MFA Mama

read the right bicep

   The other day, while I was on the phone with the 911 operator, I realized that if I'm going to be on my own against the world, without an emergency contact, I really ought to find some way of keeping my relevant medical information on me at all times. Because when you're in excruciating pain and on the verge of passing out, spelling the name of your connective tissue disease for the third time after coaching someone who really doesn't want to be responsible for the information through the problem of not having a field on their screen in which to type such things (to which I say, in general, why the hell not because things like blood type and collagen defects may not be relevant to the PHONE CALL but can be crucial once you've reached the HOSPITAL, and in specific, GET A PENCIL AND A PIECE OF PAPER, PLEASE) just seems extra cruel.

   I'm considering getting it all tattooed on the front of my torso. Because believe it or not, that is less expensive than having it engraved on an anklet, and also impossible to lose.

   I digress.

   My friend Dr. Anonymous deserves a medal for putting up with me. Not only did she handle the phone call on Friday with polite aplomb (after dismissing Hotter's suggestion to call an ambulance out of hand, because FUCK THAT GUY AMIRITE, and spending a further five minutes down at the workshop in screamy contemplation of my symptoms since Big Child was due home momentarily and I didn't think he ought to see me when he walked into the house, I realized that maybe I was not the best problem-solver and called Dr. Anonymous in as a tiebreaker) (I still feel bad about that phone call, because I was having an extremely hard time toning down the shrieking enough to form semi-coherent words and suspect I did a poorer job of it than I thought at the time), but she also gave simple enough instructions that even I could not find a way to weasel out of following them (it's like she knew I'd try to drive myself to the local teaching hospital and expire on a sidewalk somewhere after trying to parallel park a straight-shift car that does not idle rather than trust a valet or security person with the task if she left ANY room for interpretation), namely "Emergency room. CLOSEST emergency room. Now."

   I just opened up the Facespace to a message from Dr. Anonymous; a mutual friend of ours has been trying to talk me into accepting a loan and pursuing COBRA so that I can try to get some more medical treatment and I've been saying that no, I will not borrow more from a friend than I will realistically be able to pay back and wouldn't invest in COBRA right now if I had the money anyway because my car is on its last legs and my almost-eight-year-old is still sleeping in a toddler bed. Said mutual friend brought Dr. Anonymous into the thread as an appeal to authority, and Dr. Anonymous instead said something along the lines of "oh holy shit I didn't even KNOW about Hotter and I am SO SORRY all of this is happening right now," and I replied with "oder gor oder gornit."

   The tattoo on my right arm is less specific than the one I'm considering with all of the medical information, but it's a lot more succinct.

 

   For those who have been asking, the most likely cause of my physical misery seems to be adhesions from previous surgeries, which isn't something emergent enough to fix on an uninsured patient so the hospital sent me home with strong narcotics and instructions to take them with Miralax, and I am no longer in acute agony but am still distinctly unwell. Eschewing solid foods makes it bearable and I think I'll be okay for work tomorrow.

the job is good and Typepad is GREAT

   The new job is good. It's really nice people working for a nonprofit dedicated to a GREAT cause, and they're busy enough currently to need an administrative temp. I don't think it has long-term potential, which is too bad, but it should last at least a couple of weeks, and that's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick (which is a saying down here in The South, although I've actually been the recipient of such a poke and can say that just about anything up to and including a compound fracture is preferable, so I guess it's not really saying much--THE JOB IS NICE, THE END).

   Typepad? Is GREAT. Those of you who follow me on the Twitter may already be aware, but yesterday I logged into WellsfuckingFargo's website to see if everything had cleared (yes, I still want to dump them--THEY SUCK and have HORRIBLE customer service, and they LIE right on their ATM machines where it says that cash deposits are credited instantly) and was horrified to see a $119 pending chunk out of my meagre balance. Of course I clicked to see what had unexpectedly eaten up 90% of my net worth, and it was my yearly Typepad subscription fee. Did I agree to that? Yes. Last year, however, they deducted it on May 20th, and so I had set a reminder for May 18th. This year apparently they deducted it a little earlier, which probably has something to do with leap years and business days and I DON'T KNOW, I'm sure it makes sense to SOMEone, but that someone is not writing this post.

   I logged into Typepad and clicked around the back end of my account, thinking that maybe if I downgraded to month-to-month billing (the yearly rate is a better deal, although obviously not so much if it causes the next thing to hit your account to generate an overdraft fee) that would fix things. Obviously I was not the first person to panic and have that idea, however, because next to the option to do that was a disclaimer stating that doing so would not cause a refund to be issued, but rather a credit on the account that they would then deduct your monthly fee from until it ran out. CRAP! So I fired off a desperate support ticket explaining that I knew I'd agreed to this being automatically deducted, but thought I had another eight days, was unemployed, etc. and asking if there was ANY way to get the yearly fee refunded and go month-to-month until I was more financially secure again. Since I'd been live-tweeting my freakout, I let my followers know that I'd placed it in Typepad's hands and was just going to hope their customer service folks were as understaning as Amazon.com's are (yeah, Hotter signed up for a free trial of Amazon Prime and forgot to cancel it, and a very nice Amazon.com employee unknowingly SAVED HIS LIFE on Friday by refunding THAT). Best case scenario, I thought I'd maybe get a refund of $119 minus the cost of one month's Typepad Pro service, but realistically I was expecting an admonition to re-read the Terms of Service. I went to bed last night worried as hell, but resigned to waking up to bad news. Instead, while I slept, Typepad was ON IT!

Figure One: Look how friendly!

    I checked my e-mail on my first fifteen-minute break at work, and found an INCREDIBLY nice note from Melanie, a Typepad Community Manager. She explained the date discrepancy in a way that made sense, and that yes, the TOS gave them permission to deduct the money when they did, but went on to say that she understood that life happens, and in light of my longstanding relationship with Typepad they wanted to try and help take the pressure off, so she refunded THE ENTIRE AMOUNT and APPLIED AN EQUAL CREDIT TO MY ACCOUNT. I thanked them profusely, and they were very gracious:

Figure Two: So. Very. Nice.

   You guys. I may have teared up a little in my cube. Of course what Typepad did helped me avoid (another) financial headache, and obviously I'm thrilled with the credit, especially since it's hard to justify paying that kind of money for something that is just for me and can't be eaten or worn to work, given our circumstances. But this was just...well. If you've never been really, really broke, you might not get how huge this was. You get used to hearing "no." To EVERYTHING. Things like sobbing on the phone to your bank, and never picking up a number you don't recognize become part of your daily existence. You come to expect smug annoyance from everyone you do business with, if not outright hostility. It's a relief to even be able to deal with a company via e-mail just so you don't have to hear it out loud, because you already hear it out of your own mouth on a daily basis. No, I can't pay for your eye surgery so you can see better. No, you can't go on that field trip, it costs too much. No, no, NO! The negativity can become overwhelming and start to color your entire outlook. When Typepad not only DIDN'T say no, but went the extra mile and did something nice that I hadn't even asked for, it meant a lot more to me than avoiding an overdraft fee or three and getting to blog for a year for free; it reminded me that there's more to say and hear than no, a lot more to life than relentless negativity. It lifted my entire mood, and helped me put my best foot forward today at the new job. 

   Am I going to stop bitching so much about my life? Probably not. It's not easy, and I'm only human. But I will never do it via any other blogging platform :)

my anaconda don't want none...

...UNLESS YOU'VE GOT BUNS, HON!

   Everyone in the comments of the previous post and on Twitter agrees:

Figure One: Smart lady!

   "They're all wrong!" Hotter insisted.

   So I sent him a picture from Kroger:

Figure Two: BUNS.

   "This is the South. Y'all are ignant," he replied. "I WENT TO THE CULINARY INSTITUTE OF AMERICA."

   So yeah, Hotter decided to go down with his ship, and we're having hot dogs for dinner.

P.S. Hotter says he never did like any of us. 

I'm right, you're wrong!

   Enough about how we're all going to die if I don't find a job. Let's talk about something REALLY important. Marinka of Motherhood in NYC has a regular feature on her blog called "I'm right, you're wrong" that I'm totally hijacking borrowing today.

   My recent unemployment has allowed for Hotter and me to spend lots and lots of time together. It's great when we're doing things like sleeping in with the dog and all four of her stiff, stabby-clawed legs between us and having sex, but not so much when we're talking about what to make for dinner, because one of us is fundamentally wrong here. You be the judge!

The Dilemma: What do you call those bread-things you put your hotdog inside?

The disagreers: MFA Mama, a.k.a. The Voice of Reason, and Hotter, a.k.a. Mr. I Went To Culinary School But Still Don't Know What Those Bread-things Are Called.

The positions:

1. We are out of hot dog rolls, so we can't have hot dogs for dinner because the kids hate it when we use slices of bread.

2. We are out of hot dog buns, so we can't have hot dogs for dinner because the kids hate it when we use slices of bread.

   What say you?

Pollyanna

   Last night I was chatting with a friend of mine about how awesome Temp Agency #2 is. "If I keep working jobs for them at the rate I am, it'll be about equal to what I would've gotten from Unemployment," I gushed. "So you guys'll be okay then," she asked, hopefully. "Um. Well. I crunched the numbers when I got the initial letter from Unemployment, and with that plus the child support and Hotter's disability we'll be able to squeak by for a couple of months if need be, as long as nobody except the children eats and nobody except Hotter takes any prescription drugs. And he probably gets enough protein from the gel-coatings of various capsules and tablets to sustain life, so things are looking up," I said. "Um..." she typed. "SHUT UP, it's better than a week ago when we were going to get evicted and NOBODY was going to have any food or prescription drugs! This is a POSITIVE thing."

   Just call me Pollyanna.

worry-stone

My father's family ate secrets during the Great Depression.
My grandmother, the Gypsy, worked with Margaret Sanger
and knew the dirty little secrets of half the girls in town.
Legend has it packets of meat would show up on their doorstep,
the shameful mis-steps of the daughters of the rich, blood-tinged.

"If a dog shits in your yard, you take the shit and throw it in the woodstove,"
I can remember her telling my mother. "That way it burns his asshole."
We visited her every Saturday in the Jewish old folks' home. She wore
necklaces, bracelets, and earrings of turquoise beads, to ward off the Evil Eye.

"This one, she'll suffer," she said, and spat lovingly onto the top of my head.
I hated Saturdays. "This is what you get for marrying a shiksa." My father nodded,
and handed me a paper napkin. My granny gave me a worry-stone, made of quartz,
with a groove for a troubled thumb. She knew I would need it, the witch. 

mishpocheh

8:30 a.m. Eastern Time

Anonymous Friend: I HATE EVERYTHING!
How are YOU?
:P

MFA Mama: I hate quite a bit. Let's bitch.

AF: My SO has been traveling for a week and I have five animals to care for.

MFA Mama: *wince*

AF: I am not an animal person.

MFA Mama: Bahaha.

AF: They're all kind of wacky and demanding animals, too.

MFA Mama: I dislike animals currently as well.

AF: That is really what I hate the most followed closely by my insomnia.

MFA Mama: Word.

AF: You have a lot more animals to hate, I would imagine.

MFA Mama: Seventeen rabbits, four chickens, two dogs, a cockatiel, a bearded dragon, and two betta-fish, currently.
And ALL of them assholes!

AF: I'm not even sure I know what a bearded dragon IS!

MFA Mama: It's a great stonking lizard. The object of my youngest's affections and the acquisition of his gross little dreams.
Also: an asshole.
It rips its lizard-hammock (Godiva help me that I even know what that IS, much less own one) down daily, tears the bark off its shade-log, requires daily chopped salads from a proscribed list of veggies and twice-weekly live crickets...

AF: Wow.
For the record, having parrots is much the same.

MFA Mama: It takes big bird-like shits and can JUMP.

AF: They scream, they yell, they require frequent water changes because they have delicate immune systems, blah blah blah...

MFA Mama: Oh, and if it's constipated you have to run it a warm bath and let it crap in your tub, then bleach the tub, burn the house down, and move because they carry salmonella.

AF: WHAT OH MY GOD WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP THOSE AS A PET?

MFA Mama: They're charming creatures. Want one?

AF: I do not need any more pets in our tiny abode!

MFA Mama: Clementine's alright, I guess, just needy like every other damn thing alive in these parts.

AF: I share a really small space with these birds.

MFA Mama: The lactating rabbits are thirsty, the chickens smell and also need water, the hound whines early for having to pee, an hour before the middle-school bus because DST, at the correct time too because YAY WHINE, at mealtimes...
the pitbull is a bedhog
The cockatiel's treats are recalled and need to be returned to the store; they're mocking me in their bag. Actually, I think they were contaminated (or possibly contaminated) with salmonella, haaaa!
The 10,000 or so (currently) bees will soon require an expensive thingamajig in which to make honey...

AF: Wow.
I'm going to try to go back to sleep...I have A Thing in three hours, and the birds will need water changes, and UGH.

MFA Mama: Good luck with that. The hound woke me at six, we have a lunch-date, and then later I'm getting stabbed in the arm with a needle for an hour by a big scary dude for fun. I think maybe I am doing Days Off wrong?

AF: Yes, I am doing weekends similarly. 

word

   Today at work I had a debate with my immediate superior over an issue of word-usage in our workplace that I am personally emotionally invested in, and actually had to stop what I was doing and walk away. It was...tense. The person who was the next-highest up the pecking order came down on my side with both feet, and the other party eventually apologized with sincerity, but I feel like my overall point, that we work in HOSPITALITY and ought therefore to be conscious of the feelings and sensitivities of ALL of our customers, including not only those to whom said word actually applies but also those who know and love them and don't display any verbal or physical cues to tip us off to their stake in the issue, was lost among the flurry of "oh god please don't involve HR" and "here is how I have the street cred to use that word if I want to, let me tell YOU about MY sibling/cousin/hairdresser's baby and therefore if I'm using the word it's OKAY" (it's not, and no, it's NOT like that OTHER word that is ALSO offensive, but to different people for different reasons and OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE). I think I may have at least partially failed in making the point that while I disapprove of and react strongly to that word's misuse on a PERSONAL basis, it's also one that, if you INSIST on (mis)using it as part of your personal lexicon, you need to leave the fuck at home and NEVER bring to work (especially in the service industry, where business is all about making EVERYONE feel comfortable and welcome). It was pretty disappointing, but I'm glad I said something.

   And when it turned out that the group who gave us the majority of the day's business was involved in special education (something I picked up on in recognizing some IEP-committee buzzwords they were using amongst themselves that I then had to explain to my co-workers for them to even know what I was gloating about), well, I like to think I wasn't ENTIRELY insufferable in alerting my co-workers to that fact, but it was probably close :)

   And how are all of YOU?

Q&A

Q: Do you really believe the shit you write on that fucking blog?
A: I don't appreciate your tone. Here is the link to my About page.

Q: I love how you present yourself as this shining, blameless saint in your writing.
A: I don't think I do that; I freely admit to having terrible math skills, being overweight, marrying poorly at least once, and a host of other personal failures. If you have a problem with or wish to attack the veracity of the way I portray my life on here, here is the link to my About page. 

Q: Can you open the door or at least hand me my shoes and my phone?
A: No. If you have awakened me from a nap to scream at me until my ears ring and then stomped out of the room, I'm locking the door behind you. Next time, take your shoes and your phone and shove them up your ass with you.

good day

   It turns out, the only thing that makes me miss talking to Hotter more than a really, really BAD day is a really, really GOOD day, so I told him about work today.

   That was really pleasant up until he started mounting his defense re: the remurdering as if we were in a court of law. If we were, and his attorney was worth a dime, they'd have him declared insane.

   But marital discord is the ONLY thing that kept today from being effing perfect, and I'm glad of that.