Heidi's Hell Hole

Tradition dictates that your venue sets the overall tone for your gown. But if you know me, you know that nothing I've ever done is traditional. And you also know my gown will dictate my venue.

I wanted drama. I wanted detail. I wanted a princess gown. I wanted a long train. I wanted jaws to drop. I wanted Bryan to be breathless and speechless. I did not want to look like every other bride. I also wanted to spend less than $700.
 
Stop laughing.

I knew it was going to be a tall, if not impossible order to fill. I combed the local stores, finding a few that were close, but just missing the mark. One was at Davids Bridal, that was pretty but I didn't want any other bride in the greater county region to have my gown. I've spent countless hours online, trying to find the gown. I was about to give up when...

I saw it on eBay. It was everything I ever wanted. It was a showstopping gown. It was also $48.99. With shipping, it comes to $188. It is so perfect, I don't have words. So, in lieu of my worthless words, I give you my gown. (Revel in my sheer awesomeness.)

As I write this, it is barely 1300 hours. I have been up for six hours and I’m ready to crawl into a dark hole.

 

My day started out crappy and has continued to be crap. First of all, I woke up with a headache, which I still have. Bryan and I were grouchy with each other this morning, since work for us has been hell. I felt bad when he left. (I love you, baby!)

 

I have been rather lax about laundry of late. Because of my laziness, I had to root around for ten minutes to find panties. I did find panties, though I wouldn’t use that term. More like big-as-a-banner granny panties. (Side note to underwear manufacturers: panties shouldn’t come up to just below my boobs. FYI.) (Side side note: why do I own these again? Oh, right, I wore them in the hospital when Pook was born.)

 

 I left early for work since it’s raining out, and traffic can be a bear. My route to work involves driving by a river. A river with little duckies. I almost ran over one of those little duckies. I swerved to avoid hitting it, but it rattled me.

 

I got to work, and my computer decided to run super slowly. My morning report normally takes 20 minutes to run, code, analyze, print, and distribute. But, this morning it took an hour. When I printed it out, my printer used a ream of paper spewing gibberish. Lovely, so I spent another hour doing it again. Meanwhile, I’ve got management on my ass about where the hell that report is! I ended up having to show them the ream of paper so they’d shut the hell up.

 

That fiasco over with, corporate sent us their idea of a flu prevention kit…A box of single ply, 20 grit sandpaper…Um, I mean Kleenex. I am not making this up. This is how corporate tells its employees they care. I’m pretty sure the next round of cutbacks are right around the corner.

 

Riiiight about that time, my email decides to take a complete dump and crash. So, any hopes I had about those important emails I had sent reaching their intended recipients crashed with it. So, pretty much, since my offices lives and dies on email, communication wise, my day just got screwed. I rebooted and tried again. No dice. Well, fuck me sideways. And of course, once again, I’ve got people all but screaming “WHERE IS THAT EMAIL?!” By this time, it’s roughly ten AM…

 

My receptionist catches me on my way upstairs, “Heidi there’s a call for you. She’s a real bitch.” Gee, thanks. The customer was a bitch and a half. See, our billing is driven off of metered data that our customer provides. She said her metered data was wrong. I suggested maybe someone read the data wrong and she flew off the handle about how dare I suggest her employees aren’t trained! The entire time I was on the phone with her, she stopped just short of calling me a horrid, stupid slut. She ended by saying she was going to cancel her contract. I didn’t try to dissuade her.

 

The final straw of my day came about lunch time. My boss decided to heat up “tuna surprise”. Let me tell everyone a little secret: when you work in an office, you never heat up anything stinky or smelly. Tuna STINKS. It smells like the inside of Satan’s ass. My boss, bless ‘is heart, never got that damn memo. He is noshing away in his office, and might I add, with an alarming level of enjoyment. Who the hell likes leftover tuna surprise?! I asked him to shut his door, as it’s starting to make me ill. He tells me to quit being dramatic. I started my rebuttal but I was interrupted by throwing up in my trashcan. I raced downstairs to throw up in the bathroom. People saw me hurl. People heard me hurl. My other boss screeched, “YOU’VE GOT SWINE FLUUUUU! LEAVE THIS PLACE!! GO HOME! OH MAH GAWD, EWW!”  I was all too happy to oblige.

 

I get home, plop down on the couch and Kiera comes over and looks at me sympathetically. She then proceeded to hurl. On my shoes. Damn dog.

 

Tonight, we have Pookers second evaluation. I am beyond nervous. I’m worried the people will judge me as a mother, like I have FAILED my child. Just another way my day can suck, and another way Mommy Guilt can wrack me yet again.

 

Considering my day so far, I’m going to apologize in advance for any drunk texting later on….



 

I am in healthcare HELL. I swear to GAWD, my life is one freaking appointment, one call to this Doctor or that Doctor after another.

For example, Pooks speech delay issue. So, the initial assesment shows she's got the abilities of a 4 month old, which SUUUUCKS. When they said 4 months, I shut down. I didn't hear a word after that, and I bawled for a good 20 minutes. Did I do something wrong? Did I too much, not enough perhaps? Bryan said it's not about me, and he's right. But in a weird way, I'm not concerned about getting Pook help. Namely, because I don't care what the cost, she WILL be getting help. The best help we can afford. One way or another, I'm going to kick speech delays ASS. 

In order to do that, I have to get her "further evaluated" to see where she's REALLY at. (Make sense to ya? Because it doesn't to me.)

In order to get her into therapy I have to:

1) Get a referral to an ear, nose, and throat specialist. This is to make sure her hearing isn't bad, or that some throat abnormality isn't at fault. (You'd think we'd have figured out if her throat was wonky before this, but apparently, we're just dumb yokels.)

2) THEN that person refers us to someone who can REALLY evaluate her, because apprently, the people who did it before, while RN's, aren't MDs and insurance won't accept their assessment.

3) THEN that person refers us to someone who can actually work with her.

All of this for one little girls delay. All of this rigormireaux just to get her some help. All of this for someone to come her to daycare once a week. But, like I said, one way or another, it will happen. If I have to personally become certified to help her, I will.

So there's that.

Then there's MY uninsured ass. Why am I uninsured? Because in order for Pook & I to be on my insurance, it's $300 per paycheck. Screw that noise, I put Pook on state insurance and decided I just wouldn't get sick. However, in the meantime, I was diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder. This comes as a shock to nobody. So, I decided to get medicated for the sanity of my family and my well-being. The clinic I use puts me on a sliding fee scale, which is great.

Because I am uninsured, my benefits center gave me a $500 prepaid Visa debit card, that up until now, I haven't had to use. When I called to use it to pay off the clinic, it was declined. Well what the hey?!

I called the benefits center who informed me that the card was deactivated 5 months ago, and that they didn't notify me because they don't have to. They said they were sorry, they'd get it fixed. IN TWO WEEKS. Meanwhile, our fearless herione called the clinic! AAAAND was told that they're no longer going to be accepting debit or credit cards as of Monday. Well of course you're not! I asked the benefits center if they could cut the doctors office a check and take if off my card. Yeah, the evil call center lady just laughed. Bitch.

On the other end of the spectrum, Bryan, who does have insurance, got his retina reattached yesterday, and that went well. (Bad darts accident when he was a kid. I TOLD YOU YOU'D POKE YOUR EYE OUT!!) He was supposed to have his lense transplant surgery in 3 weeks but apparently the doctor is out of town (the nerve) and is there another doctor that do the surgery? HELL NO! Why would we have two doctors in case one has to leave? That makes SENSE! So, we have to wait until mid-November to get that done. In the meantime, he can't wear his contact and he's basically blind for six weeks.

I need a drink.

Yes, it's the dreaded LIST. The ultimate blogging cop-out. But I'm the list Queen, so it is less of a cop-out...So, here's my newly minted list.........

WHY MY BFF DOESN'T SUCK:

1) I am almost convinced that my Mom had triplets, and she's my missing triplet.

2) We have not only had the same life experiences, we had them at the same time. In some instances, within moments of each other.

3) We can talk about ANYTHING, and it's never weird or TMI. Seriously, ANYTHING.

4) We get each other, on everything. Our sense of humor is shared, and neither one of us feels weird laughing at our own jokes because we know the other person is laughing with us.

5) She's not afraid to [virtually] smack me up alongside the head, or disagree with me.

6) If I was a SAHM, she'd be my role model. On the rare day I stay at home with my child, I'm constantly texting her "WHAT DO I DO NOW GAHHH!"

7) We talk for a minimum of an hour every day, and have yet to run out of discussion points.

8) She is every bit as hot as I am, if not more so.

9) She's witty, smart, kind, and generous.

10) She's not only invited me to spend a week with her, in her home, but her and her husband have invited me to the USMC Ball, AAAAND she's graciously, generously, offered to pay for it.

Jacqueline, I <3 you, sis. In case I haven't screeched it into your ear, through IM or text messaging..

I LOVE YOU, THANK YOU! OMFG, THANK YOU!

I've been thinking for months that Pooker is speech delayed. Yet everyone told me I was overreacting, every child is different, and how I need to calm down. I cannot effectively articulate how much those statements frustrated and angered me. I knew something was wrong with her. I knew her speech was off, I knew that she wasn't as developed as she was supposed to be. And yet everyone told me to shut up, she's fine.

Finally, I philosophically gave everyone the finger and scheduled her to be evaluated by the county. "You're just wasting your time" they said. I said they could shove it up their asses, I was going to test her anyway.

They were WRONG, internets!

As it turned out, she is indeed speech delayed. As of this posting, she is 16 months old. She has the speech abilities of a 9 month old. She should have at least 2-3 words in her vocabulary, and trying to mimic what we say. She will try to sound out consonants, but she doesn't say WORDS. When the evaluator asked her where I was, and who I was she just shrieked.

So where does this leave me? Well, the nurse is coming to our house next Thursday to do a more in-depth evaluation. From there, she'll keep coming to the house and to daycare to work with her. For once, I was right. But I wish I was wrong, that she was normal.

This is my Pooker Butt. The baby I fought so hard to keep healthy when I was pregnant, despite my body working against me. The little girl who has my heart, melting every time I see her smile.  The baby who is so upbeat, who runs as fast as her little legs can carry her to give me a big hug. She is my heart. She is my soul. She is my life. She's....just...she's everything.

I love being a woman, most of the time. Really, I do. But damn if there’s not times when I wish I wasn’t a man.

For example, I love long hair. I love how it looks when it’s down and loose, how soft it is, and how it makes me feel so utterly feminine. Yet, I hate it. I hate the maintenance on it. I have to be careful not to damage it with styling tools, lest I get split ends and it looks like straw. Yet, I love how it looks when it’s blow dried and curled. I hate the amount of time it takes to style it, which is why most of the time I keep it in a ponytail. Yet, I’ll never cut it short, ever, despite how easy it would probably be to maintain. I envy how my boyfriend can get out of the shower, and not do a damn thing with his military-style buzz cut, and still look handsome.

I love how I look so polished, so put together, so pretty when I have makeup on. But I wish I didn’t have to wear it. I feel naked and disgusting when I don’t wear makeup. However, I hate the amount of time and effort it takes to put makeup on, and how the media makes you feel like a leper if you don’t like makeup and you’re a girl. I hate how it runs on hot days, because lets face it: there is nothing remotely attractive about streaky foundation and raccoon eyes from the mascara that melted. Also, there’s day makeup and evening makeup. I can’t go out for a drink after work wearing the same makeup I did during the day, or I look out of place. Likewise, I can’t walk into the office with smoky eyes, as I look not only out of place, but also like I’m trying to seduce the old-as-dirt warehouse manager. I have two different sets of makeup I’m supposed to wear, just to make it through the day. Men, (well, straight men), don’t have this problem. They wash their face, and they’re good for the rest of the day.

I love how high heels can make my legs look freakin’ amazing; yet walking in them is a pain. Ever try walking in high heels when the ground is slick? You look like a newborn colt just finding its legs. But, alas, it doesn’t look professional to walk in with your skirt and sweater wearing tennis shoes or work boots. (Which are infinitely more comfortable.) I love how men find me alluring in my black pencil skirt, my form fitting turtle neck that outlines my (spectacular) chest, and pumps. But sometimes I wish I could show up to the office in jeans, a tee-shirt, and sandals, and still turn heads. This brings me to my next rant.

Women’s clothing, what a joke that is. Have you seen the usurious prices on a freakin’ pair of womens jeans these days?! I’m sorry, I like your jeans, Mr. Designer, but there is no way in hell I am paying $200 for a pair of jeans. If I’m going to pay $200 for a pair of jeans, they better wash, iron, and fold themselves. I’ll just buy my jeans from Target, thank you very much. I don’t follow fashion. I couldn’t tell you what is “in” this season if my life depended on it. I know what I like to wear, and if that happens to be in style, great. If it’s not, I really don’t care.

 

Also, if you’re a woman, you’re expected to accessorize. You’re supposed to have earrings, a necklace, and a matching bag. I’m weird in that rarely ever do I consider if my purse matches my outfit. However, when I do occasionally accessorize, I do it well, and look nice. Also, with jewelry…Bracelets get in the way of my work. I type a LOT in my job, and bracelets make it hard to type comfortably. Earrings tend to hurt my ears when I’m on the phone, something I also do a LOT in my job. Necklaces have a tendency to fall in between my boobs, and that just looks weird.

Also, being a girl sucks in that Mother Nature kinda screws us over. Once a month, for a week, we bleed like stuck pigs. During that time, we are bloated, headachy, broken out, our boobs are huge and sore, cranky, and we’re either wearing a diaper or a cotton rod shoved up our hoo-hah. This is not a fun time. The week preceding this blessed event sucks because we’re PMSing, and we know the next week is going to be unpleasant. During this week there is also no hanky-panky happening, which is a bummer, to say the least. Mother Nature can take her “monthly gift” and shove it up her ass.

Being a girl also logistically is a pain, as well. Men, when you need to pee, you can do it wherever you pretty much want. The world is your commode. Women don’t have that convenience. We have to do this weird crouch thing if we’re outside with no toilet in sight, and then try to find a leaf to wipe with. There’s no shake, shake and we’re done. If we have to use a public (shudder) restroom, that can equally be treacherous. Some of those bathrooms don’t get cleaned very often, and there’s no way I’m plopping my bare bottom on a toilet seat that looks like its got a new strain of herpes on it. So, we cover the seat in copious amounts of TP, and pray that it’s enough protection from some other girls crotch rot.

 

Also, thanks to Bryans help, I like cars, and can tell more about a car than most girls. I can tell you if a car has a turbo by listening to it. I can tell you why some cars actually need a spoiler on the back. I can tell you if a car is automatic or a manual by listening to it. I like to drive fast. I like to race cars. But, oddly enough, I do not like to work on them, lest I get dirty. The sound of a fast car is music to my ears, just as much as Beethoven. Some girls kvetch with their girlfriends to calm down. I drive.

 

Most girls have a “scene”. I do not. I feel equally at home in some backwoods honky-tonk shooting pool and drinking beer as I do in an upscale martini bar sipping mojitos. I do not look out of place in either venue. I am comfortable in jeans and a tee-shirt, but can feel just at ease in an evening gown. I like to go out to a crowded club and dance the night away, but I also like staying in and reading a book. I liked Die Hard with a Vengeance just as much as I loved the Notebook.

 

I hate the games that women play, but I understand them. (Being a girl and all…) I can completely understand why men hate the petty little games that women play, but I also understand why women play them. Hell, I’ve played a few myself. I don’t understand why women are, in general, catty, manipulative, gold-digging whores. (This is also why I’m friends with very few women.) I understand what would compel some men to turn gay. On the flip side, I can also understand what would compel some women to turn gay.

 

This next point, Dad, you might not want to read. Like most men, I’m always in the mood for sex. Three AM? Sure! Right after dinner? Why not! You’re sick? Who cares, so we don’t kiss, no big deal, now c’mere! I don’t get why some women use the headache excuse. Science has proven what I’ve known for years: sex actually helps your headache. I’m game pretty much any time, any place. Hell, if you’re sleeping and want some nookie, just wake me up, really! It’s okay! I just don’t understand why some women never want sex. You like it, it feels good, and it’s free. It’s like getting the perfect present, for free!

 

This is probably why I am, hands down, the weirdest girl you’ll ever meet. I think I missed some girly gene or something.

 

Last weekend we had the kids for the WHOLE WEEKEND, YOU GUYS. From FRIDAY until MONDAY. This is huge, we NEVER get them this long. And it was a great weekend!

Friday night, T was upset because since Bub's in football, she doesn't get a lot of attention. I told her to pick whatever she wanted to do, and Saturday, we'd do it. She was beside herself with glee, and even snuggled with me on the couch. (She's NEVER done that. She barely has allowed me to HUG her.) To make her feel better, we made rootbeer floats, just for us, and shared girly secrets.

Saturday, she wanted to spend the whole day at the Library, which was FREAKIN' AWESOME with me. I love to read. I read every chance I get. Hell, I'll read the back of the Mentadent bottle if that's all I've got. So, to the library we went, and WE READ OUR ASSES OFF. No cell phones to interupt us. Yes, even I, the Blackberry QUEEN, turned mine off and left it in the car.

T and I had lunch, and giggled and laughed our way through lunch. I've never in my life had a better time with her. It's taken 3 loooong years to get to this point. Three agonzing, slowly moving forward, frustratingly painful years. And yet, there we were. Giggling, laughing, sharing secrets conspiratorily, and having some good ole fashioned girl time. To say my heart was bursting with joy is such an understatement.

When we got home, we got a call saying that she placed in the top 95th percentile for reading and math IN THE STATE. THAT'S MY KID! THAT'S MY GIRL! My super smart, top 95th percentile, got a congratulatory letter from the Govenor, girl!!!! I let out a big whoop and grabbed her and gave her the biggest hug ever, and actually, think I bruised a rib or something. Sorry about that, T.

It was just such a perfect day, with my perfect little buddy.

T, however, is a complicated little genious. This same girl, not 20 minutes after getting her WASL results, tied a scarf around her head like a blindfold, started walking into walls and asking, "Heidi, why can't I see?!" I somehow doubt I will be adding this to her Harvard application.

Nonetheless, we snuggled every night, her and I. I don't cry from happiness much. But I sure as hell choked up from joy then.

T, if by chance you're reading this. I love you, GOD, how I love you. I love you as if you were my biological child. You are the most awesomely awesome stepdaughter a Mom could ever ask for. I hope I can be as good a stepmother to you and you have been a stepdaughter to me. In case you didn't know...I LOVE YOU.

My inlaws are off camping this week, taking Granma to Yellowstone and asked us to house sit for them.

Basically, feed the dogs, the birds, and make sure the horses are okay. We'd stay out there until Thursday night. We agreed, and Bryan said he'd figure out someone to watch Kiera while we were gone.

Last night was my first night out there, Bryan had spent Sunday out there, while I stayed behind. We got there rather late, around 9 or so. After stopping at our house, dinner, and making sure Kiera had her Kibbles N Bits, we arrived.

Bryan put the birds "to bed" meaning he covered their cages. The bigger bird, Gizmo, was silent. The smaller bird, Woodrow, kept chirping "NIGHT NIGHT" for what seemed like an eternity, even after we went to bed.
After a while, I wanted to march right up to his cage and say, "Yes, Woodrow. Night night. Night. As in sleep. Go to SLEEP!"

When we did go to bed it just felt...Odd. Part of it was laying my head where my MIL lays her head. Don't get me wrong, she's an amazing woman, but it felt weird sleeping where she sleeps. Also, the mattress is a Temper Pedic, and very firm, and a queen size. Bry and I sleep in a King sized bed, with room to sprawl. Even though I've only slept on this bed for like a month, it felt like I was sleeping in a kids bed.

The horses, it seems, have an internal alarm clock that is unreal. Five AM rolls around, and they are up and ready to go. Making noise, that at first made me think Pooker was crying, and then just irritated the hell out of me. Every thirty minutes or so, they would whinny and wake me up and grrrr.

My inlaws dog, Sadie, also was there to remind my happily sleeping self to wake up. (In all fairness, Bryan did warn me.) At six AM, she sat in the doorway of the bedroom and whined. Apparently, my MIL wakes up with her. If you don't acknowledge Sadie, she will not let up. Bless her for her tenacity. She just gets louder, and louder, and LOUDER.

That didn't work, (silly dog, I can sleep through a plane crash), so she just came right up to my side of the bed and whined directly into my ear. OKAY! I GET IT! GAH, I'M UP, ALRIGHT?! Geez Louise.

Between the bird, the horses, the new bed, and a very persistant dog, I didn't sleep much. When I got to work I literally downed half a pot of fresh coffee in ten minutes.

Here's to another 2 days of chirping, whining, and whinnying!

I’M GETTIN’ HITCHED, Y’ALL!!!!!

 

It started with looking at rings and sets last weekend. Next thing you know, we’re talking about what type of wedding we want. Next thing you know, I’m standing next to him, “So, um how’s September fourth of next year sound?”

“For what?”

“For getting married. Tentatively, I swear.”

“Sure, works for me. Wanna hand me that wrench?”

 

I skipped back into the house and mass texted everyone to save the date. Because honestly, for me it translated into, (albeit probably incorrectly but whatever), “Go ahead and make that the date and start planning OUR. WEDDING. FINALLY.”

 

My BFF (and Matron of Honor) Jacqueline asked if he proposed…Well…Technically, no. But he’s agreed to a date and that’s good enough for me. Details, people, just details.

 

I’ve picked out bridesmaids and go to look at gowns on Saturday.

 

Hello....



It’s Thursday. I’m tired. The weather right now sucks. Here’s more randomness for your enjoyment.

 

-The bébé gluton, from Spain…Nothing short of disturbing. It’s a doll marketed towards 9 year olds to promote breastfeeding. The concept is that you put on a halter top WITH PASTIES and it mimics breastfeeding. TF and I for ONCE agree on something: it is disgusting. How high do you have to be to think THIS is a good idea for a childrens toy?!

 

-You know you need more sleep when you forget you’re driving a stick shift and just hit the gas, kill the car, and can’t figure out why it doesn’t go.

 

-Last Wednesday, from my horrific day, I polished off a Vodka bottle and asked Bryan to marry me. He said no. I’m going to tell myself it’s just because I was drunk.

 

-95% of the texts I send Jacqueline could easily be on textsfromlastnight.com. If she’s ever angry at me, and has a penchant for revenge, I’m screwed. I’ve also spent like 10 hours total on that site.

 

-So I went online and found THE perfect ring. It’s a 2 carat ring, in a white gold setting and it made me get physically excited, and it’s cheap. (Well, comparatively anyway.) I went online today to look at it and IT IS GONE. I honestly had a panic attack. They have ONE left in the nation, and pretty much once it’s gone IT IS GONE. I pray to everything holy we can get our hands on the last one. He doesn’t need to use it right now, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my dream ring slip through my fingers. Hell to the no.

 

-When I was drunk I also sent a drunken text to Jacqueline saying we’re such soul mates WE should get married. She never responded, so I’m going to assume that’s also a no. I’m zero for two right now.

 

-Because I love skin cancer, a few weeks ago I fell asleep at the lake with baby oil on my back for like 2 hours. The bad news is I (of course) got one hell of a sunburn. The good news is that if I wanted to, I could’ve gotten a job as the Red Lobster mascot.

 

-My cousin is retarded. Like got his drivers license at 36 retarded because he couldn’t pass the test multiple times kind of retarded.

 

-I found pictures of his wedding via my other cousins Myspace. He is smoking an American Spirit during his freaking vows. There should no longer be any question why I do not associate with that part of the branchless family tree.