on tattoos

Okay, I'll admit that this is kinda cool to look at, but, really?  Tattoos are forever--this is a funny gag thing, but forever?  To have a face on the back of your head--forever?  I'm just not feeling it...
But obviously, others do feel it.  Take, for instance, this one:

or this one:
then there's cyclops
Really Dude?  That's the message you'd like the world to get from you?

Now some are downright gross--like these:

But at least they can be covered by a shirt (somehow I'm thinking they're not though).

Then there're the one's that make ya feel kinda sad inside.  This is a tortured human being:

Finally, my favorite, those that incite laughter--immediate, uncontrolled laughter:

I just love that pig one.

Jen ;-)

Maybe He'd Prefer this Sexy Babe

I think she actually think this looks good/sexy/whatever.  Whatever, indeed.

And a Lady Friend for the Big Fella

Do you think these two would find each other attractive?  Why do they do it?  Does it make them feel good?  Do they think it makes them look good?  It certainly isn't for health reasons, because, really?  It seems that all the drugs it took to get them to this point would undo any healthiness of the exercise itself.  So, again, I ask, why?

Indescribable

 Really, big fella?  Really?

tea parties

The few.  The proud.  The Marines.  Well, the former Marines in this case (be sure not to say "ex" Marine to one--you will be swiftly corrected).  I have three of them in my immediate family so I know the personality well.  They're gritty and tough.  They curse easily and often.  They don't hesitate or panic in an emergency situation.  In fact, they just never hesitate or panic for any reason.  They are organized, together, some might even think OCD, but it's just the training--the behavior is all learned, not born into them (though I do think only certain type people join 'The Corps' in the first place).

These men, tough as the nails they've swallowed, grittier than the sandpaper they've wiped their bums with, seem to lose all of their Marine Corps teaching when they enter my home.  What, for instance, would the d.i.'s at Parris Island say if they were to see this:

 Yessir, Gary has been at the mercy of those Parris Island di's.  The yellow thing he's holding in his hand is a tiny teacup (tiny in comparison to his catcher's mitt hand)  Really, Gare?  What if I were to send this to them right now?  No?  Well how about this:

Not just one "former" Marine here in the pink, purple and mint green room having a tea party at a Tinkerbell table, but two.  Well, okay, one is sitting on the fairy bed, the other is at the Tink table.  Tough?  Gritty?  Really?  I can only wonder how many rounds were fired into enemy territory between the three of these fellas (We've got Vietnam, Desert Storm, aw, who the hell knows where else). These tough, gritty Marines. 

I certainly hope the enemies of the US never see this blog and see where the weakness lies in our soldiers.  They won't bend for guns, land mines, grenades, torture.  This is what it takes, right here.

A persistant (they never immediately agree to enter the tea party room) seven year old girl who will serve them plastic food on tiny dishes.  I hope the enemy never finds out!

tvo-ing Zac

I never understood what my teachers meant by, "she has so much potential if she'd only use it."  I understand now.  Fully.

Zac was born knowing.  He knew the secrets of the universe.  He would look into your eyes and you knew he was looking into your very soul.  My aunt held him for about 5 seconds then handed him back saying he made her feel uncomfortable (I guess she wasn't as comfortable with her soul as I am with mine).  He rarely cried.

As he grew he remained undeniably sweet.  He cared about all living things (neighborhood boys would throw worms into ant piles and Zac would pull them out and pick off the ants before returning them safely to the grass), and in turn, animals of all sorts always gravitated to him.  When he was four I had another baby and she was difficult to put it mildly.  She would gouge his cheeks with her fingernails when he held her.  He never got upset, he would just gently take her hand, his face bleeding, and run it smoothly down his cheek telling her to touch nicely.  His voice, his innocence, his kindness, his dancing, his walking, everything about him made my heart swell until it felt as though it would explode from my chest.

When I found out I was pregnant, Zac's dad went his way and I went mine.  I loved this man so deeply that I was just happy to be able to keep a piece of him in this child--I knew I could do it alone, I had been alone with Alex almost all the four years of her life (she was 6 months old when her father and I divorced) and felt like I did a pretty good job of it.  I think I did a pretty good job with Zac too.  The first 6 years anyway.

The summer of Zac's sixth year everything changed.  I got a letter from Rob, his father, to whom I had been sending pictures of Zac every so often over the years.  He regretted the last 6 years and wanted to get to know Zac and would that be okay.  Okay???  Did I mention how deeply I loved this man?  Within a couple of weeks I was on my way to Virginia, where he lived, from our home in Florida.  It went wonderfully.  Zac accepted him immediately (though previously he had been told that God was his father, and when I showed him Rob's picture his eyes grew huge and he asked, "This is God????" So there was a bit of confusion at first).  They played at the park, cooked French toast, made paper airplanes...they fell in love with each other.  I fell back in love too, though I guess I had never fallen out.

For the next 8 months we visited each other, making the 700 or so mile journey either way.  Then I started the academy to train for my new job.  Then I met Mike and we started dating.  I loved Mike immediately but I loved Rob too.  I called Rob and asked him if we would ever end up together, should I wait or move on with my life?  He said I should do both.  So I did.  I continued to date Mike and we ended up getting married a year or so later. I hoped every day for Rob to call me and stop me from spending my life with anyone but him. Tragically my feelings for him were always one-sided. Rob found someone else too.  Now Zac would visit on his own.  And this is where the trouble began.

Zac has a sister, who was 17 at the time and absolutely without morals, conscience, or kindness.  Zac was a toy to her.  And Rob allowed it because, "Aw, Tori loves him" I was told.  She loved to experiment on his hair--blue, green mohawk, bleached white, purple--name it, she did it.  She pierced his ear (which he promptly removed when he got home and it was discovered).  She brought him to a beer party (I'm being kind calling it a beer party) when he was 9--it was the first time he got drunk.  She had him smoking cigarettes around that time too I now know.  I found this out years later of course.  Here's Zac post Rob/Tori:

Not so cute anymore--this was obviously taken by Tori who thought it was the cutes thing ever.  I despise her and what she did to him. I despise me for allowing it.  Notice he doesn't even have top teeth?  My throat is swelling just looking at this picture.  He was so good and so innocent that it just seems so much more of a crime to see him become this.

Rob also had a pedophile that lived next door.  Zac would spend days over there with "his friends."  When I learned that "his friends" didn't even live there, nor were they any relation to the man living alone there, I told Rob if he didn't stop the visits, I would--with police help.  Zac stopped going there but too late, I'm afraid.  He swears nothing ever happened to him.  Even if it didn't, he witnessed it happening.  This is when he began the cutting--big gouges out of his inner arms using opened paper clips.  He began fighting.  He always fought the bullies at least--he was a champion for the underdog.  It got out his aggression in a way that wouldn't hurt anyone else.  He still had his good heart--that never stopped.  Drugs started as well.  He was 11 by now--and this is just when it all became glaringly apparent, who knows how long it had actually been going on.

I took him out of school and homeschooled, brought him to several psychologists and things got a little better.  But not really.  Only the cutting stopped.  I really thought he would be the death of me.  My heart if not my body.

Before he started high school I thought maybe if I get him out of the bad that was Florida--away from his thug friends and horrible schools, maybe, maybe, I can save him.

Our first year in NC was rough--he hated me and wasn't afraid to show it.  Then he began to make friends.  Lots of friends.  He was Mr. Popularity and he was loving it.  Sophomore year he started sports, going to games, hanging out with his good friends.  I fixed it! 

He's in his junior year now and he's back to being sweet still, but he's smoking again, I smell it on him all the time.  I confronted him with it and he says he wants to stop but can't.  At 16?  Really?  What the hell do I do?  He's 16, I can't babysit him throughout the day at school and after.  How do I fix it.  Can I?  Is it all too late.

But wait.  I came up with something.  How awesome it would be if I could tvo Zac, rewind to 6 and erase the rest, then start over from 6.  I love Zac.  I love who he is.  I just don't very often like the things he does.  I feel like an absolute failure as a mother.  How could I have allowed him to get to where he is?  With an addiction at 16.  Anyone out there know how I can redeem myself as a mother and person?  Anyone out there know how to tvo people?   Please???  Because this is how Zac feels everytime he looks at my face and I can't take it another minute:

Because it's how I feel when I look at my face too.

Jen ;-)

The Walrus and the Exerciser

Late night infomercials.  Damn them.  P90X--damn Tony Horton.  Damn it all to hell man.

At some point last December my near perfect husband Mike took great interest in an infomercial that he had seen several times at night after I had gone to bed (undoubtedly flipping through the channels looking for a little skin).   It was an infomercial for P90X, an extreme "muscle confusion" diet and exercise program.  He'd been getting the 30-something spare tire and sprigs of white hair sprouting through his mane of ebony.  He was feeling his age.  Being 5 years older than him (yes, I'm what is referred to as a cougar), getting ready to hit the big 4-0, I, too, was feeling my age.  My oldest daughter also had a big fancy wedding planned in April, on the beach, in Florida.  I had to look good for that.

So we agreed to order it and start the program at the start of the new year.  I figured 4 months would be plenty of time to shape up the flab it took me 40 years to accumulate.

January 1st, I began the high protein, low carb diet along with the insane exercise (I wouldn't have started them together had I known how difficult each would be in its own right).  For weeks I could not walk properly, I could not move my arms, never mind lift the 50-100 pound children I am required to lift to do my job, I could barely even turn my head.  Muscles hurt that I didn't know I had.

After 2 or so weeks, though, the pain wore off and the routine became tolerable (I never quite got to easy or enjoyable).  I lost almost all of the unwanted fat and inches just in time for the wedding.  I arrived in Florida almost 2 weeks before the wedding, feeling like I was 20 again.

Did I mention the family my daughter married into owns a Greek restaurant and bakery?  All bets were off.  Twice I went for a run on the beach--in three weeks.  Exercise halted.  Restaurant + bakery = diet halted.  Let's face it, I ate like a damned pig.  By the day of the wedding, I could barely zip the dress I had fit so easily into just 2 weeks earlier.  Breathing during the ceremony and reception was difficult, but I sure as hell found a way to eat more.  And more.  And more.

I got back to North Carolina and ate like I had been in a Chinese prison for 10 years.  Toni (the pink cow muppet), was thrilled to say the least because as she often put it from December to April, "my diet was killing her!"  She was even in awe of my new found appetite.

School let out in early June and I had put back on more than I had taken off.  Working for the school system I had all summer off, so guess what I did?  I started P90X again.  Mike never stopped.  Jerk.

It kicked my butt all over again, and again, I got used to it and felt great by the end of the summer.  School started back almost 2 months ago now and guess what?  I'm back up to where I started.  I have belly rolls again when I sit.  I know this because I feel them with one hand as I shovel tiny powdered donuts into my pie hole with the other.

I looked out the window just a little while ago and there went Mike running up our street (effortlessly, I might add), which is a good 45 degree incline--I pant walking up it.  I ate another Teddy Graham and clicked on another ad for Toni or Gary's blog.  I felt the rolls.

I set down the laptop and walked to the window where Mike was now doing push-ups on our steep driveway (again, 45 degree incline)--with his feet higher than his head on the incline.  Damn he looked good.  I ate whatever was in my hand this time and felt the rolls--standing up.  Jiminy Cricket, now they don't even go away when I'm standing.  Really?  I still have them in a verticle position???

I guess the time has come for this walrus to take a pleasant walk along the briny beach.  Tony Horton, here I come!

Jen ;-)

Toni, Jen, and Madison

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Hk_-fOFTMk&feature=related

Okay, whoever so shall watch this video, will know my daily life Monday through Friday from 7-4.  This is my job and the time I spend with Toni (who I might add, is the only person alive who has the ability to get me through said job), Evelyn, Jackie and the 8 children in our care.

I came across this video as I searched for a muppet I could liken to Toni.  Toni is the teacher in our crazy, chaos filled room.  She sings the backup to the songs our children sing.  There's really nothing else to do when they sing, but give em a bit of back up.

I labeled the singer Madison due to the wild red hair and outta sight dance moves, but he actually sounds more like, say, Jared or Savanah.  But the singing and running away, then in their face, then running away--definitely Madison.  Then I thought of his touch of insanity and thought, oh, I don't know, Iris (mostly it was the stalker call at the end)? Or, do I dare say it...her replacement?

I love our classroom and I love having Toni to lead it--who else could?  She makes me not even mind so much being bitch-slapped by a 7 year old or being trapped in a bathroom with a child drooling on my head as I kneel to clean the uncooked pumpkin pie textured, knock out everyone in a mile radius odored poop from the entire lower half of his body and the surrounding floor.  Even being groped as I unsuspectingly lift a child into or out of a wheelchair and sometimes having poop, puke, drool, snot or food on my clothing is okay.  I don't mind as long as I have my Toni. 

Toni makes it all light.  She finds the fun in the most mundane, difficult, or annoying situations like diaper changing (really, Toni? you had children that you changed before working here?), school officials who spoke down to her and everyone else in our room (picture chin and lower half of mouth protruding while speaking like Thurston Howell from Gilligan's Island--Toni's impression makes even the children laugh until breath loss), and being beaten up by children under the age of 8--kicked, slapped, bitten, punched, spit on, and basically driven nuts.

Yup, it's all okay because I have my pink bull to sing back up.   And make me laugh.  And laugh with me.  And wonder, really? when someone calls us to say, "Mahnahmahnah."

Jen ;-)