Espadrilles And Eating Dirt and Matches

The Nebraska State Fair is coming up this weekend. I hate that fucking thing. I mean, I love to GO to the fair and spend time looking at the animals, and eating them and stuff, but I hate the fucking fair time. As if I don't segue into my dad's death every other time, I'm going to do it again now.

Three years ago, it was getting close to fair time. My dad loved the state fair. Absolutely loved it. He went every year. Then, my mom came along and that all changed. She hated the fair. Couldn't stand the heat, couldn't stand the crowds, blah blah blah. I know it sounds weird to say my mom came along 3 years ago, when I'm 34, but my mom and dad knew each other and "dated" on and off for 30 years. She moved in with him in 1996. Finally.

Well, dad was really disappointed that he couldn't go to the fair. He said, "I'd really like to go, Kid, but your mother hates it and won't go." He always called her "your mother". That kills me. Anyway, since Ron and I ALWAYS went to the State Fair, I said, "No problem daddy-o. You can go with us. We'll pick you up and squire you around in a wheelchair." My dad had most of his foot missing by then. He walked on this bizarre espadrille type boot, but he wasn't quite getting around very well.

"You know what? I'd really like that!" His face lit up. We made a date.

Two weeks later, he was dead.

The 3rd anniversary of my dad's death is on September 22nd, and typing that is still like a knife in my heart. Not only in my heart, but behind my eyes, in my belly, through my brain, and kinda around my spleen area.

See, I never in a million years guessed that my need for him would be a craving. A physical craving, like when people are deficient they eat things like dirt and matches. I NEED my dad. I sometimes feel like I cannot go on another minute without him. Then, I hear his voice saying, "In time, Kid. In time. We'll meet again." That always makes me feel better. But what am I supposed to do right now?

It was hard for me...watching him lose his foot a little at a time. Then he had to go through dialysis. How he hated that. Then, he lost the lower half of his leg. He never walked out of the hospital after that. But, you know what? Part of me says that he would have died from giving up anyway. He was very depressed after losing most of his foot. I can't even imagine what losing his leg below the knee would do to his psyche. I often tell myself that he wouldn't have wanted to live like that, but at this point, I don't care what he would have wanted. I wanted him to live. I don't care if I would have had to push him around in a grocery cart. I'd take him no matter what.

I never saw him without the leg. My poor dad. God. **tears******tears*****tears****tears***

Sometimes it's still so raw. Like a paper cut you kinda forget you have, until you bash it against something over and over again. Some days are good. I either don't think about it, or I remember the good times. But, there are days where I just relive everything, and think about him. What a guy he was. He left an enormous hole in my life when he died.

Every once in a while, I'll dream about him, as I've indicated about 47 thousand times in different posts. Those dreams I remember fondly, because they are such good communication dreams. But lately, I"ve been having different dreams about my dad. Dreams where I wake up with his image on my eyes like a gossamer thread. Like cotton candy that's been pulled apart. I don't remember any actual conversation happening in these dreams, but his wonderful face is right there on my verge of sleep and awake. I think he comes and visits me in these dreams just to let me see that he's whole and robust again. Not necessarily to tell me anything, like he has in dreams past.

Isn't it funny how long I can go on and on about this? Sometimes when I blog about my dad, I just let the tears fall and pool down my bra. Sometimes I smile, sometimes I laugh out loud. Sometimes I fight the release of tears, because, to be honest, I'm not sure sometimes if they'll ever stop.

I guess sometimes I blame myself. Not for him dying, necessarily, but because I talked him into getting his leg removed. Well, "talked into" is kind of a loose term. It was the doctor saying, "We have to take the leg or you'll die." But, man. Sometimes I wish I would have convinced him to keep the leg, but is gangrene a good way to die? I can't imagine it is. He did what the doctors told him to do, and look what happened. They were supposed to remove his leg to save him, not to kill him. Catch-22? I suppose so. I don't like to think my dad had a death sentence no matter what, but we at least had to take the chance that taking the leg below the knee would save him from gangrene. He already had proven that he could get gangrene. That's how he lost first one toe, then three, then part of his foot, then his leg below the knee.

His doctor told me that if he didn't get the leg removed, he would slowly lose ALL of his kidney function. As it was, he was only at 10% function each. Then, he would slowly go blind. Then he would slowly die of the various ailments that come from being a diabetic. So, I guess the decision was made to, um, kill him quickly? I know there was no way to know that he would DIE after the surgery. They think he threw a blood clot. I guess if there's a way to go, that would be it. I'd choose to go that fast, to tell the truth. But, I'm just selfish enough to maybe wish that he wouldn't have agreed to the surgery. That he maybe should have slowly lost his kidney function, and gone blind, and...??? WHAT???? No way in hell would I wish that. I have seen people die slowly. It ain't pretty. Let me tell you. My wish for everyone would be to die quickly. I often tell people that I never had the chance to say goodbye and all the things that could have been said, but I'd give up saying goodbye a million times over before I'd watch Dad suffer for five minutes. When it comes to that aspect, I guess I have it good.

I do sometimes wish I'd been there during his last moments. Knowing what I know now, at least. Things happen for a reason, I'm convinced. I wasn't there, because I wasn't meant to be there. If I had been meant to be there, I would have been. But, knowing what I know now, I would have held his hand and told him that I loved him so much. And I'd miss him so much that I would want to eat matches and dirt. I would kiss his forehead and tell him to say hello to grandma and grandpa. I would tell him to visit me in my dreams. I'd tell him that he was my hero. I'd tell him I'd see him again someday. Then, when I knew he was gone, I'd scream and try to wake him up like I actually did in the hospital that terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. Because, see, I'm not that good at saying goodbye. Well, saying goodbye I'm not bad at, I'm bad at the concept of saying it forever.

So, that's my story of hating the State Fair. It feels good to spew this sadness in type. Takes it out of my brain. Puts it on paper. These are SOOOOOOO LOOOOONNNNNNNGGGG, but you know what? I have all this inside my head! Imagine! Sometimes there doesn't seem to be room for anything else, so I have to jettison this stuff in order to make more room. Plus, my dad reads these from heaven. Did you know that? It's true. (And, he's laughing about eating matches and dirt. See, when I was pregnant with my daughter, he laughed at me because I craved dirt and burnt wood. I wanted to EAT them. I never did, but I wanted to. )

So, Dad...I'm going to the fair for you again this year. Walk with me if you'd like. Just leave your Espadrille at home. I love you so much and miss you with every fiber of my being, my neighbor's being, my boss's being, the guy at the gas station's being, my Schwan's man's being...well, you get the idea. Good night. My love will fly to you each night on angel's wings.

rope burns

I am officially at the end of my rope. I don't expect any fanfare or confetti and balloons, but I am at the end of my rope, you know.

My sister called me and we talked about my car. I cried. I took a nap. I cried. I ate soup. I cried. I watched TV. I cried. I told my husband I can't stand being alone anymore. He said, "At night?" I cried. I've spent 1/2 the evening with tears running down my stupid cheeks. Thank God my mascara is waterproof. I thought it might be a way to release this sadness, but it just keeps coming.

I've desperately tried to think of ways to make myself feel better. Plastic surgery? Nah. Too expensive. Shopping spree? Nah. I already have everything. Run from the house screaming, shaking my head back and forth and possibly making a "lululululu" sound? Getting closer.

Alone Again, Naturally

I sit here, blogging and I don't know whether to be mad or sad. Part of me wants to cry, but part of me is just tired of it. I'm alone again...I have a husband who works nights and after 10 years, I'm just getting so tired of it. I have nobody to talk to most of the time. Well, except for my six year old daughter. I quietly go around the house, cleaning up, doing laundry, playing with her, reading books, playing on the computer, watching tv...When all I really want to do is have an adult conversation with my husband. Today, he had to go in early to cover a shift while everyone else served an arrest warrant. So, I exercised to Nip/Tuck and got madder and sadder.

The other sucky thing is that I love him more now than ever before, and every day I love him more, if that's possible. So where some people would say, "That's it. I'm going to get a divorce and find someone who will be able to spend time with me." , that's not an option for me. I'd never divorce him because, duh, I love him a lot. And, I know he loves me.

It might be easier if it were a co-dependency thing. You know, if I RELIED on him to make me who I am. But, that's not the case. I was on my own a long time before I met him, and I'm pretty sure I could do it again if I had to. But, I didn't necessarily sign up for this. Being alone four nights a week. Never being able to do anything because he has to get ready to leave for work by 8:15 p.m. Don't even get me started about the worries associated with his job. Am I being selfish? Hell yeah. I know I am. It's his living. I guess he could complain about me working days and never being home when he is. But, married life is so hard this way.

A few years ago, I had enough. I sat on the couch and cried and cried and cried about this plight. He told me he would find another job, if it meant me being happy. He would find something that was 9-5 so we could be together more. But, I can't allow that, either. He really likes his job. He's a supervisor, and he's worked really hard for that. I could never tell him, "Yeah. Great idea! Quit and get a normal job so we can spend some more time together. Maybe you can be stuck in a dead-end job like me!" It's a catch-22 for me, kinda. I would like to ask him to get a normal job so we can be together more, but then it shatters everything he's worked for in his career. How fair is that? So, I sit and sulk and get sad. It comes in waves. Some days it doesn't bother me at all, and some days it's all I can do to not just pack a suitcase and leave for awhile, just to get time to think about stuff. I can't force his hand in finding anything else. And, one time I told him that I resented that he lobbed that ball into my court. Why say, "If you want me to quit and find something 9-5, I will, if it means you being happy." Why not, "Hey, you're obviously miserable. I'm going to find a different job so we can spend more time together." It ends up being back on me. Which, I guess is fair since it's technically my problem.

I could go on and on, as I already have. I want to convey that there are some perks to this shift. He gets to spend more time with our kid, and he can take her to school and pick her up in the afternoons and be here for her until I get home. Our daycare is really limited since between the two of us, and with his days off, our daughter isn't in daycare a lot. Hardly at all during the school year, and just 3 days a week in the summer.

It's just a stupid dilemma and I don't know whether to shit or go blind. The problem is the helpless feeling of no control that I have. And, don't get me started on sleeping alone. I didn't get married to sleep alone. That part of it is ridiculous. Then, when he is home, I feel like I absolutely talk his ear off, because our time is so limited. Grrr!!! I can't take it anymore!!! I'm a selfish baby, and I know it. I just wanted the need to pout for a while.

An Open Letter to My Boss

Boss. Hi. It's me. The one who makes you look good. The one who doesn't question you about how you get to work only 38 hours a week and be considered a martyr. The one who carries you.

See, without all of us, you are nothing. You are not capable of doing the jobs we all do. When I'm required to sit down with you to tell you what I'm working on, you get out your paper and pen and manuals and guides and procedures. Then you look at me the entire time with that half grin/half grimace as I explain to you what it is that you should already know.

If you were to disappear off the face of the earth tomorrow, most of us could do your job. Easily. But, if something happens to one of us, it takes an act of congress to get coverage. You have to bring out the papers and pens and manuals and guides and procedures to figure out what the rest of us know. How to do our jobs.

You sit in your office all day and talk to your sisters. Don't pretend you're not. We've all got the body language down. You sit, facing the wall, slightly leaned over your armrest. We can tell. Yet, when one of us is on a personal e-mail or conversation, we get called on it. "What are you working on?" you'll say sweetly. "A personal conversation." I one time answered and got in trouble.

I'm not a rebel. Really, I'm not. I"m just all for personal accountability. Do you feel good at the end of your day? Do you rest easily, knowing that you're treating everyone as the capable, intelligent, non-kindergarteners they are? I knew it was getting bad the other day when I prayed to God to not let me kill you. Or, if I did, to please forgive me.

You try to micromanage our lives at work, yet don't have the slightest idea what we do. Then, when the big wigs come around, you end up looking like a rose while us sweatshop kids stand behind, head bowed, looking at the floor, not daring to raise our eyes. We fume silently, but are still grateful we have a job with benefits.

Another thing? When you piss one of us off, don't come back around and say, "Is everything okay?" You've gotten the truthful answer more than once (even from people besides me!) and you never liked it. Remember that time you picked a fight with me, then asked me if I was okay, and I looked at you with baleful eyes and said, "No, you've really upset me and I don't want to talk to you right now." Remember that? Remember that time you accused me and my colleague-no-longer of filling out that survey on you? Remember what a horrible survey that turned out to be, and it ended up being filled out not by your charges, but by your peers?? I never got an apology for that. I guess 8 years is long enough to wait. I'll give it up. Because I got the final pleasure, of once you found out that it wasn't us who filled it out, of telling you, and I quote: "You're not as popular as you think you are."

See, the thing is, you think you're everyone's darling. Ready with a dirty joke or a cute story. That may work on the people you meet with once a month, out of state, but it doesn't fly with me, babe. Whenever I see that side of you come out, I think of the time that you chewed me out for being "moody", knowing full good and well my dad had died suddenly TWO WEEKS EARLIER. You expect me to remember everything that was ever said at my company, since the beginning of time, but when I say I do something because you told me to, you tell me, "Well, I can't remember EVERYTHING."

I don't mind you as a person. Really, I don't. I mean, if I met you outside of work, and you weren't my boss, and I didn't want to throw battery acid on your head every day, and I had never worked for you, and you had never been mean to me, or transparent, or held false interest in my life, then I might consider you a relatively decent person.

*A story about the false interest...My grandfather had died, and I was devastated, seeing how I was raised by my grandparents. A week after his funeral (which she attended), she came up to me and said, (I am not kidding.) "Hi, Angie. How is your grandfather?" The girl sitting behind me was making desperate motions to make her stop talking, but she didn't get it. "Not too good. He's dead." I replied in my steadiest, calmest voice. See what I mean???

The good thing is, one of the higher ups knows how you operate. He told me one time, "If she doesn't have it written down right in front of her, she doesn't know it." Ah, right on the head, my superior. He knows you better than you probably wish he did. Most of his knowledge came from meeting with me. Another thing you don't know. That gives me some sort of sick pleasure. Once in a while, he'll stop by and ask how "things" *wink-wink* are going. I don't lie to him and he doesn't blow smoke up my ass. It's a neat relationship. You should take notes.

I could rant forever and ever. But, I won't. I've been working at this company for 15 years. I am currently in the process of looking for something else. I don't know if I'd ever be brave enough to accept another job at a different company, but you keep pushing me that direction. My co-worker says, "Stick with the devil you know." That could be true to an extent, but I was almost sick to my stomach the other day when a thought dawned on me, as slow and malevolent as bitter poison, "I'm in a dead end job." It was the first time that very terrible, hopeless thought crossed my mind. Nobody moves up in this company unless someone above them dies.

That's the other problem. Most of you are there because you happened to be there when the company started. Big deal. I've been there all of three years less than you, and know three times as much as you know. Hmmm..Do the math. Most of you aren't here because of your brilliant management skills. You're stonehenge. Nobody can figure out how you got here, or your purpose, but you're there.

So, my Stonehenge boss, I feel slightly better having vented on my blog. (Blog = slang for a web log, personal on-line diary or journal.) I did not do it on company time. I know the perfect job is out there for me somewhere. I heard God tell me that when I was praying for the strength to not kill you.

Let Our Children Go

I'm going to post about something that has been bothering me for a long time. Perhaps it's because it's been in the news so much lately.

Do these names ring a bell? Shasta Groene. Samantha Runnion. Danielle Van Damme. Polly Klaas. These were all children who were kidnapped and raped by pedophiles. One survived. The rest were killed and abandoned like they were pieces of trash.

If I had to write a general letter to the editor that all pedofiles would have to read, I would say this:

Pedophile:

This is to notify you that you are not allowed to touch, grab, fondle, fantasize about, grope, leer, or even come near any children. I know it's an illness, but so are a lot of other things. That doesn't give you a right to rape our children.

I cringe when the media refers to rape as "sexual assault". Kind of a prettier name for something so disgusting, don't you think? It's rape. Plain and simple. You take these kids against their will and rape them. You torture them. You kill them. I don't even want to know what you do to them psychologically.

When Shasta Groene was found alive, I rejoiced, but also wondered if it were me, would I just wish I had been killed? The things that poor child saw, not with just seeing her entire family killed, but also being raped repeatedly by you, a pedophile.

Here's the deal, Pedophile. I can't emphasize this enough. YOU DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO OUR CHILDREN. STAY AWAY.

If you do feel the need to rape, attack, kidnap, or murder, please do everyone involved a favor and shoot yourself in the head before you do any of those things. Truthfully, you are better off dead. It's a proven fact that pedophiles cannot be rehabilitated. As a matter of fact, most mental health professionals won't even treat pedophiles because you can't be cured and because you seem to get more ideas by spewing your poison out to a professional.

Sound harsh? How harsh does it sound compared to parents being told their child was found, naked, by the side of a road. Or in a landfill, or a dumpster, or an abandoned building. Harsh? Harsh is the punishment I believe my God has in store for people like you.

I don't want to hear a sob story of how you are like this because you didn't have a daddy, or your mom was emotionally distant, or how you were molested yourself as a child. I don't care. There are tens of thousands of people out there who have had the SAME EXACT problems and they're not perverted child molesters.

You know what? If you feel the desire to molest and or/kill, call me personally. I will kill you for you. I'm sure you're too cowardly to do it yourself.