MFA Mama

nobody be alarmed...

...but I locked the Twitter down again, due to a combination of liking the new job enough to care if someone tracks me down on there and finds me offensive and my ex talking about his imaginary lawyers again and making me paranoid. If you're NOT my co-worker or my ex (or Stalky, although she's been quiet long enough for me to get my hopes up that she's found better hobbies) and want to follow me on there, go ahead and send a request.

   I hope you all had a wonderful holiday weekend unmarred by gratuitous beestings.

I lied

   So remember when I said I'd comment no more on the Stalky scenario?

   Well, I lied.

   See, I was trying to take the high road. "Don't feed the trolls," as the saying goes. I wasn't naming any names, I wanted that shit to go AWAY, I mean c'mon, it's been YEARS and sooner or later they'd find a new hobby, right? Well, apparently not, and since they've gone and outed themSELVES I might as well address the issue. I mean, none of these people have had any conversations with me since long about 2008ish, I think? I know I've moved WAY on with life since then, ended one marriage, began another, changed careers...but apparently some people have very unexciting lives, or are just obsessed. I don't know.

   So here's the background. Around 2006-2008 I was really sick. We still don't fully know what ailed me, which is scary as hell because that means it might be something that'll come BACK (gawd I hope not), but the best guesses among the many doctors I saw during that time period were that it was a combination of post-staph rheumatoid phenomenon (I had MRSA septicemia right before the downward spiral, which was treated initially with IV Vancomycin and then, after I left the hospital, with oral Zyvox, which unfortunately interacted with the Cymbalta I'd been taking and gave me Seratonin Syndrome, a.k.a. the temporary, iatrogenic crazies--it sucked a lot), three different strains of Epstein-Barre (because why just have one or stop at two?), and "adrenal fatigue" (I kind of like my endocrinologist's theory, which he very bluntly stated to my ex-husband: "you are killing her with the stress, cut it out!"*). I spent the better part of two years flat on my back on high doses of time-released morphine, unable to walk except with the aid of a walker and unable to drive. I had to have a lot of hired help with the kids, and to drive us to their various medical appointments, and I didn't have much of a life during naptime and after they were in bed except online, because my ex-husband was in and out of the marital home, and when he was living with us, he and I didn't have much to say to each other. I made friends with people online, blogged, and played a game called Second Life, which is actually where I first "met" Hotter, as I've already alluded.

   There are two kinds of people who will be your friend when your life sucks as much as mine did back then (and while I may bitch about my life now, THIS IS NOTHING). The first type is those who are just really amazing people with the patience of Job, and the second is people who just want the inside track on the tragedy porn, either because they have similarly shitty lives and want to commiserate or because they are twisted in some way and get off on it. Those two types can be amazingly difficult to tell apart, especially if you're desperate for adult interaction and hopped up on lots and lots of painkillers (and okay, maybe kind of naive and bad at "reading" people, I'll cop to that).

   Of the second type, there was one local friend with a similarly shitty life who I met through my blog, and there were two online friends of the twisted variety (one of whom I met and one of whom I spoke to over the phone a few times). In late 2008, when I initiated the dissolution of my marriage, I took my blog down but continued keeping up with a circle of trusted confidantes via group e-mails. Local Friend and the more innernet-famous of the two online friends were on the list, but apparently the other online friend, who just stopped wanting anything to do with me one day, had decided we were now mortal enemies and started reaching out to anyone she thought was friendly with me, whether because I commented on their blogs or they mentioned me or whatever. I know this because a couple of people straight up reached out and said hey, what is up with this person? They e-mailed me and said you're a horrible human being but I've known you for years and told them to fuck off/ignored them because clearly they are on some crazy drugs/forwarded the e-mail, here it is.

   Haters gonna hate.

   As a matter of fact, sometimes they're even going to go on a forum dedicated to discussing the shortcomings of bloggers and keep on talking smack about you three, four, five years after you stopped being friends with them and out themSELVES, so I don't feel like I'm telling any secrets by introducing you to "Sam" (her real first name is on her blog, but I'm hoping we can all at least agree to not provide non-public information about each other, since we all have spouses and children who have nothing to do with any of this bullshit, and so I've used the name she most commonly uses online):

Figure One: "Sam," ever-eager to keep stirring the shit, identifies herself, invites anyone and everyone to come to her for all the TRUEFACTS, AND points the finger at "Stalky." If you Google her screen-name from here, you will find that she has a blog, which I link to below, although if asked I will remove the link and image. Oh, wait. I didn't know enough about GOMI to have known what the little world-symbol under someone's avatar meant, but she linked to her blog on THERE.

   This is the post she's talking about on Cecily's blog, and is where the peril of going with a mob mentality comes to light: I am pretty sure I'm the online person Shan believes made the false report she mentions. Except...I didn't. Is Shannon the main member of the collective I refer to as "Stalky?" Yep. Do I pretty much wish she'd go ahead and drop dead of all she claims ails her, then proceed straight to rotting in the hell I don't even believe in for all the grief she has caused me? You betcha. Would I go so far as to try and bring that about by phoning in a false report of child abuse, or even have the identifying information to give, were I inclined to do so? Nope. All I ever had was a first name and a phone number. I commented on that post, as me, and I also sent Shan an e-mail:

Figure Two: Click to embiggen.

   I am in NO way condoning false reports to CPS, but if you Google around you'll see that Shannon is someone who likes to squeeze into her judgey-pants and weigh in on lots of online controversies, and I guess that's the kind of shit you risk when you make a hobby of a) mixing with that sort of element and b) pissing all over others on the innernet. I believe she is the "Miss Shannon" who commented all over the GOMI thread about me, but that is just my personal conjecture and I could be wrong. I do know that her last public post on her own blog (now defunct, it was called Charming Bitch) seemed to be geared toward me, and included information (such as the exact date of my divorce hearing, and the state where I live--I considered sharing a screen shot but seeing as how those are not my words and she's removed her site from the Wayback Machine, which leads me to believe she doesn't want to share it, I won't) she'd gleaned from the group e-mails I'd included her on to the very end of them, after the Stalky e-mails started back up, and after making several rounds of cuts as a result. I really trusted this person, is what I'm saying, and obviously that wasn't very smart of me, because apparently she started a group blog, along with Local Friend, and "Sam," and a couple of other former friends of mine, all about how I'm just the worst person EVAH!

   Live and learn.

   Why am I sharing all of this now, and why am I not naming the Local Friend? Well, I was hoping that if I kept ignoring this and taking the high road, eventually these gals would find other hobbies, or get busy with the numerous small children they all claim** to have, but apparently that's not going to happen and now they've "outed" themSELVES so I might as well weigh in. I think Local Friend has moved on. Does she have an online presence? Yes, but it doesn't appear to have anything to do with me, and she hasn't "outed" herself as being involved in this mess (nor has "Sam" gone and done it for her). I'm not interested in dragging anyone into this who isn't publicly in it already, or has Let It Go.

   The last time I spoke to "Sam" except via saber-rattling e-mails was April of 2008. I haven't seen her face-to-face since March of that year. She hasn't been in any home of mine since December of 2007, when she came and visited me, and had the following to say about it (I am the one she refers to as "Eliza" and assures you isn't, in fact, batshit crazy and making her life up--oh how times and her tune have changed!):

Figure Three: Apparently all of this is now a lie, because revisionist history FTW. Since Sam has since taken her entire blog down, you can use Ctrl+ the + sign to magnify or just take my word for it that the pertinent excerpt reads "If any of you read Eliza’s blog and think 'This girl is batshit crazy AND making shit up because no one has so much shitty shitness in their lives' you would be very wrong."

   So, yeah. For all of you who've asked, and who I've given vague answers to or none at all, THAT is the drama, that's who Stalky is, yes, I used to blog as Eliza Doolittle, yes, I used to play Second Life (although not nearly as much as some people apparently believe and I haven't even logged on in several years because HELLO, I HAVE A REAL LIFE NOW) and met my husband there, and yeah, my first marriage was obviously pretty messed up but We Are Not Discussing That. Apparently if you contact "Sam" she'll be glad to give you some years-and-years old gossip on me, and if you have any questions for me that you'd like answered straight from the horse's mouth, you can leave a comment on this post and as long as you aren't asking for information I'm not comfortable divulging on the innernet I'll help you connect the dots. And THEN hopefully this can be over, and I can go back to writing about my family and garden and animals, or bitching about my grammar-related pet peeves, or how I worked myself to death or think I have a cold or, YOU KNOW, my day-to-day life circa NOW. I really hate that I've felt compelled to Go There in the first place, but you know what? It sucks to feel like you need to defend the veracity of the very worst aspects of your life. Do I wish I had a perfectly healthy body, and family, and dog, and minivan, and bank account, and no worse problem than a little habit of lying, as seems to be the current Stalky Party Line, despite their having clearly seen first-hand evidence to the contrary in the past? ABSOLUTELY, FUCK YES, SIGN ME UP! Am I making it all up? No (dammit). Am I going to continue to sit here silently while these people keep doing shitty things like starting Twitter accounts to do nothing but @ people I know that I'm a big lying liar and broadcast my full legal name, kids' names, current address, and phone number, and commenting on hate forums about what a faker I am, hoping it'll go away? NOPE.

   I thought about this. I really did. I talked it over with my husband, and told him what I planned to say. "What's the worst that could happen," I asked him, "they continue to not drop this?" He pointed out that they know our childrens' names and where we live, and might post that for all to see or try and rile The XY up and get him to take me back to court over custody. I pointed out that they've already done most of that, The XY is legally bankrupt and can't afford to sue me for at least another several years or his creditors will want to know where he got the money to do it, and barely even takes his visitation, plus all their juiciest gossip is so many years old that it'd be useless to any impartial, rational judge (literally! A literal judge! HA!). So, yeah. This is me turning the lights on, and hoping the cockroaches scuttle away.

 

*   The ex-husband stuff is the only part of this whole hot mess I'm not going to clarify, out of respect for the fact that he's my childrens' father and we need to do our best to co-parent peacefully. Was he a shitty husband? Yes. Was I a shitty wife? Toward the end there, YOU BETCHA. We clearly were a bad match and brought out the worst in each other. In my opinion his worst was worse than my worst, and I did in fact instigate the final parting of ways for that very reason, but it's blood under the bridge. I'm not going to demonize him on here. He knows what he did, and I know what he did, and a few lawyers and other key players have a pretty good idea of what happened, and no one else needs the gory details.

**   Am I saying they don't actually have little kids? In the case of "Sam," no. In the case of Shan...well. I just don't know, have no way of actually finding out, and don't particularly care. I've personally gotten to the point of questioning everything she ever said, because who ever survives ovarian cancer TWICE (with bonus systemic MRSA and heart surgery AND AND AND) and goes on to be (allegedly) happy and healthy and have the time to nurse multi-year vendettas like this? PRETTY MUCH NO ONE. But if there's one thing I've learned from all of this, besides to pick my friends CAREFULLY, it's how much it hurts to have the darkest aspects of your personal life picked apart by people who really have no clue, so I'll just leave it at "I have my doubts but cannot verify."

oh hell no

   Believe it or not, generally when I communicate with my ex-husband I am a paragon of diplomacy. This is partly because "killing 'em with kindness" is my M.O., and partly because I only communicate with him in writing (because otherwise he screams at me, and that is no good for the boys plus I don't much care for it myself). Today, however, that all went out the window. He texted me to cancel his weekend visitation. I am used to that, and because he cited a family emergency that (if it is true) sounds pretty dire, was prepared to be somewhat sympathetic and leave the position this puts me in (namely that of probably going without eating much this weekend myself, because we're already eating the pantry and two extra days of feeding three growing boys is...problematic) out of it, but then...well. You know how there are some things you JUST DON'T DO? Like talk about a tough guy's mama or yell "FIRE!" in a crowded theatre or engage in any manner of hate-speech that we all know about and I won't name here? The XY crossed a line like that.

   He instructed me to carry out plans HE had made with the children, and when I said I couldn't afford to do so, he gave me grief about not having any money, stating that he pays child support and therefore I am practically rich. 

   And I? WENT OFF. I told him to go fuck himself. I told him he had a lot of nerve to give ME grief about being poor when HE was the one who put me in this position (fun fact: by the time we finalized our divorce the XY knew I planned to spend the rest of my life with Hotter, and because Hotter had been my best friend for several years, he knew Hotter's medical situation and that to marry me, he'd have to give up a lot of government assistance that was the only way he could get by. The XY knew that, and THAT is why he insisted on the "no overnights" clause. He did it out of pure spite, to try and keep us apart, just to be an asshole). I told him to go fuck himself again. I told him he barely PAYS child support, and told him to fuck off some more. I pointed out that child support is supposed to go UP as children get older and their needs more complex, and that his has stayed the same since 2008 because HE escalated our divorce and all matters pertaining to it (including custody) to a higher court that, in our state, requires you to have a lawyer to even bring anything before it. I told him to go fuck himself. And then I pointed out that he wasn't man enough to do right by his children without a judge forcing his hand, which made him pretty fucking pathetic, and told him to go fuck himself AGAIN. Finally, I told him that I was driving around on two unsafe tires with a toothache because I can't afford to fill a cavity, and had just gotten off of work, so now wasn't really a good time for poverty shaming, and told him to fuck off again.

   And then I told him to go fuck himself a couple more times (I went back and counted--it was eight "fuck yous" altogether), and that he owed me one HELL of an apology. Which he finally gave, and I did not accept. 

   As I told him next, "wow, you hit me below the belt and then grudgingly gave me a half-assed apology that demonstrated no actual understanding...it's like we're still married!"

   WOW. I am generally a very nonconfrontational person. I'll just cut you out of my life before I'll go so far as to tell you to go fuck yourself. I don't have much of a temper. But...I guess now we know where the line is!

there's always got to be one

    For someone with "mama" as part of their blog name, I tend to be increasingly reticent when it comes to actually talking about (or particularly sharing any images of) my kids. Part of that is out of respect for their privacy and dignity as small people, and part of that is a nod to my ex-husband's (ex- and largely imaginary) lawyers.

   That said, sometimes a mama just has to brag.

   My boys have had a banner year. Middly went from "probably going to fail first grade" to "nothing below a B in any subject within his control* in the second grade," and Little Child as y'all are aware ditched the g-tube and has continued to not just eat by mouth but GROW and TRY NEW TEXTURES AND FLAVORS. Those are goals I personally set for them at the beginning of the year, and I promised them that if they met those goals they could do ANYTHING THEY WANTED with their hair when school was out. Sometimes when one of them was really struggling, he'd try and think of a way to get me to back out first ("what if I want a mohawk that's TWO DIFFERENT COLORS?") (to which I would say "you do your end, and I'll find out where to buy the dye for it and charge up the clippers"). Therefore:

Figure One: Devastatingly handsome smiles of sheer unbridled glee not pictured to preserve anonymity. Your loss.

   As for Big Child, this year he won the President's Award for Educational Excellence, but I am no more permitted to touch his hair any longer than I am the totally sweet Presidential Seal pin that came with that. Every six weeks his father takes him to a barbershop for "The Ivy League" of "Official Hair Styles for Men and Boys" fame, and that is that.

   I suppose there's always got to be one.

 

 

*   He does still have an "M" (stands for "Minimal Progress"--it's what they give the lower grades instead of an F here) in Handwriting, which I think is an awfully able-ist subject to even grade students on. HOWEVER! Just last week the school FINALLY listened to me and had him assessed by an OT, who determined that he DOES need help and modified his IEP accordingly, and therefore I do not give two shits for the "M" in Handwriting. My kid has a documented genetic condition that causes both hypotonia and hyperflexibility, as well as a learning disability that makes it very difficult for him to concentrate on complex tasks, and therefore grading his ability to control a pencil and form letters is about on par with grading a visually-impaired student's ability to recognize colors. SCREW your M, MFA Elementary School! Someday I will be able to buy that kid an iPad and he'll blow ALL of you away with it, and in the meantime YES YOU WILL provide him with services to make the best of his bendy little fingers' writing (dis)ability.

it's not apathy, it's GREEN

   I don't know, y'all. There's a whole lot of ugh in my life right now, including (but not limited to! NEVER limited!):

   * My SI joint is still a dick, although it's improving, thank goodness.
   * I am getting a fresh cold, and am very bloaty, which...well, I'm trying to think positive and tell myself I'm just coming down with a virus and very, very hormonal (yes, THAT is me thinking positive these days) but I'm worried it's going to turn into another sinus/ear debacle, which I can't afford on any level.
   * Hotter and I had to have A Big Talk, of the "What The Hell, Dude, No SERIOUSLY Have You Lost Your Mind" variety. It went well, which was a relief (I'd been avoiding this particular talk for fear of coming off like some kind of asshole, but then I realized that bottling it all up until I snapped and beat him to death wouldn't really be very non-assholy either). I think he know Some Things Had To Change. We're not, like, On The Rocks or anything. But the thing with Hotter and me is, even though we've had the occasional wobble, I still put him on a pedestal as The Light At The End Of My Twenties, Saver Of My Sanity and am therefore unreasonably disappointed when he effs up, as well all tend to do (yes, even yours truly, which is probably a good thing as I just turned thirty-three and that was not a very good year for the LAST perfect Jew, or so rumor has it).
   * My ex-husband. Oh my word, y'all, I can't even. Really, I can't. He is largely to blame for this recent autoimmune bullshit; stress triggers that stuff in me in the very worst way and it is no great coincidence in my mind that while I was mostly bed-bound and on copious time-release morphine during the last years of the XY's and my marriage, I was upright and fully-functional, working for a living within mere weeks of kicking him to the curb. I have had to re-draw a line with him that I smudged and finally pretty much erased after his big car accident, namely I will not communicate with him off-record anymore, at all, effective immediately. I had relaxed on my "texts, e-mails, and talks in front of third-party witnesses ONLY" policy after his near-death experience briefly rendered him a kinder, gentler XY, and it was going okay for a while, but either he is over his post-concussion syndrome or has gone off his antipsychotics or hell, I dunno, maybe CATHERINE! stopped putting out or something...at any rate the result is no bueno. I can sit here right now, having not spoken to that man about it in DAYS and say that of COURSE he isn't going to succeed in taking my children away from me, because I am a (mostly) good parent, they are happy, healthy, and well-adjusted in my care, and he is an unstable, unreliable bastard who doesn't follow court orders worth a damn and has THREE psychological conditions that would render any sane human being dubious about awarding him full custody of a GOLDFISH on record with the judge. But five minutes of him screaming at me and calling me names on the phone on a day when I am feeling vulnerable can CONVINCE me that I'd better go home IMMEDIATELY (as in, leave work--I really almost did) and hug my babies because my days of seeing them regularly are numbered. I hate admitting that, and it feels like weakness to have to set these kinds of limits with that wretched man. As a psychologist friend of mine recently reminded me, though, he is a sociopath and I am not. It's not a fair fight. There is no shame in defending my sanity. And maybe if I say that enough times it will start to ring true? I dunno. 

   All that is to say that I think I'm going to stop shampooing my hair. Wait, what? No, really. Lately I'm knee-deep in Novella Carpenter's blog archives and so jealous of her for having goats that I can hardly see straight. I miss my poultry. I'm planning on acquiring a rain barrell and diverting the grey water from our washing machine for garden use in the Spring (I'm already making my own bio-friendly laundry detergent), and lately, with finances being what they are, I am trying to figure out some ways that I can be green and be frugal at the same time. One of those is that I'm breaking free of as many personal care products as possible (except toilet paper and good ol' highly-carcinogenic industrial-strength antiperspirant--there are LIMITS to my insanity, y'all). I've already stopped using lotion (instead I use coconut oil with a jot of lavendar essential oil in after showers for now, although I have Big Plans for when we get our bees up and running and have access to beeswax on the regular) and fancy leave-in conditioner products (I use the same combination on my ends as I use on my skin, actually). Next up to get the boot, when I run out of what is currently in the house? Shampoo.

   I'm not mired in depression and apathy, I'm GREEN. 

   Okay, fine, there's maybe some overlap. Or maybe my friend Morgan is to blame for sending me her copy of Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer and pushing me over the brink of dirty hippie-dom. Either way.

   How are all of YOU?

at least I was right...

...when I predicted that today would suck.

   I spent today wondering why everything was so fucking awful. I thought it was that all of the "OMG I almost ended up without a job when we had NO savings" (but I got the new job, which it turns out is something I could rock with one hand tied behind my back and the people I am working with continue to be lovely) plus "GAHHHH HIGHER RENT NOOOO!" stress had finally caught up to me, but while that is MORE than enough to ruin a gal's sunny disposition it was worse than that. 

   I woke up this morning in the throes of a fullblown autoimmune clusterfuck, complete with sacroiliitis (which, well, I guess that'll teach me to snivel over the World's Worst Heartburn sensation of a gelcap disintegrating in my lower esophagus). As something of a pain connoisseur I have to say that sacroiliiac pain is really up there and one of my very least-favorite things. Booo, body.

   It got preempted by the Day of OMG SUCK yesterday, but I meant to tell y'all that the XY had been a (reluctant, heavily coached, but I was still prepared to give credit where credit seemed to be due) mensch and agreed to kick in an extra fifty dollars per month so we wouldn't have to move IF I could talk the landlord into a fifty-dollar raise in rent instead of the proposed hundred-dollar one (yes, the XY is STILL underpaying in terms of child support but oh well). But that was yesterday, and today when I called to tell him that yes, I had succeeded in talking the landlord down to a fifty-dollar increase and make extra sure before agreeing to sign a new lease that he would keep his word the XY cursed me out, accused me of "nickel and diming" him, called me a liar about the rent, and threatened to sue me and take the children away if I left the school district. Which was how I came to spend nearly an hour discreetly weeping at work.

   And then the PMS Buddy reminder e-mail arrived, an apparent day late. Ballllls. Et tu, ovary?

   All in all I feel like I've been beaten heavily with a bat and left for dead by my thirty-third birthday, and my hiatal hernia is still killing me, and I'm working an eight-hour shift tomorrow as a prep-cook for a local banquet through Temp Agency #2. If my stomach was up for it and I didn't have to work and I had the cash to go to the liquor store I think I'd be looking for the bottom of a bottle right now, but as it stands I'm going to...

...EVIDENTLY PASS THE HELL OUT! The above was written yesterday, 1/13 and I fell asleep writing it. Work today was good. Still in hella pain but oh well. Feeling slightly less grim about things over all; it seems Temp Agency #2 might be able to find me weekend work on the regular and maybe the demise of Weekend Warrior job won't have such a major impact on my little family, after all? At any rate, this year's birthday was not my favorite but at least it's over, and thank you to all of my sweet friends on here and the facespace for your kind words, small presents (OMG PEOPLE GAVE ME PRESENTS?!?) and reminders that no matter how bad it gets, y'all care. I...am going to go wash the fryer-grease smell out of my hair and probably go right to sleep.

bullets, because I'm blogstipated

*   Yes, I've decided that that is why I fall back on bullets when I want to post but am having trouble finding the words I want to use. Sometimes it's because I'm more aware than usual of unfriendly eyeballs reading (if you're not the known sociopath I refer to as Stalky then that is at least 95% NOT about you so RELAX, non-threatening unfriendly people of Earth!), sometimes it's because I'm trying not to wallow in the negative, sometimes it's because I have a wretched headache...and sometimes it's all of the above. 

*   Today it's all of the above. I had a dream last night about CATHERINE! reading my blog, money woes are worse than usual lately, and I had to instruct Hotter this morning to shove my nightguard in my mouth afterward if he's going to sex me into a coma in the future (heh).

*   Am I worried about CATHERINE! reading my blog? Not really. I don't want to hurt her feelings, because she seems like a nice person (although I am still aggravated with her when I think about that damn ear candle...be that as it may if medical ignorance is someone's worst sin they're doing aight in my book so if she's reading this I hope she doesn't take that personally) (note that I didn't say "medical ignorance and poor taste in men:" while the XY would be an extraordinarily poor informed choice in a man, he is positively gifted at making himself out to be the lovably bumbling victim of a series of unfortunate events rather than the damnably lucky bastard who only ever pays for 5% of his--potentially at least partly unwitting given that his mother is a real disaster of a human being--crimes against humanity), and I would hope she'd have the levity to take my impression of her with a huuuuge grain of salt given that it is largely based on the second-hand impression three inherently unreliable sources I gave birth to have passed on in the information they occasionally volunteer about her. Any negative feelings I have toward her over anything OTHER than the ear candle (and her purported inability to enforce a civilized bedtime, although it's not really her fault my ex made of habit of dumping three children who aren't hers and who she probably really wants to like her on her until I put the kibosh on that) are largely not her fault. I hate the fact that the XY will potentially marry her and have access to her funds to make my life difficult in court, but ultimately if that comes to pass it'll eventually suck more for her (when it finally dawns on her that she's been had to the tune of thousands by a conman) than it will for me (I hate court and can't afford it, but I'm not genuinely concerned that the XY would stand a chance in hell of prevailing on matters of custody and that's what I care about most--money is just money and will always suck for me due to student loans, debts the XY ran up in my name, and the medical bills everyone I love is prone to). If anything I feel sorry for her, and maybe that in and of itself would piss her off, but it's the honest truth and no more or less than I'd tell her to her face if she asked me directly. I think if we got trapped in an elevator, independent of the XY's existence in both our lives, we'd probably emerge fast friends. I hope the XY really HAS changed since our divorce, mostly for my kids' sake but also for hers (although I'm extremely skeptical). The worst thing that might come of her reading my blog is the XY getting pissed at me for having it, which would be nothing new (he hated my blogging during our marriage) and not likely of any consequence to me, so no, I'm not worried about it. Maybe I should thank my subconscious for the subtle reminder to be kind, just in case?

*   Money woes: GAH. Hotter is being sued by a hospital, which given that some of the plates are already wobbling menacingly on top of their sticks and I only have two arms, makes me feel positively ill. Life goes on.

*   The headache, in case anyone was wondering, sucks but I can't say it wasn't worth it, so at least there's THAT :)

*   How are all of YOU?

so you think you know me

   It may surprise some of my longterm readers, who know me to be verrry secretive about my identity online, to hear that offline I am...less so. In fact, if you know me IRL ("in real life" for those of you who are not up on your acronyms) and are even minimally computer-literate and have access to the innernet you can probably find your way to this humble website (HI THERE!) without even being exceptionally nosy and resorting to anything like peeking over my shoulder when I'm at a computer. Which, you know, is fine (Googling, not snooping; snooping is just rude). Curiousity is human and this is a public blog, so I don't write anything on here that I'm not comfortable with anyone in the world reading (nota bene: this does not necessarily mean that anyone in the world will be comfortable reading it). I've gotten to where I'm pretty happy with who I am, and while I blog for a specific audience (namely the online community of friends I've come to think of as an extended family of sorts, and their friends, and pretty much any like-minded individual who might be able to relate to any part of my somewhat unusual life and want to become my friend) that not everyone is a part of, everyone is welcome to come here and read about my life.

   I blog and comment on other people's blogs pseudonymously, which means that I always use "MFA Mama" as a signature but don't connect MFA Mama with the "_______ ________" you know and love (or loathe). I don't name my hometown (or even my state). I don't say what kind of car I drive. I don't post pictures of myself (unless I am wearing a mask or something), or my children, or my home (you might see the edge of some brick or siding, but you won't see my house). This is not because I am ashamed of anything I write here, but rather because while I love the innernet, it is like offline society in that it has its crazies, and I don't want someone showing up at my front door with an (ideally metaphorical, because geez) axe to grind because of something they read on my blog.

   And then there's work. I'd prefer that employers make decisions about me as an employee based on my resume, comportment in a professional setting, and job performance, not on what I write in my own time on my personal blog. That's not the same thing as this blog being a secret. If I work for you, you're as welcome as the next person to read this for entertainment value; if you're here because you're worried that I'm a liability, though, not because you enjoy my writing, I can save you a lot of unnecessary reading by saying that if I'm writing about my job it's ONLY in the context of my own personal life (i.e. what I ate for lunch or how much it sucked that I had a wardrobe malfunction). I give my various employers non-identifying pseudonyms so that readers can tell them apart, but I do NOT name them, go into identifying detail about their locations, products, or logos, or discuss any non-public information I am party to as a worker. I don't blog while I'm AT work (unless it's from my phone, on my lunch while I am off the clock), I don't blog from work computers, and I NEVER post pictures of co-workers, buildings I work in, or products I work with or on. I may mention that someone I work with is an amazing person, or that they are really unpleasant to me, but if I do then I do it in such a way that their own mother wouldn't recognize them based on anything I've written. 

   All of that said, while I don't think I say anything on here that I shouldn't, just like random people on the innernets, people (like you!) who know me offline (or even work with me) might have a problem with something I write, either because they just disagree with me on an issue I write about or because they feel I've said something inaccurate or unfair about them/our common employer. If it's the former, we may have to agree to disagree. If it's the latter, consider that a) nobody you know is likely to read this and recognize you unless you point them toward it, and b) even if you or someone else "see" you in something I've written, it may not actually be about you (I've written things on here before and had a person THINK I was talking about them when actually I wasn't...when you take the kind of pains I take to be vague you sometimes end up writing the prose equivalent of a Rorshach print). That said, if you're absolutely certain I wrote about you and it bothers you (and you are NOT my ex-husband or the known sociopath I refer to on here as "Stalky," in which case you may blow your gripes out your respective arses), then speak up! My e-mail address is on the "About" page, and that's how I prefer to discuss Things Blog-related. If you want to discuss it "off-record" then that's okay, too. Call me if you have my phone number, or just ask me to speak with you privately (unless I am on the clock and need to be working). I've taken things down out of respect for people's feelings before, and I'm not an unreasonable or unfeeling person.

   Of course, you CAN also fly off the handle and go the "tattling" route. Since my ex already hates me about as much as is humanly possible and doesn't have the money to sue me anymore, and I don't have any living family who would care about my blog and aren't already aware of it, that leaves my employers. If you don't work for them and you want to run your mouth about someone who does and is a good worker, they probably won't care. If you DO also work for them, this probably STILL won't have the desired effect, and may even make YOU look worse than it makes ME look. I don't blog about most people; to be noteworthy you either have to be great or terrible. People rarely have a problem with praise, so let's say you work with me and you're terrible. You go on my blog and read my account of someone being utterly horrid to me, decide I meant you, get upset, and take it up with our common employer. They will most likely either brush you off (because, really? You kids settle this, the growups are busy!) or read my blog, which just tells them that a) since I don't identify anyone or anything having to do with work, you can't tell the difference between something that hurts your own personal feelings and something that ought to affect my ability to earn a living and b) you're nasty enough to co-workers that I may have actually been talking about you. MAYBE (IF they read far enough) they think a little less of me when they read that I am in default on my student loans and have a potty-mouth. MAYBE. But...that's pretty much it, aside from my netting some additional ad revenue, since page-views from unfriendly eyeballs pay just as much as page-views from well-meaning eyeballs. And that's if they even bother reading. I once had occasion to discuss my blog with one of my employers, because a co-worker found it (I suspect through nosiness, not Googling, although I don't know or really care) and had a problem with something I said on here but evidently didn't want to take it up with me personally (although apparently that is what The Powers That Be ultimately suggested they do). Due to the emotionally-charged (on the part of the other party) nature of that eventual...let's be generous and call it a conversation rather than a vitriolic tirade I patiently listened to (after which I did, in fact, apologize for the party in question being upset and offer to take down anything that upset them)...I went of my own volition to the source of my paychecks and said "hey, I have a personal website where I discuss my life, my family, my pets, and my opinions on products with which we are in no way affiliated, and someone read that I didn't enjoy their treatment of me and is upset. I don't name names, mine or anyone else's, and I'm pretty careful what I say on there, but they seemed to feel I deserved firing...would you like the URL?" Their answer was something along the lines of "That sounds more like a personality conflict, which we don't like to get involved in as a general rule. I'm sorry to hear you're dealing with one because they are never fun but no, of course you are not fired, you are a good employee. As far as the website...uh, no offense, but we don't really care about your blog." 

Figure One: Probably not an appropriate gift for Boss's Day, but it doesn't mean I wasn't tempted!

   Bottom line, this isn't 2004: companies know that people have personal blogs and use social media, and as long as they aren't discussed in a manner that negatively impacts their bottom line they don't really care.

   What if you aren't great OR terrible, and I've never written about you or even anyone who remotely resembles you, or maybe you ARE great or terrible but I haven't written about you yet, and you're just WORRIED that I'm going to write about you? That's easy. Ask me not to, and I'll never mention you, by a pseudonym or no. You don't have to be uncomfortable around me or fear my bloggy wrath (yes, even if you're terrible--I am perfectly capable of just telling my spouse what an asshole you are and leaving it off the innernet like a grownup). Chances are I'm not nearly as popular and widely-read as you might fear if you think you're on my bad side anyway.

   Maybe you just happened upon this website kind of by accident, succumbed to curiousity, and read something you wish you hadn't. Maybe you read one of the posts where I've reviewed sex toys and you don't want to think of me in a sexual context because I am a chubby, frumpy mom and you are turned off by women/just the dental hygienist who works on my teeth twice a year/against sex toys for religious reasons. Maybe I talked about a traumatic experience I had that is similar to one you had, and it's something you are less open about than I am and never, ever want to talk about. The beauty of my putting it all out here the way I do (for both of us) is that I can't necessarily tell you're reading (sure, I have Sitemeter and can see if someone in my hometown uses a Mac to spend six hours reading everything I've ever written about my relationship with my husband, but lots of people use Macs in my hometown). If you don't mention it, I won't even know, and I'm not any more likely to just bust out with "so have you TRIED the vibrator that hooks up to your iPod because WOW!" or "have you ever been beaten by a domestic partner?" in casual conversation than I was before you read my blog, even if you do cop to it, because that would be weird. So you don't have to avoid me, or give me the suspicious side-eye every time we meet.

   What if you found this blog, and you think you know me offline, and I've never written about you, or have but only to say how fabulous you are, and you enjoy my writing and look forward to each new post but don't know if I know that YOU know? Well, then you don't have to say anything to me about THAT either, but I kind of wish you would so that we can be friends and I can send you hilarious e-mails about some of the things I have too much discretion to discuss publicly. Or, you know, we could have a cup of coffee and talk in person about stuff like backyard chickens and baking with coconut oil. It probably wouldn't be very rewarding, because I'm even lamer in person than I am on the innernet, but I'm game if you are :)

Wednesday afternoon randoms

*   I've been sleepy all day. This morning after the boys left Hotter and I went and got the oil changed and the tires rotated on the MFA Minivan, and its' blown headlamp replaced. The couch in the mechanic's waiting room would've been perfect for spooning on had it not been in public. Dang it. I took a nap after we got back but still...sleepy.

*   There's drama with the XY's pending nuptials. Apparently HE wants a pre-nup (I...okay. I mean...he has nothing and is neutered and she's a rich idiot who's already dumb enough to be signing up to spend a six-month childless-divorce waiting period the rest of her life as the third Mrs. XY...I...this just breaks my brain, sorry, go on without me) and they're having a hard time putting together enough lawyers an affair to remember on less than two weeks' planning time or something. Too bad last weekend the XY had everyone cohabit at CATHERINE'S! place because he'd be getting married before his next weekend so NYAH! This puts me in a bad spot: either just overlook last weekend and the XY's attitude and send them, which then looks like I condone this b.s., or don't send them, which incurs Hotter's wrath (I'm working all weekend and he'd be lone wolf with the kids) and means Hotter and I have the expense of feeding/entertaining them all weekend.

*   I don't guess it really matters at this point since Hotter has devoted all morning to being preemptively peevish and I won't be home to hear the bitching this weekend either way, but I wish it was easier to make everyone else happy.

*   Tomorrow I start my new job at PseudoCorp. Whoo!

*   Said job is very intimidating, as is PseudoCorp, and it's a little scary. I very badly want to do well at this job, because I'm awfully impressed with the company, but it's going to take a LOT of effort. Boo.

*   I still feel crappy but not bad enough that I'm letting myself off the hook with running today.

*   Groan.

*   How are all of YOU?

the one with neither a wedding nor a funeral, but the potential for both (ETA further clarification)

*   I found out today via text message from Hotter who heard it from the boys that the XY proposed to CATHERINE! and she said yes.

*   Hotter's first words to me when I walked in the door from work were "BIG CHILD WANTS TO MOVE IN WITH THE XY AND CATHERINE!" I had carefully composed my face into a mask of gracious good cheer on the drive home but it shattered right then and there and I nearly started sobbing. Instead I did what I do when I'm furious or overwhelmed, which is become eerily (according to people who know me well) calm and pleasant (people who don't know me well are often soothed into stepping even FURTHER into it, which is...often problematic). "He does?" I asked, calmly."THAT'S WHAT HE SAID!" It turned out that yes, that is what Big Child SAID, but what Big Child MEANT, and CLARIFIED to Hotter immediately afterward, was "now we can stay at CATHERINE!'s house on Daddy weekends." But Hotter...well, let's just say he needed some prompting even then to drop his FUNNY, FUNNY JOKE because OMG HOW FUNNY?**

*   Show of hands: who thinks that was funny?

*   I started running again. I had actually planned to start running again before getting The Text Of Doom, because I found a really cool app that had inspired me. Good timing! I can now tell you that I ran exactly 1.8 miles and did not die. Win!

*   As I was doing that thing I do where I attempt to explain after a cooling-off period of several hours just how badly awry the joke had gone and Hotter was doing that thing where the nascient awareness of just how badly he's screwed up turns him surly and prone to accusing me of overreaction, my in-laws rolled up. My stepson, who had ALLEGEDLY been told how conservative I am about what I allow my children to be exposed to, was sporting some truly epic body piercings, a giant new tattoo, and a hickey. I'm sure my ex's lawyers will be TERRIBLY AMUSED.

*   Then my water heater exploded. 

*   I quit life.

 

**   This is the brain damage. It makes him sometimes lose track entirely of what is/isn't appropriate, funny, or hell, MINIMALLY ACCEPTABLE. I don't hold it against him because then I might as well get pissed at him for having a seizure, but I also don't particularly ENJOY it when Hotter stabs me in the heart with the edge of his brokenness. My marriage is not in trouble or anything. I just needed to vent.

****************************************EDITED TO ADD******************************************

   Okay, here is the thing with the piercings/tattoos and me going all finger-wagging grandma on you. I have nothing against piercings or tattoos or people who have them. Hell, back in the day when I was a whippersnapper I had some unconventional piercings of my own (okay, nothing THAT exciting, just a bunch of cartilage piercings in my ears) and if it weren't for my connective tissue disease and my shitty, MRSA-prone immune system I'd have my nose pierced . But the state I live in is SUPER-conservative. This is the bible belt, and statistically speaking there's a very good chance the judge who presides over custody decisions involving my family is a biblical literalist. People in this state, I am sad to say, have lost their kids PERMANENTLY just for being gay. My custody order has a MORALITY CLAUSE, for fuck's sake. And on the very day I found out the XY was marrying money the very last thing I needed was to have someone whose appearance would doubtless make our custody judge shit a brick, an anvil, and then an entire litter of kittens show up on my doorstep.