Heidi's Hell Hole

So we stayed in the new house last week. And it's got this loooong window that conveniently provides a direct view into the neighbors kitchen.

 

The neighbor, heretofore, will be called COG (Creepy Old Guy). It's a well deserved title.

 

So the other day I stepped out of the shower and there wasn't any towels, since they'd been called to do battle with the mighty Overflowing Toilet. The battle was won by the towels, who sopped up the water on the floor. (Thank you, Jay-sus Bry was only flushing a tissue and not...Well, you know.) Anywho, the towels. Right. There wasn't any.

 

So I went into the bedroom, stark naked, and started rooting around for a towel, not even thinking about my uncurtained window. I then remembered it, and lo & behold! There's COG getting a full-on view on my lady lumps. And looooving it. Hell, I doubt he's seen anything that young since Carter was in office. I ran, shrieking, back into the bathroom, and desperately covered myself in the jammies I had strewn on the floor.

 

Even though my home life isn't yippity-doo-dah-yippity yay happy right now, hell, at least someone's happy.

Dearest Douchey Dave,

I know, how dare I have the audacity to use your checkout line for my WIC checks to get the formula I desperately needed? I had an eighth of a can left, and wouldn't you know it, the baby still needs formula? Whoda thunkit?

Now, I'm going to give your douchey self the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you'd had a craptastic day. Maybe you'd encounted some Mother using her TANF card to get smokes & beer and it ticked you off. Maybe you thought I was going to be the same thing. (I assure you, I'm not.) Maybe your wife left you. Maybe your dick of a boss called you to work the late shift, and you had a date with the hot blonde from Produce. Either way, you decided that you were going to take it out on me.

I lined up my formula cans, all nice and in a row for you. I told you before you even scanned the first damn can,

"This will be purchased using WIC." I tried to be nice. I tried to be cordial.

"WIC? Oh, geez." You, Douchey Dave, replied. WTF do you mean, 'Oh, geez'? Is it that hard of a concept? You scan, the little screen tells you the total, you accept my voucher. The hardest part is verifying that the name on the ID matches the name on the check.

You scan the formula. All the while, you're sighing loudly like I"ve done something terrible, and I'm sooo putting you out, and you have better things to be doing than being a cashier. (Like the aforementioned blonde from Produce.)

Finally, after lots of eye rolling, Douchey Dave, you're done. I hand you my vouchers and say congenially,

'Give me just one second, and I'll give you my ID."

"Do you even have your drivers license on you, ma'am, I need to verify this."

By this time I'm wondering if I whispered. Maybe you didn't hear me? But, still, I'm trying to be nice here. You're making it hard though, Douchey Dave.

"Yes, I do, I have it right here." I hand it over, "I'm sorry, it took me a second to get it out." I feebly smile.

"Whatever, ma'am." I look up to see if you're making a light-hearted sarcastic comment. You are not.

I get my reciept, mumble to have a good night, and slink out to the parking lot. My boyfriend knows I am on the verge of crying, ashamed, and outraged.

 

Listen up, Douchey Dave. You make what, $9-$10 an hour? Chances are if you had a kid, you'd be on the Good Ship WIC, too. Don't act like you're better than me. You're not. For one thing, you're at least 40, if your skin, wrinkles, and hair are any indication. And yet you're still a cashier. Your high school reunion must've been embarassing for you. Here's a thought: I make $3 more per hour than you, and I can still barely afford to feed myself. I don't live extravagantly by any means. I buy store brand crap, it's cheaper. I shop the sales. If I'm out of smokes and I'm broke/it's a choice between food or smokes, I go without. Unlike a lot of smokers, who would find the cash. Here's a statistic for ya: per Lisa, my case manager at WIC, WA state has seen a 30% increase in the last year for state aid of some form. 30%, Douchey! 

"Get a better job, then!" you might say. Sure, because the job market is just booming right now. I'll get right on that. Maybe if I'm lucky, I can be a cashier, just like you!!!

"Should've shut your legs, then." you might say. Well, I didn't and I don't. I like sex. A lot of sex. I like sex like a crack addict likes crack. It's a drug, and I've been addicted for awhile.

"Should've had an abortion, then." you might say. Not an option for me.

"Should've given the kid up, then." you might say. Again, not an option for me. 

 

Either way, Douchey Dave, drop the pissy 'tude. I'm no different than the other millions (literally) of parents out there who, thanks to G. Dubya, need a bit of help. Either you get the dildo out of your ass, or next time me and Mr. Manager have a nice little chat about how you can improve your 'tude.

 

Have a nice day, and thank you for working at Albertsons!
 

 

As they are wont to do, the weather people were wrong. They predicted 2-4" which turned into more like 6-8". So my office shut down at 1400 again. So, I slowly drove to my daycare. And when I mean slow, I mean I never got out of second gear. All was well until I turned onto my street to pull into the alley where I park.

I'm driving down the right side, prepared to make the trek into my alley, which our neighbor cleared with his snow blower. Some dickfuck decided to use the street like the damn Autoban and drove right down the middle, doing about 45. Now mind you, the side streets in my neighborhood are like ice arenas, and most intelligent people are doing 15-20 MPH. But not this genius! Nope, I've me here this four-wheel-drive pickup truck and I'ma gonna do what I's feel like doin'! At any rate, he's coming right at me and I've got Pooker Butt in the car with me. I can tell he's not making any attempts at slowing down, much less stopping.

 In about a nanosecond I've got 2 choices: swerve into a berm or collide head on and make my car resemble a crumpled beer can. Well, I chose to swerve and risk having my bumper dented.

The car did indeed hit the berm, and the bumper is indeed dented. The fucknut actually had the gall to yell out "MOVE IT, BITCH!" Um, excuse me? You're the one driving far too fast for conditions, and putting not only the lives of my daughter and I at risk, but yours as well.

I tried to get a plate number, but of course, snows got his license plate covered. Of course. A good samaratin helped push and dig me out and after about 45 minutes, we got free. In the meantime, however, Pooks getting scared from the sound of the engine revving that high. So as I'm trying to rock myself out, I'm also trying to calm her down by saying, "It's okay, honey, Mommy's here, Mommy loves you, look there's our house!"

So...To the dick fucking douche nugget asshole in the older red SUV who damn near killed me: Thanks, ass wipe. There's nothing quite like the fear that your infant daughter will be harmed. I hope you come home to your wife getting fucked up the ass by your bosses wife wearing a strap on, your 15 year old daughter proclaiming that she's pregnant and her biker boyfriend are getting married, and the PD knocking at the door informing you that your son was caught whoring himself out to other men in Riverfront Park.  You deserve it.

 

Part of me really loves Christmas. I love the lights. I love the food. People are nicer, even me. (Yes, snarky, sarcastic me is nicer. Kinda.) I love the Peace On Earth, Goodwill to men feeling. Everything seems just a little magical.

Then there's the Mrs. Hyde part of me that wishes Christmas would go screw itself. (My Father will kill me for that one, I just know it.) Before I get the e-Mails about how unChristian I am and such, hear me out. Most of my problem revolves around society, retailers, and the media. Society: since when did celebrating Christmas mean giving your spoiled little demons every little thing they vented a desire for? Does little Damien (bonus points if you know what movie I refer to) need another video game he'll never play? Case in point: first Christmas with Bryan and I. I had just started a new job and I was B-R-O-K-E. But I still wanted to get the kiddos something. I got them each their own individual towel sets and a small toy. They opened them up and said, "Eh, towels. NEXT!" and promptly tossed them aside. I was heartbroken. Bryan grabbed both kids and remedied that little issue. Now, retailers: is there a particular reason why you have Christmas stuff out when it's not even Halloween yet? If you wanna start the day after Thanksgiving, fine with me. But otherwise, KNOCK IT OFF! You're cheapening it! It's better to have it for a month, it makes it more specail! Now, media. I hate you the most. I am sick-to-damn-death of the ads proclaiming "If you don't get him/her this, you SUCK!" If you don't get her this eleventy-gajillion dollar diamond ring, you don't love her! And another thing, Christmas means everything is "the perfect gift!" Newsflash: Chia pets aren't the perfect gift, nor is the Ped-Egg. Matter of fact, if I opened up a Chia pet Christmas morning I would wonder what I did to piss the gift giver off that bad. But again, I'm tired of the media trying to make me feel like hell because I'm not going $10k into debt over gifts. As a matter of fact, I used the gift card I won at the office Christmas party for Bryans gift, and I made the gifts for the Old Wolf and Cindy this year!

 

I just wish we would focus more on being together with the ones we love, and on celebrating the Christ Child's birth than presents. Don't get me wrong, presents are nice. But isn't a more special when you get one or two things you really, really wanted than 50 things you're lukewarm about?

 

Oh, yeah and it's snowing today and we're supposed to get 7 inches. Bah Humbug and such.

So Obama won the election. I'm not going to tell all two of you who I voted for.  But I will just say a few things that would've been true no matter who won.

1) We have come so far as a nation. My father, I am sure, never thought he'd live to see the day when a black man could be president or a woman as a vice president. And yet here we are.

2) At least in this neck of the woods, quite a few people  voted for the wrong reasons. They voted/didn't vote for Obama because he's black. They voted/didn't vote for McCaine because he chose a woman as his running mate.

3) On Sarah Palin. Sarah Palins daughter got pregnant? Does that make her a horrible mother or incapable of running a nation? As a parent, you can only guide your child, and teach them morals and values, but in the end it is up to them to make the right desicion. Her daughter made a poor choice.  It begs the question: how many political figures daughters became pregnant and it was swept under the rug??  Okay, yeah, they spent $150,000 on a new wardrobe. Did anyone honestly expect her to shop at Targét or Wally World? First they were complaining about how she dressed and looked like a country bumpkin. Then they changed her image and they complained about the cost. Nobody looks at how much Obama's camp spent on suits, which I bet are Armani. Yes, spending $150k does seem to indicate a laissez-faire attitude about the economy and a disconnect with the working class, but get over it.  And it also just added fuel to the working/stay at home Mom debate, especially since she has a special needs son. Again, way to focus on the issues!

4) On Barrack Obama. So he's black and he has an odd name. Does that mean he's more qualified for fast food then politics? Nah. Really, folks, it's not as big of a deal as everyone would like it to be. And so what if he's Muslim? (He's not.) He prays to a different God that a lot of people in America. That's what makes this country great is that you can do that. Hell, if you want to start The Church of The Ninja Kitty (shameless Jacqueline plug there) and pray to a cat, have at it.  He's not a freakin' terrorist, and he's not going to freakin' invite Osama bin Laden over for tea, people. (I've seen people over here espouse that view. I shit thee not.) Once again....Way to focus on the important things, like his economic policies.

 

So anyway, I actually cried watching his acceptance speech last night. We have come so far as a nation, and as a society. On the other hand, I was really disappointed on how much the media and the general populace focused on unimportant CRAP.

Comments? Any takers?

I was walking out of the WIC office, Pook on my hip. She's happy because while we were there Lisa played with her and she got fed, and all the attention was on her. I'm pretty happy because Lisa is really cool. She doesn't judge me, and doesn't give me pity. She understands that times are tough, and that everyone is an individual with their own problems. We get along great...



There are two women sitting on the bench outside the office. Older women, dressed like we're in the 1850's. Long skirts, frumpy shapeless sweaters, sensible shoes, and no make up...You get the idea. They're talking to each other, apparently about the ruinous state of America.



I became their target.



"See that girl over there, with the baby?" the oldest woman asks, pointing straight at me.

"Yes, I see her." replies the younger woman, eyeing me with scorn.

"She's what's wrong with America today. Don't you agree?" the women nod in unison.

I have never seen these women before in my life, and I am pretty sure they've never seen me. But somehow, I became the embodiment of what is wrong with America. The older woman goes on this diatribe about how its single mothers like me that are a drain on today's economy. "Asking for government help, like she has a right. She should've just kept her legs shut. I don't see her husband; I'll bet she's not even married." My cheeks are red with anger; and hot tears burn my eyes. The younger one adds in her little pearl of wisdom, "I bet she doesn't even know who the father is. And if she does, he's probably some dead beat dope with no job, just like her." I walk faster to get to my car to get away from such hatred spewing from them.

If I had the courage, I would've made a few points to these unloved, embittered spinsters who found an outlet for their hate in me.

1) Ladies, you're right. How dare I ask for help with food? With milk being close to $5.00 a gallon, why, I can afford to buy ten gallons at that price! Of course, it would mean I'd have no gas in my car, but at least I have milk, right? It's got nothing to do with the soaring costs of food, energy, fuel, or healthcare. No, of course not.

2) Naturally, I am the only woman on the planet who conceived a child outside of wedlock. You're right, in that I am not married. And because of this, it naturally follows that I am some kind of whoremonger who will sleep with anything that comes my way. Yes, that's me alright. I just cannot resist the allure of sleeping around. Never mind the fact that I wear a ring around my ring finger to signify that I'm in a committed relationship.

3) Would you prefer that every woman who becomes pregnant marry the father? Does being married automatically make you a better mother? Clearly, in your eyes, it does. Of course, for the women who got pregnant as a result of incest or rape, they must've asked for it, right? They obviously did something to deserve it. A come hither look, a flash of thigh, a spicy toss of the hair. They should marry the father of the child, (who just might be their scumbag father.) And if the man turns out to be a no-good bum who can't/won't hold down a job, an alcoholic, a drug user, or is abusive should they just grin and bear it? Like they somehow should've intuitively known the man would be this way? Let's examine my ex-husband: the model of a doting, loving, caring man before we took our vows. Then, almost overnight, he decided to let his fists do the talking. Do you think I had any inkling? Should I have just smiled and said to myself, "I deserve his iron hand which was once velvet on my cheek."

4) Imagine anybody calling Bryan or I bums, as if we don't bust our humps every damn day just to make ends meet! You know, when Pook was first born Bryan worked for our landlord at night, doing odd jobs. Often, he wouldn't come home until 2 or 3 in the morning. Was he out carousing, being a man about town? No, he wasn't, he and Chris were working doggedly to complete a project in record time. In the day time, he went to his regular job. I went back to work and work Monday through Friday. Now that our landlord has no new jobs for him, one of us needs to get a second job. I am going to be the one. Bryan did it, now it's my turn. But, ladies, obviously, we're lazy good for nothings. But ponder this: we both work, and now I'm getting a second job. Our jobs are considered "good" jobs: health benefits, decent pay, and good hours. Yet, despite all this, we still need a little help with food. Who's to blame for that? Us or the politicians?

5) Dead beat dad, you say? Oh, really? And what of all the women out there, (and they know exactly who they are), who use men as their personal sperm banks? Get pregnant by them and once that mission is accomplished, they bolt. Never to be heard from again. What about the father then? Nobody thinks about the pain and anguish these men face from knowing they have a child they may never see. Gosh, why does that sound familiar? Could it be because Chris, Bryans' best friend, had that happen to him? Chris and I disagree at times, that much is true. And once, when I was hopping mad, I threatened to do the same thing to Bryan: take Chloe and disappear. Never to be heard from again. For shame, Heidi, for shame! I am ashamed that I said that, as I would've become the kind of woman I hate. What about the mothers, (and I use the term loosely here), who get pregnant, have the child, dump the child on the father and then leave? And when the father, (rightfully so, I might add) applies for child support the mother is unable to pay. She doesn't work. Or say she's a drug addict. But she pleads some sob story in front of the judge, who takes misplaced pity on her, and places the child she abandoned with her. All she says to the judge is, "Your Honor, I was a drug addict back then. I changed, I want my baby back." Say she's even got proof that she went through rehab, even though statistically only about 30% of people who go into rehab are successful with it. She shows this to the judge, who then gives her back the child. This is what my tax dollars pay for.



Was Pook planned? Lord, no. As everyone knows, I was actively trying to avoid getting pregnant. Would I give her back? You'd have to battle me and kill me first. Am I a whore? No, I am not. Do I know the father? You bet I do. Do we both work hard? Absolutely. Are you both embittered old women who have never known happiness?



I'd bet my life on it.