Okay, Where's The Camera?

Is it just me or is the devil trying to kill me? So many things have been going wrong lately that I constantly think I'm on Punked. I keep looking around for the camera's and Ashton Kutcher. Here's a look at my life of late. Our (me and the people in my head) thoughts are in red.

First, Pumpkin has turned into a scary, can't/won't keep his word, punk, weak sister! I know we shouldn't have trusted his ass. Damn! Bitch stop wastin' time. We do just fine with the "toys" and the porn, that's your ass wantin' a damn boyfriend. Focus on your studies! Fuck them nuccas! Damn!

Then, a nurse from my doctor's office called me at work with scary news, and and gave me an appointment to come into the office and look into the scariness further. The appointment was set for a hundred years away, and the nurse promised to mail me some reading material about the scariness. Mail it?! Bitch what? Wait what did you say is wrong with me again? Um. Why did you call us at work with this shit. Mail it? Bitch, you better slow down. Speak real slow. Read the freaking pamphlet to me over the phone.........Lord, what's my sister's number. I'm gonna die. Sob, sob cry, cry....... use the offices long distance, fuck it! We might be dead by the time they figure it out.

Then, MyKiddo had every last one of her wisdom teeth removed, and my co-pay was 200.00. So, I did what any self respecting mother would do. Wrote the check. I wrote the check and gave it to the secretary with a smile. Yep, like the money was really in the bank, and not earmarked for another bill. Oh shit. Where am I going to get the money to cover this? Oh shit. Well, take care of Mykiddo now, and we'll worry about that later.


Then, I called my doctors office back, scheduled an appointment that was not one hundred years away. Looked up the scariness on the net and became a bit more scared. Oh-oh. We have to study for that math mid-term. We do not have time for this shit. Focus bitch! Will ya'll shut the fuck up - let me think. Now,did anyone in my family die from cancer? Did anyone have cervical cancer?

Then, I went to that appointment, got the scariness tested, and was told it would take 3 to 4 weeks for the results to come back. You have to be kidding me. No results take 3 to 4 weeks to come back in 2006. Who the hell are you sending the specimen to, a lab on the moon? Lawd, maybe I need to go to another doctor.


Then Mykiddo asked me if we were still going home for Thanksgiving. She is really homesick. So I told her I would see what I could do, and that I would not be able to go, but I would send her home. Oh really, how are you going to pull that off. Are you planning a robbery? You know you won't last a minute in jail. Shit!

Then, the nurse called me at work. Again! The test results came back. I need to come back into into the office. I have to have a procedure done to cut the scariness out. What does this mean? I don't think I/we can deal with this right now. Let's just do the "denial" thing. Coast. Push, push, coast.

Then, I started a project to make some extra money. This project requires that I use my hands. I was one fourth way into the project, when my arms became swollen right above the wrists. There were also red welts on the swollen areas. Yep, the devil is trying to kill to me. Fuck it! Take 2 benedryl and go to sleep now! Maybe we'll wake up in heaven.

Then, I went to work the next day, with my swollen, red welt ridden forearms. Shit!

Then, I got home from work and saw my unfinished project, that I need to sell, because I need the money. I took one of MyKiddo's left over codeine pills and continued to work on the project. Shoot, we need money girl, do what you got to do. We'll probably die soon, so who needs wrists and arms.

Happy Hour - Friday, 6:00 p.m.

Normally on Friday evenings I can't wait to get home from work and wind down. Just plain veg out. Stare at the t.v. or stare at homework assignments. I don't want to talk to anyone - I don't want anyone to talk to me. I'm in class every other week night, so on Friday's it feels good to drive my butt straight home.

However, on last Friday I had an appointment with my therapist. Those of you out there who are in therapy can already see where I'm going with this. Those of you who are not in therapy probably have questions. Question: Who in their right mind wants to go to therapy at happy hour on Friday? Answer: I am NOT in my right mind. I don't even remember when I made/agreed to the freakin "happy hour head shrinking session". But it was set.

I waffled all afternoon, forgetting and remembering the appointment. Thinking of reasons to cancel. Feeling guilty for canceling. Thinking back to the last session (2 weeks prior), remembering the uncomfortable questions asked right before the session was over. Questions I was supposed to have an answer to for the start of this session. So, the people in my head commenced to argue back and forth. "Goddamn it! We grown, We ain't going to this shit today. I don't know why she wants US to answer the effing questions, WE are clearly nuts. Ain't she supposed to have the damn answers. Can't we just go home and order a pizza, put our extra fluffy socks on and watch t.v. We don't even have to take a shower we don't want to........" It went on like this for hours.

So, I'm on my punk ass way to therapy. I get there, she offers me tea, as she has done so many times before. This time I accept, unlike all of the other times when I thought it would be too much trouble or cut into my forty-five minutes (don't get it twisted, you do not get an hour). I even inquired as to the "tea options" available to me, and I waited patiently while she listed them off as though she was my waitress. I chose the pineapple ginger blend, and waited patiently for the session to begin. Hell, let's waste time. I don't want to talk anyway.

Some forty-three minutes later I had had not one, but four lightbulb moments. This was one of the best sessions I have ever experienced. I don't say that to be sarcastic or flip in any way. I really did "get" a few things. I had some breakthoughs. Things that I may have heard before, thought before, or maybe even told someone else - But this was different. It was my time.

I'm so glad I went. I'm glad I didn't let my fatigue, and doubt stop me from getting to the appointed time and place for me to receive my breakthrough. I trudged on - I was open - and present.

And I got some pineapple ginger tea to boot.

Dear Professor, Will you marry me?

I'm in love with my math teacher.

He is a God in my eyes, and I must tell the world of his wonders!

HE HAS BEEN ABLE TO TEACH MATH TO ME !

I remember the first time I saw my mother cry on my account. I was in the 3rd grade, I think. Whatever grade you're in when you learn your multiplication tables. We called them "times tables" back then. Anyway, for as long as I can remember my brain has rejected numbers in any form. So the multiplication table thing was torture for me. I was even more exasperated because I did so well in any other subject. Well, I devised a plan to pass my "times table" test, and resume my post on the smart girl throne. Way back in the 14th century when I was 8 or 9 years of age the local insurance man gave out multiplication charts. They were printed on a small card with his advertising information on the other side. (In hindsight, that makes no sense. I could not purchase insurance when I was in the 3rd grade, so this ad was wasted on me and the other kids in the neighborhood. But, I digress.) It didn't take me long to give up any hope of memorizing the card. I decided to use it to cheat.

That's right folks, I began cheating in the third grade. I remember it plainly. My mother quizzed me on the 6's and 7's. I read from the card, which I held under the table, but still in sight. She said, "Great! You're ging to ace your test!" I thought to myself, "Yep, I sure am - thanks to Mr. So and So insurance Co." And pass it I did - Much to the suspicion of my teacher. She was not as easy a mark as my mother. Damn! Busted.

When I got home my mother called me into her room. She was lying down and I could tell she had been crying. Oh Jesus, what have I done? She asked me shy I had cheated. I have no idea what I said. I was so worried about how I had ruined her life and made her cry. (As an adult I know she was probably crying about some shit that had nothing to do with me cheating!) But it worked.

I never cheated again, and I never understood a damn thing about math. I was never tutored and I floundered miserably throughout middle and high school. I was more than happy to get that "D" at the end of every semester. No teacher ever said, "Maybe you need some extra help", my parents never put two and two together (maybe they couldn't count either), so they never said "this kid needs help in math."

My hatred/fear of math influenced the classes I took in high school and in college, the major I chose and many other choices throughout my adult life. When I returned to college two years ago I decided to tackle math again. I failed. That was a huge deal for me. I had never failed a class in my life. But, somehow I got over it. I decided to take the course over, and I'm glad I did.

This quarter everything changed. A light went off! A beam of light appeared through the darkness! I've been redeemed! I understand math! I like math! Math is great! This wondrous change in my life is due to my math instructor and the Lord Jesus himself. My instructor is great. The rest of the math rejects in my class, and I love him because he teaches us like we have no idea what he is talking about. He explains it to us as if it's the first time we have heard or seen it. Which is great because we don't and we haven't. I love him.