It’s Public Record Now*

 *Updated for typo control

I am being a bit of a drama queen and I KNOW that I am being a drama queen but I simply cannot STOP myself from being a drama queen.  Why all the drama you ask?

 

Because I got a letter in the mail yesterday from a doctor’s office I once visited explaining that they had experienced a theft of backup billing records.  The letter read, “While we have no reason to believe your information will be accessed or misused, we are writing to inform you of the incident and the proactive steps we’re taking to help protect your personal information.  A box containing backup billing records” for the clinic “was stolen while in the possession of a courier working for an independent storage company.  Your name and Social Security number were included on the backup tapes!”

 

A thief now has all of my personal information including my Social Security number.  But I am not supposed to worry because the clinic that the information was stolen from has no reason to believe my information will be accessed or misused.

 

Isn’t the fact that it was stolen a reason to believe that the information will be misused?  How often does one steal another’s identity and not put it to good use?  It’s like having my blouse stolen from a laundromat and the thief leaving a letter advising me not to worry because the blouse isn’t her size.  No, it’s bigger than a blouse, its like having my car stolen and receiving a note from the dealership, “Don’t worry, we have no reason to believe that the thief will actually drive your car.”  Of course the thief will drive the car, why do you think my car was stolen?

 

See, I told you, DRAMA QUEEN!

 

Still, as a consolation prize, the clinic is paying for me to have a period of credit monitoring along with e-mail alerts of any key changes in my credit and a free credit report right now to see how good my credit was before it was stolen. 

 

It’s as if the letter from the dealership continues, “If we do find out that the thief has been driving your car, we’ll reimburse you for every mile driven.”  I don’t want a reimbursement, I want my car back.  I want my privacy back.  I want my identity back. 

 

You were warned that I was being a drama queen and you chose to continue reading so I have no guilt that you have to read my whining.  By the way, my credit score is/was 790.  It is/was considered Excellent.  Better than 98% of Americans.  Well, it WAS.  It’s public record now.

Does meme equal chain letter?

I’m so excited.  This is the first time in my adult life that I’ve played tag.  It’s true I should play more.  My friend over at Pieces of Gray tagged me to write this meme – whatever that is.  I know it as a chain letter.

How long have you been married?  Let’s see.  It depends on what you consider married.  If you want to know how long we’ve had the 1000+ benefits of legal marriage, then I guess you could say we’re involved in the longest engagement ever since marriage hasn’t come to Utah yet.  If you consider our commitment ceremony our marriage then we’ve been married since 1997.  11 freaking years. 

Where did you meet?  That would be Colorado State University where I was her boss.  But we don’t talk about that much.

How long did you date?  Don’t you listen?  11 freaking years.  12 if you count that first year that we were madly in love but not “dating.”

How old is she?  33

Who eats more?  Me.

Who is taller?  I am by a good 7 inches, but if you go by her high school basketball roster I have barely 2 inches on her.

Who is smarter?  We were both salutatorians, does that make us both the same?  Sometimes I lack a little common sense  (is it really that common?) so I’m gonna have to say her.

Whose temper is worse?  Her.  So much worse, but I’ve only seen it twice.

Who does the laundry?  Her.  I’ve agreed to, but she has a thing about the way I mix the colors so she lost the option to complain and won the option to do laundry.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?  I do.  If by “right” you mean “correct.”  Because I definitely sleep on the right side of the bed – as in the left side.

Who pays the bills?  She has a little of the ADD.  Our FICO scores improved greatly when I took this over.

 

Who cooks dinner?  We tag team but she definitely cooks dinner better. 

Who drives when you are together?   Her again. (She claims car sickenss, but I think it is more control issues.)

Who is more stubborn?  Well, that’s not very fair.  I was raised a Hackford so I really didn’t have a chance. 

 

Who kissed whom first? That would be my dad’s homemade wine kissed us both equally. 

Who is the first to admit to being wrong?  There really is no right and wrong. (She’s a Phd student who identifies as a “postie” so she doesn’t believe that there is Truth either.)  Even in my response you can see that I really will do anything to keep from admitting I’m wrong so I guess her. 

Whose parents do you see the most?  Mine.  Hers are more distant.

Who proposed?  Grandma Jo did.  She called me and said she wouldn’t have me shacking up.  So I called Kim and told her Grandma told us we had to get married.  It lacked a little of the romance. 

 

What’s her best physical attribute?  Have you seen those eyes?  Lips? Her hair?  Hell, she even has a great chin.  More than any physical attribute, she occupies a space on the gender continuum that is both masculine and feminine and really very hot. 

 

Who has more friends?   We opted for children.

 

What are you most proud of her for?  Her PhD.  Except she doesn’t have that yet, so I guess nothing.

Just kidding.  I am proud every day that she chooses to be with me.  I’m proud of the way she took care of me when I was pregnant and after the C-sections.  I’m proud of how she listens to – really listens – to the boys.  I got all kinds of proud. 

Who has more siblings?  Me with 3 beats her with 1.

Who wears the pants in the family?  That would so be our 6-year old Riley. 

 

Oh, and I’m gonna tag the Eric Echo on this because he has another half who I haven’t met so I’d love to hear the details. 

 

Connie

 

I am so fed up with a co-worker right now that I have to vent.  I know a blogger is NOT supposed to write about work for fear of getting dooced, but I can’t keep this in.  I’m annoyed, not by how little she does (although she does do very little), not by her attitude when I expect something from her (although it’s always negative), but because she chooses the most important, most busy moments to completely break down. 

 

And then she refuses to complete the job at hand. 

 

And ultimately my other co-workers and my supervisor completely enable her temper tantrums.

They offer up all kinds of excuses for her from “She’s been here longer than any of us, we should respect that” to “Connie doesn’t multitask well.  Why do you have to overwhelm her?”

 

Typically, I ask another co-worker who has known Connie for years to go talk to her.  Lauren takes a few minutes one-on-one, coaxes her, bribes her – Honestly I have no idea what soft touch Lauren has that I lack, but typically Lauren convinces Connie to comply.

 
In this case, I had finished up a late night at the office and I had to be back at the office by 7:30 the next morning for a board meeting.  I needed a few things done before the board meeting and I started doing them about 8 PM.   My boss was here, but Lauren had already left.  I needed 20 copies of a one-page document before the board meeting the next day.  There was nobody to sweet-talk Connie who was pissed off that I had given her such short notice on a project. 

 

Okay, I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Connie is our copy machine.

 

Our copy machine who my boss and I had to take completely apart, use a nail file to get intimate with her girl parts and finally,  had to remove a tumor of wadded paper and coax her into doing the one thing in her job description – make copies.  Okay, she does faxes too, but not very well. 

 

And this is not the first time I have had to do this.

 

I think it is time for Connie to retire. 

 

Why do we make the testiest pickiest most incompliant objects in our life female?  I met Connie back in 2004 and she was already Connie.  But I imagine she didn’t become female until she started refusing to do her work.  Hmm.  Not very cool.  I think I’ll start calling HIM Conrad or Conway.

The weekend is over but my headache is not

The weekend summed up by what we didn’t do.

We didn’t go to our neighborhood barbeque to meet out neighbors.

We didn’t go to our friend’s going away party.

We didn’t go to the Ani Difranco concert.

We didn’t go to our friend’s game night.

We didn’t do laundry.

 

The weekend summed up by what we did do.

We took Casey to the doctor with a 104 degree fever.

We bought a new washing machine to be delivered tomorrow.

We hung out with Grandma Jo with our fingers crossed that she doesn’t get what Casey has.

 

The weekend summed up by what Casey did.

Casey puked.

Casey coughed.

Casey slept.

Casey watched Dora.

 

The weekend summed up by what Riley did.

Riley went to a friend’s birthday party all by himself. 

Riley went camping without his Mammas. 

 

What we’re going to do now:  SLEEP

nothing more than a “poor me” post

    

Today was the first day in 7 weeks of my new job that I woke up DREADING the thought of going to work.  Let me add that this had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the contents of this post.  I got a mere 2 hours of good sleep last night.

 

Not for lack of trying thank you.

 

I actually put face to pillow in Riley’s bed about 10 PM.  They were both having a hard time shutting it off so I crawled in next to Riley, turned on their model moon and the model solar system that we got on clearance at Costco because it included Pluto which really has no place on a revolving sun-lit solar system anymore.  We turned on Dora La La La and within minutes Riley was asleep.   Casey didn’t fare so well.  He crawled out of his bed and onto the mat on the floor.  He got up and retrieved all of his stuffed friends, his special pillow, and his blanket from his bed and placed them on the mat.  He then decided the mat wasn’t so comfy and he returned all the items and himself to the bed.  He repeated this process. I went over to comfort him.  I rubbed his back.  I soothingly told him a story.  I was so effective I put myself to sleep with my calm demeanor.   About 11 Kim came in the room to find me crashed and Casey moving his gear from mat to bed.  She told me she’d take over and to crawl into bed. 

 

Only, as is often the case these days, once I was awake, I couldn’t go back to sleep.  I brushed my teeth, washed my face, medicated my cold sore that is still pissing me off on day 9 of it’s intrusion into my life and then laid in bed for 20 minutes before Kim finally arrived to announce that victory had finally been hers.  Casey slept.  She returned to her office to continue writing for a publication deadline 24 hours and counting.  It was an hour before Country Legends 107.5 finally lulled me to sleep with its relaxing twang.    

 

That was 12:30 AM.  I was awakened at 1:30AM by coughing in the babe’s room.  I was awakened at 2 by Kim coming to bed.  And again at 2:15 when Kim decided to bring Casey into bed with us because his coughing was getting worse – sounding croup-like –and since she was awake worrying about his breathing anyway, he might as well be between us where we can both really worry.  Somehow I managed to keep drifting back to sleep between the croupy coughs and gasps for air.  At 2:30 I was jolted awake to Casey puking all over me, all over Kim, all over the bed, all over Lambie. 

 

Kim, who got the majority of the splash, crawled into the shower with Casey and I gathered up pukey laundry and started a load of wash.  I sprayed Lysol.  I obsessed over the Clorox wipes.  I got the bed re-linened and then I got Casey out of the shower.  We all laid back down to sleep.

 

The coughing worsened.  Kim, who hadn’t even enjoyed a couple of hours of shitty sleep, was exhausted.  I got up with Casey, got him some juice and sat down to watch a Dora.  I took his temperature and freaked out at the 103.0 reading.  So I woke up Kim to ask her what to do.  She replied that I should give him Motrin.  Now, 6 hours later it seems so logical, but at the time the thought of medication didn’t even cross my mind.  Wet towels.  Motrin.  His fever lowered but didn’t break;   He finally fell back to sleep at 5 AM. 

 

At this point I decided to change the laundry.  Let me preface this by saying that our washing machine has been acting up for almost a week now.  Its balance has been funky and it’s been wailing a bit during the spin cycle.  We figured the whining was just a way to get attention, you know, like every other member of the household… But no, apparently the washing machine was also sick….and she chose this exact moment to completely SHIT THE BED. 

 

 

The cycle had indicated that it was complete, but the laundry inside was still chunky with regurgitated raisins and cheese crackers.  The laundry was soaking wet.  The spin cycle was obviously ineffective.  I turned the machine on for an extra rinse.  The basket turned in slow motion, moaning as she moved.  The water, the soap, the puke…it wasn’t going anywhere.  So I reached in and removed the items one at a time.  I wrung the water out as much as possible and laid the items over the shower and the sink, and a metal shelf.  It was the most disgusting thing I had ever done, and you have to remember that I have given birth twice.  Earlier, while we all swam in puke, my mind was on the babe and the vomit was less repulsive.  But 3 hours later, while every other member of the household slept, I washed vomit out of sopping wet sheets all by myself and I cried. 

 

And then I went to sleep. 

 

Casey Speaks

 

I know you should never compare your children.  Believe me as a middle child salutatorian (oldest sis was valedictorian) I know all this, but lets just say that a person were to have two children and…

 

When they were babies we used baby signs with both of them and by the time Riley was a year old he knew about 5 signs.  Shortly after that his signing vocabulary exploded.  His verbal speaking wasn’t far behind and by the time he was two he may have had some gross motor skill deficiencies, but the kid could talk!  Casey, on the other hand, thought it was hilarious to watch us sign, refuse to sign back, and use grunts and squeals to get what he wanted.  Or to use his older brother which works wonders as well.  When Casey was about a year and a half old he signed his first and only sign – he put his fingertips together to sign MORE – and then he expected everybody around him to clap.  This wasn’t just on his first occurrence.  Nope, the kid expected applause every time he signed it.   If we didn’t clap he would physically grab our hands and put them together.  After all, his effort clearly deserved a standing ovation.  He’s Advanced.  He’s Amazing.  But he isn’t as loquacious as his mammas.   In just the last few weeks his grunts and squeals have made more sense.  We’ve been able to translate more. 

 

“Bopple jew” is consistently apple juice.  “Waa waa” is water.  “chaysey” is how he says his own name.   A “Choo Choo” is a train.  A “yee haw” is a horse.  “Wammie” is his little stuffed lamb.  “Ibit” is a frog.  “Choc Chit” is chocolate.  A “Toot Nak” is a fruit snack.  “Dora La La” is his Dora music he likes to fall asleep to.  Sometimes even knowing a bit of his language can be confusing. “Eggo” is Diego, a potato or playdoh.  Just take a guess.  A “Chra Chu” is any kind of truck imaginable – a  trash truck, a dump truck, a big truck or a semi.  A “copta” is a helicopter or a tractor.  Don’t bother trying to distinguish.  They’re homonyms to this kid.

 

Casey’s gross and fine motor skills and critical thinking skills are top notch.  The kid can put together puzzles and loves to put train tracks together into advanced (for a two-year old) geometric designs.  He keeps tearing the pages of his pop up books and then cries.  He isn’t trying to be destructive.  He just wants to figure out how they work.  He’s a brilliant child.  But still he’s only two which is why sometimes Riley, Kim or I try to pull the wool over his eyes.  During the week Casey is used to taking his nap at the same time that all the other two year olds in the classroom go down to nap.  This kind of positive peer pressure has its impact and he’s developed his routine.  On the weekend we try to get Riley to lie down for a few minutes while Casey falls asleep.  Then Riley sneaks out of the room and Casey takes his nap.  This we call a “wink wink.”   It got its name because I would make a big production about it being nap time and I’d make sure that Riley saw me wink.  We usually pull this one off.

 

Tonight after dinner Riley wanted a second glass of lemonade but he knew that we wouldn’t want Casey to have another.  So he asked, “Mamma, can I have another glass of wink wink water?”  Casey indicated that he wanted the same by shoving his sippie cup into my hand.  “Oh, you want water too, Casey?” I asked.  “No Mom.” He replied while pointing to the lemonade “Chasey want wink wink waa waa.” 

I think the winking is a thing of the past.  Naptime may never be the same. 

 

Peeing Like a Princess

What a weekend.

Kim and I attended the Utah HRC Gala at Bruce Bastian’s house on Saturday. This guy made a little something called Word Perfect and now he’s the richest person I know. Not that I know him. But maybe I do. I mean, I’ve been to his house. This house mansion is amazing. We got VIP tickets which allowed us to tour the house and have a few drinks on the house. It was a beautiful and amazing event. In fact it was the kind of event that makes me really really want to be rich so I can throw a gala of my own. I’ll attach a few pictures, but first I have to just rave about the bathrooms. When I arrived, I thought it was a little tacky that there were port-a-pottties at the fancy schmantzy event, but then I got to thinking, what exactly is a person supposed to do when they host a gathering for over 800 of their closest friends? But then I got a good look and these potties were classy – running water – fresh flowers – a mirror – mints to freshen up the lots-of-vodka not-very-much cranberry breath. Royal Restrooms they were called and I highly recommend them. No this isn’t a consumer review. No, they aren’t paying me to say this. But when I find a portable pisser that’s good enough for me, I feel the need to share. Maybe Pride can rent them next year.

I’m even wearing a dress.

My friend Vee in the middle of a Kathy Najimy and Joe Solomonese sandwich.  Kathy Najimy was the keynote speaker – one of my new favorite straight people.  And Joe Solomonese is the President of the HRC.  I cornered him with my friend Joni and we chatted about HRC and ENDA and the need for an inclusive ENDA bill.  He seems like a great guy.  I mean, he didn’t go running – screaming – the other way.

It’s midnight, but we can’t seem to bring ourselves to leave the property.  The big classy gates will shut us out for another year and allow us to return only with the $300 entrance fee.  Nobody should have this much money, but since people do, I’m glad Bruce is one of them, and I am glad he’s on our side. 

What must you think of my parents?

 

If gender-bending were the root of gayness, I’d be straight.  If athletic prowess does it, then I’m just about as straight as they come.  And if people are gay as some sort of political statement, then all I can say is that is a lot of Vajayjay to prove a point commitment oh, and I’d be straight.  

 

If gayness is the product of bad parenting, I guess my parents should just feel lucky their terrible parenting produced a 75% success rate.

Think about the innuendo here. 

If it is true that bad parents make their kids gay and

It is true that Ruth is gay

Then is must be true that Ruth has bad parents.

 

And while it’s unconscionable to try to turn a kid gay, there is clearly nothing wrong with trying to make a person straight. I know, I’ve experienced it firsthand. The argument that heterosexuality is immutable but homosexuality is not simply does not hold up. 

 

But that’s not the point is it?  The point is that my son is a sissy.  And sissies aren’t valued.  And sissies are gay.  And sissies need to get their asses kicked so they can grow up and BE MEN.  Thankfully my boys have a wide-range of male role models in their life teaching them that there are all kinds of ways to be a man.

 

If putting on nail polish seals my son’s sexual fate, so be it.    

 

PS. I have deleted some comments and I will continue to delete comments that Kim asks me to delete.  It’s part of our agreement for this blog.  If she finds it hurtful, it disappears, just like that.  Abra Cadabra.

 

 PPS. I also feel compelled to clear up that the comments some of you found offensive are not from some anonymous stalker.  He doesn’t write comments to ruin your or my day. He is actually my uncle. And he’s a decent guy.  He doesn’t write in ALL CAPS to SCREAM AT ME.  I really don’t know why he does that, except that he may not be all that comfortable with the keyboard.  No, he’s not a very good speller.  But that isn’t a sign of weakened intelligence.  I really think if he were in school now-a-days he’d have a dyslexia diagnosis, but folks didn’t know too much about that when he was in school.  And despite him being a good guy, he seems to think that Riley is being turned gay because of his Mammas.  His comment was posted on the dual immersion video.  I am still not sure how learning Spanish turns a kid gay.  But then again, I don’t quite have the nail polish connection either.  I was feeling a bit of writer’s block before….but thankfully we cleared that up.  

 

 

 

 

Everything he learned in kindergarten in 44 seconds

He would be very proud if you’d notice the bow at the end.
I ended up filming this 4 different times and this is the best. The first time I had the camera on portrait. Watching the video made me feel like I should have had a V-8. The second time Casey jumped in to help out. The third time the phone rang. This take was by no means the best he could do, but my patience was wearing thin. After all, it was way past bedtime when I got the brilliant idea to to film his oral report.

The Pink Epiphany

 

Can a person be so proud that they’re exhausted?  Pride was fantastic.  We connected with old and new friends and had an amazing time.

 

I’ve been meaning to write a post that spotlights one of my best friends.  And I haven’t done that yet.  She wrote a really sweet note to me a few months ago, and instead of being moved by it, I edited it. And even though I didn’t mean to, I hurt her feelings by noticing the “their” and “your” instead of the “they’re” and “you’re.”  See, I’m a bitch that way.  But today, I’m putting all grammar aside to give a shout out to my friend V.

 

I met her 5 years ago in Alamosa Colorado and even though we shot each other dirty looks the first time we met, we were friends within the week.

 

She has an uncanny way of making me feel beautiful and desirable and special and smart and important and lucky.  Kim and I have this running joke that if we broke up, there’d be dozens of girls waiting to sweep Kim off her feet.  Dozens.  In my corner, there’d be one.  Just V.  But that would be enough.

 

Over the last several months V. has agonized over issues of gender. I don’t want to put words in her mouth about what it’s been like or what her issues are exactly.  But it boils down to this:  V. may one day choose to undergo a sex reassignment surgery.  Let me try this again.  V. will likely soon start living as a man. V. has already begun living as a man in some circles.  

 

I haven’t been very supportive.  Not because I don’t love her.  Exactly because I do love her.  And I suck for it.  See, I’ve been sitting in the corner feeling bad that I’d have to lose a stunning lesbian in my life because of her transition.  But Pride woke me up this weekend to what Pride is all about.

 

This may sound completely crazy but my phone helped me get to a clearer understanding of my friend V.  All weekend people I know commented on my new cell phone.  They commented (with judgment) on my  phone being PINK.  And somehow I felt I understood V. more than ever before.  Coming out to me was about freeing myself from expectations of what others thought I should be, what I should like, the color of phone I’d choose.  Yet sometimes it seems I’ve traded that in for another set of expectations.  Only this time the lesbian set.  And here I was, imposing this same set of expectations on my best friend. 

 

I met another person this weekend, a trans woman who is beautiful, intelligent, and authentically herself.  She joked with me about putting on her lesbian power suit and accompanying me to lobby.  And there was nothing odd or inauthentic about her or her being a lesbian or having a lesbian power suit.   In fact, she was so comfortable in her skin, that I had a hard time ever imagining her trying to live life as a man.  Yet I imagine people believed her to be a man for many years.  The place that I had been getting hung up on was that I KNEW or at least THOUGHT I KNEW V. as a lesbian, and changing my conception of her to that of a man – straight or otherwise – was troubling me. But I realized this weekend that I know V. as V.  and that’s enough for me.  

 

(If my female pronoun seems out of place in this post, let me just clarify that V. is still asking for that pronoun from me for the time being.)  I’m sure he’ll be the hottest damn Latin transman the world has ever seen.  And if Kim and I ever split, I sure hope he’ll still be in my corner.

 

On another note, I have a son who – jealous that I got a pedicure today – used his own money tonight to buy himself sparkling fingernail polish.  I love him so freakin’ much.