Monthly Archives: February 2006

Something Worth Doing


The bottom part of this message is canned, but I hope you’ll take the time to read it and think about responding.

Please take the time to go sign the petition. I don’t know how much good these things do, but it will only take 30 seconds of your time, and if it does something good, then it’s worth it.

We, the people, must send a clear message to our current president that he is not the king of the world. We have a responsibility to speak up or we very well may lose the right to say anything against our government.

The things that the Bush administration has allowed and even encouraged in the name of the War on Terror is nothing short of evil. Torturing detainees for any reason is evil. Listening to phone conversation without a warrant is illegal, and undermines one of the basic rights on which this great country was built.

The president is always throwing out the phrase, “The American People want me to…” but the thing is I am the American people, and I never once told him he could do those things.

So I’m doing a little something [and I stole the link from Doug, who also has an interesting post here about activism].

Please, take the time and go sign the petition. It’ll only take a minute, and it might make a difference.

Here is the canned part of this message:

“I am deeply concerned that the White House has broken the law by secretly spying on American citizens without a court order.
Senator Robert Byrd has created a petition to investigate the secret spying and I encourage you to show your support by signing this petition.
No President is above the law and the White House needs to hear from us.
Please show your support for an investigation by visiting and signing Senator Byrd’s petition.”

Thanks, friends.

New Strategies


So I’ve been mulling, and thinking about some different things. I’m still groggy as hell from yesterday’s migraine adventure, so I’ve been as close to a blank mind as I’m capable of getting.

There seems to be a lot of stress-related illness going on in my life lately. Has anyone else noticed that? I dunno what I’m doing wrong. Okay, I have a couple of ideas.

I haven’t been meditating regularly. It seems like the crazier life gets and the more I need it, the less I do it. I haven’t been communicating very well with my beloved, either, so I need to work on that. He’s laying in bed looking at a Harley-Davidson flier we got at the Harley plant the other day. I should be cuddling with him instead of blogging.

I should be meditating. My headache is trying to come back, and my ass [as well as the rest of me] is tired. This might just be a cyclic thing with me. It’s almost spring time, which is always when my depression picks up tremendously. Weird, isn’t it? And then there’s the hormone thing.

I don’t know what my deal is with estrogen and progesterone, but they screw me up anytime I get some. When I’m pregnant, they screw up my heart rate, emotions, etc. And at different times during my menstrual cycle, they jack my world up too.

Of course, I don’t know which parts of my menstrual cycle screw me up, because I don’t have regular periods, and sometimes when I have one, I didn’t ovulate the 14 days before the start of my period like I’m supposed to. I wonder if it’s possible for a woman to be allergic to her own hormones?

We’ve got autoimmune diseases out the wazoo these days, maybe there’s a hormonal autoimmune disease, too. I don’t know. I’m thinking I should be better here in a couple more days. In the mean time, I’ve got nuttin’.



I woke up at 7:30 this morning with one of the worst headaches of my life. I took ibuprofen and tylenol, but neither touched the pain. At 3 this afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore, so Steve called in sick to work [no way could I take care of the kids. All light and noise made it hurt worse] and we all trooped to the doctor’s office.

They gave me two shots, one for pain, one for nausea [threw up three times from the pain]. Then she sent me home with Zomig, which is a migraine medicine.

Looks like I’ve joined the wonderful world of people who suffer from migraine, and I am not happy about it. When I woke up from the effects of the shots, I still hurt, so I took a Zomig. I had some tightness in my chest afterward [looked at the insert and found out that’s one of the side effects. Yay.]

Two hours later, I was still having some pain, so I took another one, which was what I was supposed to do according to the directions [after the second one was when I read the insert] The tightness wasn’t as bad. I finally ate some soup at nine this evening, and am feeling better pain-wise, but I’m a little dizzy, and drowsy, so I’m going to bed.

I don’t know how people with regular migraines survive them. This is a new thing for me. Today was the worst one I’ve ever had [I think I’ve had three total, and the others were taken care of with ibuprofen and sleep]. The second one was just last week. I really really hope I’m done with them.

Pain sucks, and I have it all the time anyway with fibromyalgia, but the whole brain on fire/pounding jackhammer to the skull/puke my socks up thing is a whole new category of discomfort. I don’t wanna do that again.

Okay, I’m going back to bed now. Take care, friends.

Hunga Bunga Damn


It’s a thing in my family [my dad and me] to say weird words, come up with strange nicknames, and generally do things that some may find really strange. I don’t worry about it too much, hence the name of this post.

I say, “Hunga bunga, damn,” because the time got away from me today, and I got nothing accomplished. I skipped church, but that was probably God telling me not to go. We had a guest speaker [a former pastor of the church from before we moved here], and apparently he was horrible. One of my friends got so pissed off, she got up and left.

He was one of those ‘turn or burn’ preachers, and well, y’all know how I feel about that. I might have had to slap the shit out of a manogod, right there in front of everybody. I’m generally a peace loving girl until people start getting hurt needlessly, then I start yelling. ‘Turn or burn’ style preaching is just plain evil.

And the sad thing is, that man was preaching from a heart that genuinely loves God, and he’s doing what he believes God has called him to do. How the hell is that possible? you ask.

I don’t know how, but I know it happens. I know it happens because I was once that kind of person. Yeah, really. And the only way I know to explain it is to say I lost my way. I was seeking God, but then I thought I’d found him, and figured out what he expected of me [and others] and I forgot to seek him. I started spewing ‘the rules’ instead.

And the thing that still gets me is that I really loved God, and wanted to do his will. My heart was sincere. My intent was not to hurt anyone, but in focusing on rules of conduct, I couldn’t focus on the hearts of others [or my own, for that matter]. I couldn’t feel compassion for people who I believed were doing bad things because all I saw was the external. I couldn’t see their hearts, so I looked at their actions and judged them accordingly.

There’s even scripture people use to justify judging others, but it’s taken out of context. The only person whose actions I have the right to judge are my own because I usually know if my motive is right. If my motive is jacked up, then no matter what I am doing [whether it looks right or not] is not pleasing to God.

But I can’t see your motives, I can only guess. And recently, I’ve begun giving people the benefit of the doubt more. It’s so much easier to assume you’re heart’s in the right place even if your actions suck than to assume you’re hurting me because you’re an asshole.

It is true that some people are assholes, and they like it that way [maybe] but I can’t live my life in the way Jesus did if I’m constantly assuming the worst of people. And I’ve made a conscious choice to stop doing that. I don’t always succeed, but I’m trying.

So anyway, I have to get up early in the morning [Steve’s in a mood so we’re having a ‘work day’] so I’m hitting the sack. Take care, friends.

Feeling Lazy


Um, make that exhausted. I’m still tired. My dad called way too freaking early this morning to wish the girl happy birthday. My dad has always been a morning person, and I have never been. He used to wake me up in the mornings for school by beating on my bedroom door and yelling or singing at the top of his lungs. The madder I got, the funnier he thought it was, so this morning reminded us both of old times.

That wicked laugh is still the same.

I’m a little nicer about it than I used to be, but I still got up too early this morning, so I’m tired.

I’ve got church in the morning [if I can manage to wake up.] Steve has to work, so I’ll be getting all three kids up, and none of them have clean socks, so we may skip it. Have I mentioned that I hate laundry? Sometimes I let it go too long, like now, and we run out of stuff. I have about ten loads to do, and I’ve been waiting for the laundry fairy to come and rescue me, but alas, I think I’m gonna have to do it myself. Ick.

So anyway, I’m gonna leave you now, and try to go to sleep within the next half hour [wish me luck!]

Good night.

Long Day


Stayed up too late last night [not by choice, I couldn’t sleep. My new sleep aid kicked my ass and I couldn’t wake up yesterday until the kids were screaming their heads off. That’d wake the dead!] It was, I dunno, after one a.m. for sure, but maybe later. After it gets so late, I stop looking at the clock.

We had to meet Steve’s brother at ten this morning, so we all got up around seven. Which is five or six hours of sleep, but for me, that’s not even close to enough. I do okay as long as I keep moving [which we did nonstop today] but the second I sit down, I’m toast [like now].

We did a brief celebration of Shaya’s birthday, which is tomorrow [the 25th]. She’ll be eight years old. It’s hard to believe I’ve been a mom for eight years now. This time eight years ago, I was in labor with my first baby! That’s so weird.

She’s growing into such a beautiful young lady, both inside and out. I’m always so excited when she shows a bit of personality that is just cool on her own, you know? Like when she makes a joke that’s funny it’s pretty hit and miss with her and Matthew. They’re into knock knock jokes, which I hate. They don’t understand how to make a play on words, so it’s just stuff like,

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Dog who?”
“You better eat your food before it gets cold.”

Yeah, after about twelve of those during dinner, I’m about ready to start throwing things. We have to make a no knock knock rule sometimes [don’t tell them in front of mom, she’ll have a cow.]

But I love my baby girl [I love Matthew and Michaela too, but you know, this is about my eldest child].

I didn’t get to enjoy Shaya’s babyhood much because I had horrible postpartum depression. I had a very difficult pregnancy [maybe I’ll share when I have more energy. I dunno if anyone is interested, but sometimes this blog is therapy, and there are still things that are hard to deal with about all of my pregnancies. The kids were worth every bad thing that happened, but being pregnant, for me, is some kind of special hell all its own].

So anyway, about a week after Shaya was born, I couldn’t function. It was so bad, we had to live with my parents so my mom could help take care of her. I would have visions of throwing her against a wall, and other things that no mother ever thinks will go through her mind about her own flesh and blood.

I think maybe I understand a little too well how a mother can get so desperate that she does something awful. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if my parents hadn’t been able to help. My depression lasted for almost three years. I was able to function again after Shaya was three months old or so. We moved back home, and I managed, but my depression stayed pretty bad until after Matthew was born and I finally got some medicine.

I had tried Prozac right after Shaya was born, but it made my heart skip, and for whatever reason, the doctor wouldn’t try another antidepressant. He wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist, but I didn’t want to go, so I muddled through on my own.

If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t wait to see a psychiatrist. I needed medication, and I needed therapy, and I didn’t get either. Shaya doesn’t know that she didn’t get my best, but I do, and I feel guilty about it sometimes.

But then, I feel guilty about my shortcomings a lot. I love my kids so much, and I feel like they deserve better than what I can give them. I’m not abusive, but I yell sometimes, and I get frustrated and angry. I always wanted to be one of those moms who stayed calm under every circumstance, never yelled, and always used ‘teaching moments’ [I think of Marmee from Little Women].

The reality is, I’m not calm most of the time [never thought of the fact that I’m a freaking spaz in good circumstances. Add the stress of raising a family, and it’s no wonder I freak out sometimes.] I still want to be, and I’m working towards it, but I’m not even close yet.

So anyway, my baby’s gonna be eight tomorrow, and I’m so very proud of her. She’s a neat kid, and I’m excited to see who she’ll be when she grows up.



Hoo boy. I remembered last night that I got a summons to Federal jury duty in the mail about a month ago, and never mailed it. The thing says mail it within five days. I lost it. But then I found it, although not without some ransacking and a little freaking out!

Lord o’ Mercy, I was having visions of getting arrested by the FBI and all sorts of crazy stuff. I hope they won’t hold me in contempt for mailing the form back a month late. My ‘term’ is for the whole month of March, which means I have to call their automated phone number and find out if I have to show up the next morning [and drive about 60 miles].

Plus I have three kids at home that I’ll have to stick somewhere. Maybe I’ll get excused when they find out what Steve does for a living. I certainly hope so. I mean, on the one hand, jury duty could be cool, but mostly I’m freaking because I’ll have to drive through the middle of the downtown of a Very Large City, which I hate. I’ve never driven in a big city before, and I’m practically having an anxiety attack just writing about it.

Egads! Change the subject fast.

Last night I was thinking about my first impression of Steve, and that made me remember the circumstances of how we met and all the stuff that was going on at that time of my life. So I thought I’d share.

I met Steve in April, 1994, when I was 20. I was in nursing school, and had been working in a nursing home in my home town [population was a whopping 819 people].

My brother Jeremi [remember, he has cerebral palsy?] had moved out of our house and into what was called an ISL [Independent Supported Living]. He and another guy lived in a house together, and they had 24 hour staff, one of whom lived with the guys and was their primary care giver. When the position opened up, I decided to apply since the job included neat perks like free food and rent along with getting paid hourly for working with the guys.

The application process started, and after two or three interviews, it was down to me and another guy. In the end, they were worried that my living with my brother would be a conflict of interest. But they were impressed with me, so they offered me a job working in the Center, but in different homes [and not as a live-in].

The guy who beat me out of my food and rent-paid live-in position was the man I would one day marry. I didn’t stay mad long, because I realized that the job would have required me to lift two grown men several times a day without the aid of a lift. I’m 5 feet 6 inches, and at the time, I weighed in at 105 pounds. I would have died the first week hauling those guys around.

And Steve was just a nice guy. I wasn’t really all that impressed with him the first time I met him, though. I remember looking at him and thinking he had potential to be cute, but he had his hair pulled back on the top and sides into a pony tail. It was all slicked back, and for some reason, I didn’t the slicking back. I dunno, it was too smooth or something.

He was 22 and couldn’t grow a full mustache if his life depended on it, but didn’t let that fact keep him from trying. And he was all dressed up in a silk shirt and dress pants. Later, he brought out the cut up heavy metal t-shirts, and my opinion improved, but right there in the beginning, I remember thinking he looked like either a door-to-door salesman, or a Jehovah’s Witness.

I had also heard that he was a Christian, and that just made me want to puke. I figured we’d all end up hearing about what sinners we were and how we were going to hell, and I wasn’t interested. He had a fiancee who I had heard was a holier-than-thou type, and I figured he would be too.

Turned out, he was just a really, really nice guy [which, in my eyes at the time, translated to boring. I was recovering from that stupid Bad Boy obsession thing so many girls fall into, and I still wasn’t convinced that a Nice Guy was for me].

I don’t remember him ever preaching to anyone in all the twelve years I’ve known him. He’s one of those people who just lives his life and lets that be the witness, which I still think is way cool.

He did make me a little nauseated when I was first getting to know him, though. He was too nice, somehow. And he made goo-goo eyes at his girlfriend [gag] and got this lovey dovey look when he talked about her [double gag, cause she was a psycho]. Sounds a little like jealousy, and it probably was, but not because I wanted Steve for myself. That didn’t come until much later.

I hung out a lot at Jeremi and Dwayne’s house [we called it ‘Tenth Street’] and made my first group of really strong friendships. There was my best friend Becky [who is still one of my best friends even though we live a couple of hours apart now] and the rest of a gang of us who were all about the same age, and worked for the Center. Tenth Street was kind of the Headquarters.

Which meant that I got to know Steve pretty well. Aside from his freaky girlfriend, he actually ended up being pretty cool. He didn’t cuss [I could give Eddie Murphy a run for his money, and did, regardless of who was around] but he did smoke [we all did] and he wasn’t judgmental.

I had only one issue with Steve at that time, and that was when his girlfriend was around, he wouldn’t talk to any of the girls very much. When she was gone, we were all good friends. And it wasn’t that he was in any way inappropriate when she wasn’t around, either, but she was a jealous type [ick] and he didn’t want to give her a reason to accuse him of anything.

I can’t tell you what a relief it was when she broke up with him. She came from a dysfunctional family, so she had major issues that weren’t totally her fault, but she still irritated me. For the first couple of weeks after she dumped him, I was kinda the shoulder he cried on. We eventually became best friends, and were going along fine, keeping it platonic [with no intent for anything more on either side] until my friend Bec told me, “You two are gonna end up together, you do realize that, don’t you Shel?”

“No way, we’re just friends,” I told her, but the seeds were planted. Within two months [November 30, 1994, to be exact], we were making out like crazy. By the time New Year’s rolled around, I was pretty sure he was ‘the one’ [okay, I knew it without a doubt… I’m weird like that, though. Sometimes I just know things, and that was one of ’em].

Some time in April or May, 1995, I proposed to Steve. You have to understand, though, I’m impatient as hell, and if I’d waited for Steve to get around to proposing, we might still not be married. The boy is sloooowww sometimes. So I proposed, and he said yes. We were going to set a date in December [It seems like Steve wanted to give his family some time to get used to the idea of him getting married again. He got married when he was 19, and it was a nightmare, so they were understandably gun shy.]

But again, I got impatient. I wanted to go to a judge and just do it, but Steve wanted to be married by a pastor. I didn’t really care that much, so I agreed, but we moved the date up to August 19, 1995, chosen strictly because it fell on a Saturday, and you have to get married on a Saturday, right?

Steve had been raised a Nazarene, and it turned out that the Nazarene church in our town had a brand new pastor [I think he had come in April or June of 1995] so we went there, did the premarital counselling, and got married.

We’ve had loads of ups and downs since then [perhaps I’ll tell you about our first year together some time. Hoo boy, it’s a wonder he survived!] but every year, we’ve grown closer, and this marriage thing just keeps getting better.

But don’t misunderstand me, it’s freaking hard work to stay vigilant, and make sure that there are no walls building up between us. I’m probably paranoid about the health of our relationship and our communication, but I’d rather err on the side of caution in this area. If anything feels even a little off [and even if it ends up being my imagination] I’ll stay up talking it out until I figure out what’s going on. Enough about that for now.

I was right about one thing, though. Steve is a really, really nice guy, but he’s not the least bit boring. And…

*embarrassing admission here*

I kinda like it when he makes goo goo eyes at me! 😉