't and that I spent the weekend doped up on pain killers for my shoulder. That wasn't good enough for her. This is what she replied with:

No, YOU come on!  All it would have taken is a quick call, email or whatever to remember...but then to have to be ASKED?    You make SURE you spend time with Dad and the skank...I get leftovers.  And don't try to BS me...I've already heard about Cindy and the G'ma thing.   BTW...my attorney says Dad has pictures of inside the house.  He surely didn't take them before he left....want to shed some light on it?



At that point, I had had it. She wants to drag my daughter into this, the gloves come off. You don't fuck with my kid. So I told her,

No, Mother. I will not come on. I am sorry that I didn’t call you. What the heck do you want to do, beat this into the ground? 
 

For the last time….Out of simple respect for the simple fact that I am your daughter DO NOT call Cindy the skank! I am so effing tired of it! I love her, okay? Will she ever replace you? NO! But good Lord Mother, quit calling her that! If you want to call her that to your friends, have at it. Don’t do it to me.

Yes, Pook will call her Grandma. As for your leftovers…Why don’t you give me your address and I will spend the weekend with  you? But you don’t feel ‘safe’ giving me your address. You think I’ll give it to Dad. Here’s some news for you: Dad doesn’t care enough to stalk you, though you seem to think he does. He has moved on, something I don’t think you truly have. You’re too bitter. 
 

And if I want MY DAUGHTER to call the lady that bags my groceries Grandma, I can do that! That’s the beauty of being a parent! But here’s something Bryan and I have been tossing around….Do we want our daughter around someone who will continue to bad mouth her Grandpa and Grandma? No, we don’t. So if you can’t control your acid tongue around her then you can cherish what pictures you have of her because you will not see her if you continue to do this. Did you know that all the e-Mails that Dad or Cindy is even remotely mentioned you respond with an e-Mail so dripping with venom and hatred it’s unreal? Did you know that it takes Bryan hours to calm me down from them? You can hate Bryan all you want, Mom, and God knows he’s screwed up. But this isn’t a problem between Bryan or I- this is all you. You can’t take the effing high road and be mature about the whole thing. You have to take every opportunity you can to slam everyone. I’m tired of it. 
 

I know, I know, Dad ran you into debt and he hasn’t paid…In case I haven’t made this clear to you before…I DO NOT CARE ABOUT IT ANYMORE! I don’t care who is screwing over who or who hasn’t paid what anymore. FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET MERCIFUL JESUS live up to your promise and keep me out of it. Dad doesn’t talk about the divorce anymore because he knows how much it upsets me and then it upsets Bryan. You’re the only one who brings it up to me. Before I have to drag my white dimpled arse into therapy, I am begging you to stop. 
 

As for Dad taking the pictures…What exactly are you accusing me of? Do you think I care enough about your divorce for that? If you think he broke into the house you never knew him. Here’s some light: I don’t believe you. I think you’re either A) making this up or B) he has old pictures. So what? You don’t live there anymore, what does it bother you?!
 

I love you, Mom. God knows I do. But sometimes love is telling someone when they’re hurting you. And you’re hurting me. Big time. And yes, I am very, very gratefull for all the things you have done for Pook and I. You’ve saved my butt with the things you’ve bought her. But possessions don’t negate the hurt you’ve caused me. You have my love, Mother.  You’ve had it, unconditionally since the day I was born! I just want you to stop slamming the people I love and accept my apology!

I am tired of the venom that spews from her mouth. I am tired of my daughter and I viewed as pawns.

So, Mother...Good bye to you. You have broken my heart, trashed my self-esteem, trashed my life and my desicions for the last time. I love you. God knows that against all common sense I love you. But I cannot continue this slow death.

 

One las thing: what kind of Mother uses their child and Grandchild like a pawn? What kind of sick person did God curse me with for a mother?

Here are some Thanksgiving pictures. Because I simply don't post enough pictures!

 

That's how she sleeps, with her arm over her eyes. "Oh, life is so hard! Please, turn off the light."

Chillaxin' with Dad. Notice how they have the same pose? Like Father, like daughter.

"I loves me some cheese!"

Bryan, Pook and I at my stepmoms house for Thanksgiving. Believe it or not, but it took roughly 5 minutes for Pook to even remotely look at the camera. And yes, Bryan is roughly a foot taller than I.

My awesome twin sister, Heat and I. Pook is basking is her awesomeness.

Yes, we really are twins. Most people don't even believe we're sisters. I know, I know...She got all the hot genes and then God looked at me and said "Eh...Here. I'm sorry, here's some big boobies."

I don't know why but we started Voguing. This is the end result.

I offended a few people with my latest post, namely, my family. Let me clarify a few things:

 

1) Going down there was NOT an ordeal.

2) Stacey's kids are well behaved kids. Her oldest had a nasty cold, and naturally, not a happy camper probably. Her kids were just being kids.  I was just irritated at the world, and really, millions of parents have a hard time getting kids to bed no matter how well behaved they are. Think back, Dad: how many times was getting H1 and I to bed a war? I know I have the same battle. Stacey, I am sorry. You're an awesome mother and a great friend.

3) My bitches about the people down there were directed at my mother. Let's face it: she is difficult to deal with. (And hell is just a sauna.)

4) I love my family more than anything. They have done so much for me. They have supported me through some very rough times. My Father is my best friend. My stepmom is more of a mother than my own mother. She doesn't pull any punches, she tells you like it is.  Even if you don't wanna hear it. I love her very, very much.

5) The whole air mattress thing: it wasn't that big of a deal. My butt hurts a little, but that's it. And really, when Pook napped on it, it was so cute to look at; it looked like she was in a cocoon.

 

Again, I am sorry for the people I offended. I meant no offense to anyone in any way.

This past 3 days have somewhat sucked thus far. I had a baby shower to go to back home on Saturday, which meant that Friday night I needed to get a gift. Thing is, the couple have no idea what they're having and this is their second child. They're reusing a lot of the stuff from when their DD was a baby. So...What do you get them? I ended up getting them a hooded towel with a frog on it and a bath set for the Mama. And my favorite comfy, stylish heels finally kicked the bucket on Friday.  While I was at work, my left heel broke off. Not just broke, broke OFF. O-F-F off. Since it's against company safety policy to walk around barefoot, (besides, it's been eons since I got a pedi. Shudder.), I walked around with this funky limp thing for 3 hours until it was 1700 hours. While at Targét, as we call it, I found a killer pair of red patent-leather Isaac Mizrahi pumps that were only $20 and I bought them. And bawled the whole way home. I felt sooo guilty for buying myself something that it overwhelmed me. Catholics guilt has nothing on Mommy guilt.

 

So, Saturday I made the 3 hour trek to go home for this shower. Pook was fussy. The. Whole. Freaking. Time. Fun times! Although, I did win 2 of the prize raffles and scored some very pretty, vampish, sexy red O.P.I. burgundy shimmery nail polish. Anyhoo, I'm staying with my Dad and stepmom. My stepsister, her BF, and her two kids are also staying there. It's like Bedlam on uppers. Her kids are 5 & 7, and (sorry Stacey), freaking orangutans! Every little thing constitutes endless whining and water works. It took her 3 times over the course of 12 minutes to tell her oldest to brush her teeth, wash her face, and get into PJ's. It's not that her oldest didn't hear her, she just flat ignored her. By that I mean she'd look right at her and say "Whatever, Mom." Grrr. You're the Mom. Take control, and don't take that kind of crap! So once they were safely in bed, Dad blew up an air matress in the living room for Pook and I to sleep on. It was nice and firm but not too firm, and I'm dying to know where my stepmom got that fleece, down-filled comfortor. Yummy! But, alas, it didn't last. I woke up to the mattress being totally flat, evidence that it had a leak.

 

Later on that day, I had to go meet up with my Mother. This is always a trial. My mother is convinced we're all out to kill her, and that we (meaning me, Bryan, my Father, and stepmom) sit around cackling evilly concocting ways to off her. She's also convinced my Father has thousands hidden somewhere that she'll get once their divorce is finally finalized. (If he did, I doubt he'd be living like a pauper.) Oh, and did I mention she's convinced that my Father broke into her apartment and laced her powdered creamer with arsenic? I shit thee not, this is my Mother. She also hates Bryan, thinks I lied when I told her my exhusband physically abused me, and looks at my life as more or less one big disappointment and revenge on her. Her plan for me: graduate college, get married, have babies, and stay at home. That's it. Now, I was married and I did have a baby. Just not with the same guy.

 

When I met her for lunch, it was more or less one big bitch fest. About my Father. About my Stepmom. (She's actually his girlfriend, but seriously, they might as well be married. Besides, she really is more of a Mom than my Mom ever has been or will be.) About my Mother skills and desicions. (God knows I'm horrible for not giving Pook an ounce of Jim Beam with her bottle to help her teething. Yep, turn me into the CPS right now.) About my sister. About EVERYTHING!! Fun times.  About my nickname for my DD, Pooker Butt. (Okay, Mom, and saddling me with Crabbyoodles wasn't embarassing as all get out?!)

 

After the 3 hour drive back home, I was up until midnight washing, folding, sorting, and putting away the copious amounts of laundry Bryan conveniently forgot about while I was gone. Did I mention that he had to spend $200 to fix the truck? Good to know money grows on trees. And obviously, changing a battery and a starter takes all freaking weekend with not a moment to spare! (Unless, of course, they're playing a reruns of the A-Team. That he had time for.)

 

Then today, Bryans boss flew into town from Wisconsin. I hate this douche. When Pook was born, he told Bryan he could have the week off, just give him a call when the little munchkin made her appearance. But when it came down to it, he would'nt do it. Couldn't spare him even one day. So, Bryan is ever so slightly stressed.

 

And Angel had to rear her ugly, pockmarked face again. She brought up the whole tax claiming thing again. She says Bryan 'owes it' to her to let her do this, and even though it's in the court paperwork who claims who, she'll take him to court. Says she'll stop at nothing to get what she wants. Including telling the court that 'you let your epileptic girlfriend drive MY kids around!" (Newsflash, Satan: It's under control and has been for years now. And I know the triggers and signs of a seizure, and if I thought I was going to have one I would either A: not drive or B: pull over and tell the kids to call 911.) All that makes Bryan all doom and gloom and it pissed me off. Why? Because this is what he IM'ed me;

 I truely hate life, everyone pisses me off, and nothing makes me happy.

Thanks, hon. I appreciate that. Glad to know that everyone, (including me, I assume) makes you mad, and that nothing makes you happy. Not the three kids who love you unabashedly and unconditionaly, the gorgeous girlfriend who adores you, or the best friend who worships the ground you walk on, or the dog who would kill for you. Nope! Guess you have nothing to live for. I know, I know, he's just having a craptastic day. But it irked me that he can't find one good thing in his life.

 

Oh, and I unintentionally insulted my boss; Carol, today. In our meeting today, my sales manager, Gerald, looked at me and said, "Carol, I mean, Heidi, do you have anything to add? Sorry, you just look so much like her." Thanks, G. I'm only 23 and she's in her late forties, but thanks. Is it the hair? Clothes? Bags under my eyes? So, when I retold this to Carol, she said, "Why would he say that?" and I said, "Well, I haven't gotten much sleep so I look like crap." Open mouth, insert foot. She just looked at me like, "Do you even think before you open your mouth?!" Talk about an awkward water cooler moment.

 

And it's only 1430. Sorry for the long rant, but it's been a crappy coupla days. What about y'all? Was your weekend super-dee-duper?