Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Health Care Reform Example #76567688
I can't believe this massive fuckery. The Girl is sick, some kind of virus that causes her to projectile vomit. Took her to the hospital last night; they gave her an anti-nausea pill that allows her to keep fluids down to stay hydrated. Wrote an RX for more. Today, I attempted to fill that RX, but the state-sponsored health insurance, which I was forced to put my daughter on when my previous employer fucked us all over, does not cover this massively expensive anti-nausea med so gave us a liquid alternative. Guess what? The Girl projectile vomits this liquid alternative. So I might end up taking her to the ER again ... which will cost you, the American taxpayer, far more than the original medicine would have. Here's the real ass-reaming component: As I'm reading the printed material that came with the liquid drug to figure out the name of the ER doctor from last night, I discover the drug information sheets are printed by ... yes, my previous employer: The Hearst Corp. So let me say right now: FUCK YOU, HEARST CORP!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
When?
When did your voice start to slide irreversibly toward teenager, adulthood, beyond?
When did your fingers lengthen so drastically, losing baby fat as they transformed into slim boyhands, manhands?
When was the last time I saw the rolls in your thighs? When did that very last babyroll smooth into oblivion?
When did you become a boy who so loves video games?
When did you understand so completely Pokemon? (And chastise my pronunciation?)
When did I think I understood the giddy joy a certain girl brings to you?
When did you become so clever, so witty, so surprisingly astute in the reality of modern life?
When did you become soooo tall? When did your legs get THAT long?
When did your hair change from babysilk to thick gorgeousness?
When was the last time I saw your little tush? When did it not become a little tush anymore?
When did I accept these changes?
Mmm hmm. That's right.
When
this all happened ...
Beyond me ...
and never, in
Mama's memories.
When did your fingers lengthen so drastically, losing baby fat as they transformed into slim boyhands, manhands?
When was the last time I saw the rolls in your thighs? When did that very last babyroll smooth into oblivion?
When did you become a boy who so loves video games?
When did you understand so completely Pokemon? (And chastise my pronunciation?)
When did I think I understood the giddy joy a certain girl brings to you?
When did you become so clever, so witty, so surprisingly astute in the reality of modern life?
When did you become soooo tall? When did your legs get THAT long?
When did your hair change from babysilk to thick gorgeousness?
When was the last time I saw your little tush? When did it not become a little tush anymore?
When did I accept these changes?
Mmm hmm. That's right.
When
this all happened ...
Beyond me ...
and never, in
Mama's memories.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I Get This, These "testicles on my chin"
Through one of those roundabout processes too complicated to explain (and yet I would still be willing if you asked because that's just the kinda gal I am), I was exposed to the following link.
It's no secret how I feel about Mike Rowe and his existence in my life. He is so many of the admirable things I find in a human being. And after watching this video, I appreciate him all the more.
I was ... no, AM ... the daughter of a steel mill worker. Even more, I am the oldest daughter of a single steel mill worker, meaning as the oldest female in the household, I took on the roles of worrying and cleaning, thrust upon me beyond my choice and before I came to understand and celebrate my feminism and my female liberty. I mothered my younger sister and I learned the value of hard work. I learned about food stamps and government-issue cheese and butter, and about mold and how the children in my neighborhood would pity my family for being without a mother.
I saw my dad come home with burns on his skin, on his arms where the fire burned through any joke of protective clothing. I heard the stories of how steel-toed boots offered at best a false sense of protection when a stronger force deemed to exert its will. Dad told so many stories of the men forced on disability by a stronger will than their own ... and unfortunately, too often those stories were tinged with envy. The men he spoke of, you see, were done with their working time.
That's part of what struck me the most about the video that looms just beyond my diatribe. It's a speech given by Mike Rowe, Mr. "Dirty Jobs." Near the end, he talks about coming to a critical realization suddenly while filming a segment that found him with "testicles on my chin." He talks about how our society has come to castigate the notion of hard work, how we celebrate the escape from it, and in turn, create a class of worker to be shunned ... when the reality is this person who works the hardest is the one to be celebrated.
It's funny. And it's no secret that I lost my own job back in March. Hell, our country lost an INDUSTRY, the industry in which I worked. So when I hear someone wax philosophical about work, my interest is piqued. And yet the kind of work we're talking about here doesn't have time for piqued interests. It's too busy.
Working.
It's no secret how I feel about Mike Rowe and his existence in my life. He is so many of the admirable things I find in a human being. And after watching this video, I appreciate him all the more.
I was ... no, AM ... the daughter of a steel mill worker. Even more, I am the oldest daughter of a single steel mill worker, meaning as the oldest female in the household, I took on the roles of worrying and cleaning, thrust upon me beyond my choice and before I came to understand and celebrate my feminism and my female liberty. I mothered my younger sister and I learned the value of hard work. I learned about food stamps and government-issue cheese and butter, and about mold and how the children in my neighborhood would pity my family for being without a mother.
I saw my dad come home with burns on his skin, on his arms where the fire burned through any joke of protective clothing. I heard the stories of how steel-toed boots offered at best a false sense of protection when a stronger force deemed to exert its will. Dad told so many stories of the men forced on disability by a stronger will than their own ... and unfortunately, too often those stories were tinged with envy. The men he spoke of, you see, were done with their working time.
That's part of what struck me the most about the video that looms just beyond my diatribe. It's a speech given by Mike Rowe, Mr. "Dirty Jobs." Near the end, he talks about coming to a critical realization suddenly while filming a segment that found him with "testicles on my chin." He talks about how our society has come to castigate the notion of hard work, how we celebrate the escape from it, and in turn, create a class of worker to be shunned ... when the reality is this person who works the hardest is the one to be celebrated.
It's funny. And it's no secret that I lost my own job back in March. Hell, our country lost an INDUSTRY, the industry in which I worked. So when I hear someone wax philosophical about work, my interest is piqued. And yet the kind of work we're talking about here doesn't have time for piqued interests. It's too busy.
Working.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Butterfly's Big Day
Too tired to add photos right now, a somewhat-tedious process of firing up my computer (I'm using Elephant's laptop right now), plugging in the camera, downloading to my computer, uploading to the Internet ... But I couldn't let the day end without a final bit of musing on my little girl's second birthday.
Even though it's been those two years since the trauma of her birth, it's all quite fresh in my mind sometimes. Tonight would be one of those times.
It's probably quite ridiculous, I suppose. She's healthy and happy, loving and tender, smart and kind. We're all so very, very lucky to have her in our lives, especially since she was a Surprise Baby. But I still see that tiny little being of 23 ounces, the one I first met who became my very special little girl. I still sense that disconnect, that disbelief that I am so lucky to have my little miracle. That worry, here let me just say it already, that she could so easily be taken away. I have learned, after all, how precious and fragile is this life.
But she is so tenacious. No matter how much fragility haunts the inner recesses of my soul, I just have to picture her cheeky laugh as she replicates one, then another, physical stunt of her brother's. They have this toy barn, one of the Little Tykes or Fisher Price plastic numbers, about two feet tall, they love to play together with. In fact, I gave Butterfly a set of barn animals today to add to the fun, seeing as how a certain book is her favorite. Anyway, she LOVES to climb up on top of the barn, straddling it like it's a pony. (How funny. I just saw the irony in that.) She's a daredevil, hanging from the monkey bars, climbing onto the dining room table not long after learning to just walk ... and so on.
Funny, too, is my girl. Learning that as well from her Ubba. Ah, but you know all this, how much I love the two of them. How gracious this world was to bring them into my life.
So .. I am thankful, even as this life passes too quickly by, as the wee little baby who once fit into my cupped hands rips the paper off of birthday packages with such amazing gusto.
Happy Birthday, Butterfly!
Even though it's been those two years since the trauma of her birth, it's all quite fresh in my mind sometimes. Tonight would be one of those times.
It's probably quite ridiculous, I suppose. She's healthy and happy, loving and tender, smart and kind. We're all so very, very lucky to have her in our lives, especially since she was a Surprise Baby. But I still see that tiny little being of 23 ounces, the one I first met who became my very special little girl. I still sense that disconnect, that disbelief that I am so lucky to have my little miracle. That worry, here let me just say it already, that she could so easily be taken away. I have learned, after all, how precious and fragile is this life.
But she is so tenacious. No matter how much fragility haunts the inner recesses of my soul, I just have to picture her cheeky laugh as she replicates one, then another, physical stunt of her brother's. They have this toy barn, one of the Little Tykes or Fisher Price plastic numbers, about two feet tall, they love to play together with. In fact, I gave Butterfly a set of barn animals today to add to the fun, seeing as how a certain book is her favorite. Anyway, she LOVES to climb up on top of the barn, straddling it like it's a pony. (How funny. I just saw the irony in that.) She's a daredevil, hanging from the monkey bars, climbing onto the dining room table not long after learning to just walk ... and so on.
Funny, too, is my girl. Learning that as well from her Ubba. Ah, but you know all this, how much I love the two of them. How gracious this world was to bring them into my life.
So .. I am thankful, even as this life passes too quickly by, as the wee little baby who once fit into my cupped hands rips the paper off of birthday packages with such amazing gusto.
Happy Birthday, Butterfly!
Small Art Challenge
Second challenge for The Pink Couch.
Whipped together, lol, in about five minutes from after-party bits.
It's a 4"x4" card, ripped edge. The center part is from a blower-noisemaker; the braid at bottom is from crepe paper/streamers (purple tie and yellow part), a ribbon from a gift (orange part) and the rest of the blower-noisemaker-- the cardboard part you blow into -- (the blue part.) The flowers are torn bits of wrapping paper, with a tiny crumpled ball of wrapping paper for the center.
Thanks for this super fun!
Tag Challenge
This tag is for the challenge over at The Pink Couch.
It's in celebration of my Birthday Girl, turning 2 today! Yes, I stopped party preps to do this, lol.
It's a cupcake wrapper base, with bits of party napkin along with crepe paper flowers topped with buttons, and birthday candles. The hanger is from a package of brand new tights ... opened just for the birthday party!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)