Her Bad Mother came up with a fantastic idea of having a Bitchin’ Bitchfest Blog Exchange and I happily joined in, donating my blog as a host to someone who has something important to say, but nowhere safe to say it. This person prefers to stay anonymous, but I wish her all the luck in the world and I hope her situation improves. Go ahead and show her a little support in the comments section, will ya?

Here we go again. You just got off the phone with one of your sons and after
hearing your side of the conversation I’m seething. I ask you questions to
fill in the gaps and it’s just as I expected. One of your sons needs
financial help yet again. Big surprise. We’re struggling to get by, to pay
for the things we need, to take care of the children we have together. Yet
when your “boys” need something, you hop right to it, no matter the cost to
us. We even owe finance charges on credit cards for the things we’ve done
for them, the things they should be doing for themselves!

It’s time you started treating your them like the men they are supposed to
be. Stop coddling them. They need to learn finally, at the ages of 20 and
21, how to pay their own way in life, how to support themselves. If not now
then when? They’ll always depend on you, always need you, always expect that
you will fix their problems. I know you think you’re helping them but you’re
not. You’re hurting them by not letting them make their own mistakes or by
telling them that their mistakes are no big deal (and they are!).

You feel guilty because you married me and weren’t there to raise them. So
when you do see them or talk  to them you want to be the cool dad, the
easygoing dad, the fun dad. The time is well overdue for you to take a
hardline with them or they will never grow up to be the honorable,
responsible men you’d like to think that they are (ha! they’re not). We are
financially strapped but still you send them money. You pay their way and
then still let them get away with irresponsible behavior. I can’t believe
that you think it’s doing them any good by pretending not to see it or
ignoring it when it happens.

Don’t let the guilt you’ve held for all of these years keep you from being
the parent they need. Love is tough sometimes. And I know you do love them
but what you’re doing isn’t helping them one bit. And, in fact, it’s hurting
us and the way I view you.

I could never say these things to you in person so I’m saying them here. I
wish I could talk to you about this but you’re so defensive that it would do
no good. At least I’m able to vent about it here and now. But what about
next time? What about when I can’t take it anymore and I blow up at you?
It’s not fair to you for me to hold these angry feelings in but I know how
you’ll react and I don’t want to live in some pissed off state with you
thinking I’m the insensitive one, the one who doesn’t understand you or your
sons. Whatever. I’m so sick of it all. Maybe it should come to a head
between us. I don’t think it’ll do any good but maybe I’m wrong.

Filed under: Uncategorized by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

Hey, you’re not sick of hearing about Spidey, are you? No? Excellent! Without further ado, here is part three (of only three parts):

(Oh, and if you haven’t been caught up on the previous adventures of Spider-Man, check it out here and here).

As you’ve probably gathered by now, Spidey ain’t no spring chicken anymore. He’s getting older. His arthritis is acting up. He’s got a really stiff neck. But, like all super heroes, he plugs along, taking the maximum daily dose of ibuprofen and smiling through the pain. And, for the most part, it works. He won’t let his age defeat him.

Until, as if out of nowhere, a younger, stronger adversary attacks.

She uses her well-honed ninja skills to sweep in and land a mighty blow to Spidey’s left femur. She calls it the flying rocket ship.

And, against his will, Spidey collapses, gravely injured.

Oh, that’s gonna leave a mark.

Why, leg, why? Why must you forsake me?

Spidey’s closest friend and confidante “The Boy” brings him to the one person he knows will be able to help. She is the keeper of the Krazy Glue and a superhero in her own mind right. Deftly, she goes to work, creating a bionic leg for Spidey so that he may continue his work. Granted, the leg doesn’t bend or otherwise move, but it is now attached to his body with what can only be described as superheroic strength. That leg is going nowhere.

On land, Spidey now needs a cane to get around, what with the rheumatism having taken a firm grip on his bad leg, but in the air, he is a teenager again, web spinning with ease. And, if he has to fight bad guys, the Krazy Glued-On Leg of Death is now his signature move. Nobody messes with Spider-Man and the woman behind his success. (Ahem. That would be me.)

I love you, The Boy’s mom. You are my reason for being. You make me whole. I can’t live without you. Or my cane. I think I need a massage…

And what of the stealthy and merciless young ninja? Well, preschool and Tiny Tots ballet are keeping her pretty busy these days. She’s hanging up her ninja mask for now. Or is she???

Filed under: Offspring, Random, The Spidey Chronicles by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →

My daughter drew on herself this morning:

It’s a rocket ship! A rocket ship! Get your mind out of the gutter. Honestly.

Filed under: Offspring, What The Heck is THAT? by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →

(haha) but I’d have to say that daysgoby is the closest! Congratulations, my dear. Enjoy your pride!

Coffee and cream go together like peas and carrots…

Filed under: Uncategorized, What The Heck is THAT? by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

I took this picture. Any guesses on what it is?

Filed under: Uncategorized, What The Heck is THAT? by WWS (Lynn) - 2 Comments →

Hey, have you ever gotten home from a wonderful vacation and thought, “wow, I can’t wait to blog about all the cool stuff we did, just as soon as I get a good night’s sleep!” and then the next day, you get into a high speed collision and end up not only injured but tied up with stupid asshole insurance agencies for the next three days? Really? Me too!! What a coincidence.

So, yeah. Please pardon my absence, but an old lady who really shouldn’t be driving decided to turn left in front of me in the middle of an intersection, causing this:

The grey Santa Fe with the fender under the hood? That’s mine. Only 6 months old and, before Thursday, it was pristine. Now, thanks to the negligence of one woman, my once minty truck will forever bear the stigma of having had extensive repairs following a collision. That is, of course, if it isn’t written off first. (The total loss case doesn’t look good, but I’m still holding out hope.)

So, before this gets too convoluted, allow me to back up to the beginning (and forgive me if it sounds like a police report, considering that I’ve had to tell the same story to about 18 bajillion different insurance people, along with the police):

On Thursday afternoon, I took my kids (6 year old boy and 3 year old girl, if you’re not a regular reader) out to run some errands. My husband was still at home, putting the finishing touches on our landscaping. A mere block away from errand #1, I was in the right lane, heading into the intersection. The light was green, so I was going the full 60 kms/hour. A 78 year old woman in a red car, coming from the opposite direction, turned left directly in front of me without yielding. I slammed on my brakes but, going the full speed limit through the intersection as I was, I was unable to miss her. Instinctively, I tensed up, grasping the steering wheel with a grip like a steel vice, and slammed right into her. There was a loud bang, a popping sound as the airbag exploded into my face, and a scream. (I’m pretty sure it was mine.) I heard my daughter crying hysterically in the back seat and rushed to get out of the car. Before I even had a chance to open my door, a man was beside me, cell phone in hand, telling me that he had seen everything and was on the phone with 911. As my car steamed and spewed green liquid all over the road, I extricated my children from the vehicle and ushered them to the median as the ambulance pulled up.

I glanced to the red car I had hit and saw two seniors, a man and a woman, sitting calmly inside. It struck me as odd that they didn’t bother to get out of the vehicle, but I didn’t dwell on it as I was in the process of trying to get ahold of my husband, otherwise known as “the deaf guy who never answers the phone.” After three or four unanswered calls, I noticed that my cell phone battery was nearly dead, so I did what anyone in my situation would do. I called my mommy. I asked her to keep trying the house. Not surprisingly, a few minutes later my dad arrived. (I love my parents. I can always, always count on my dad to be there whenever I need him, though that’s a post for another time…)

And, because I’m nothing if not thorough, I called up my dear friend and neighbor to see if she could pop by my house to track down my poor, deaf husband. As it turned out, her husband was home that afternoon (what with the whole being diagnosed with pneumonia thing – also a story for another time) and she sent him over to check up on my oblivious man. Long story short, within about 20 minutes I had my dad, my husband and my husband’s best friend at the accident scene with me.

By now, two witnesses had stepped up on my behalf. Given the speed and severity of the collision, they were looking at me with a kind of concern I’ve never seen on the face of a stranger. (Awesome, awesome people, by the way. I am so lucky that they stopped to help me.) A paramedic approached us and checked out the kids. My daughter had two bruises forming where her carseat harness had held her safely in her seat and my son was complaining of chest pain where his seatbelt had held him. Otherwise, they were fine. (Yet another thing to be grateful for.) It was then that I noticed the pain in my hand.

It was cut and swollen (although it didn’t look it’s worst until that evening when it looked as though someone had blown up a rubber glove and glued it to the end of my arm.) Within a few minutes, it had swollen up to three times it’s normal size. And what’s that? The shape of that cut looks familiar. Almost like a logo:

Could it be? Why, yes! I have officially been branded with half a Hyundai logo:

Since that time, my hand has turned every colour of the rainbow. Currently, it has sections of yellow and green bruising along the back of my hand and wrist, topped off with some red and purple bruising along the knuckles. Sexy. I won’t even get into the back and neck pain. (You’re welcome.)

The paramedics gave me an ice pack for my hand and set about helping the seniors from their car. The woman who was driving it was already out and walking, but the passenger door was so smashed in that the man on that side was unable to open his door. A fireman pried it open and, by some miracle, the man was able to get up and walk on his own toward the ambulance to be checked out. (I haven’t heard from them since, but I can only imagine how much pain they’re experiencing right now. They definitely got the worst of the crash.)

It was around this time that the police showed up. They began filling out a police report as I wrote out a collision statement. I had it all pretty much pulled together until I was asked for my insurance and registration.

“Ma’am, I hate to even ask you this, but do you have your current registration? This one expired in June.”

(Holy mother of all that is holy, are you freaking kidding me?)

Sent the hubby home to fetch the current registration and set about calling the tow truck people.

After describing the make and model of my vehicle, I embarked on the most idiotic conversation I’ve ever had whilst standing in the middle of the road.

“What is your location?”

“In the middle of the intersection of this street and that avenue.”

“And where is your vehicle located?”

“Right in the middle of the intersection.”

“And which direction is the vehicle facing?”

“North. It’s in the middle of the intersection. You can’t miss it.”

“Which lane is the vehicle in?”

“It’s in the middle of the intersection. It’s not in a lane.”

“Is your vehicle on the street or the avenue, ma’am?”

“It’s in the intersection. The intersection!”

“And what is your license plate number, ma’am?”

(At this point, a couple of stray tears were tracking their way down my cheeks as I struggled to maintain my composure.)

“It’s, uh, it’s, well, I can’t remember right now, but my vehicle is right in the middle of the road. You can’t miss it!”

“And you don’t have your license plate number?”

“Look. My car is sitting in the middle of the intersection at this street and this avenue. You can’t possiby miss it. There’s an ambulance, a firetruck and a police car here as well. Can’t you just send a tow truck?”

“And you don’t know what lane the car is in, ma’am?”

“Just send a tow truck! Just send one! My car is in the middle of the freaking road and I just need you to send the tow truck!”

“Yes, thank you for your call, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

In the end, my husband returned with the current registration and the police officer told me not to worry about it, (“I know how sometimes these things can slip your mind”), the tow truck arrived and by some miracle, actually managed to find my vehicle sitting in the middle of the damn intersection (will wonders never cease?), the paperwork was finished and the kids and I were settled in my dad’s truck so he could take us to the doctor to be checked out.

(The hand isn’t broken. The kids are fine. Aside from some pain and stiffness, I will be fine also. The vehicle? Not so much.) 

You know how sometimes after a person has gotten into an accident, he discovers some amazing ability or talent that he hadn’t possessed before his bump on the noggin? Like, all of a sudden, he’s speaking fluent Japanese when he was born and raised in Texas? Well, unless it’s some really obscure new ability, I’m pretty sure I got nothin’. Stupid, good-for-nothing airbag. I think if I’m going to get slammed in the head, the least I should get out of the deal is the ability to sing like an angel. Or perform differential equations in my mind. I’m not picky. Alas, I’m as talentless now as I was before.

So, here I sit, picking at the scabs from the Hyundai symbol-inflicted wound on my hand, wondering whether or not I’ll get lucky enough to be able to write off my poor, destroyed vehicle and start fresh. Given the reaction that I got from the adjuster who came to check out the vehicle, I’m thinking not. (He actually gave me the air quotes while he condescended to me. Air quotes!)

(You should be “grateful” that your kids are okay. That’s all that “matters.” These are the “chances” you take when you drive on the roads. It’s “dangerous” out there.)

Asshole.

______________

Ok, so I didn’t actually get the chance to finish off and post this last night but it’s just as well because it would have been filled with more insurance crap. Makes my head hurt just thinking about it. You can thank me later for not burdening you…

So, guess what? Today I got great news from my insurance company. They are writing off my vehicle as a total loss. I get 100% of the price I paid for it so I can go buy another Santa Fe. I am so, so glad that I won’t be saddled with the old truck. Hallelujah!! Also, the other insurance company is accepting 100% responsibility for the fault of the accident, no question. Hallelujah again!

Filed under: Just My Luck, Me, Offspring, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 14 Comments →

Ah, vacation. A whispered promise of relaxation, harmony and free-spirited good times. Of course, when you add kids into the equation, expect to also add in the screaming element of surprise. Tantrums from travel-weary children (and parents), map (and stupid-ass broken GPS) related frustration and frequent stops at icky public bathrooms are the norm. Fortunately, we’ve travelled with children before and have learned a few tips for our own self-preservation. We have learned to keep the stretches of driving short, the snacks plentiful and the backseat entertainment flowing like wine. Also, we don’t leave home without our portable fold-up Dora potty seat. That thing is pure genius.

Living in flat prairie land like we do, the first few hours of any road trip are positively coma-inducing. We live relatively close to the mountains, though, so once we get past the first couple of mind-numbing hours, the views are spectacular. If you’ve never driven through the Roger’s Pass in British Columbia, I strongly suggest that you make a point of doing so in your RV-driving retirement years. You won’t regret it. It’s the kind of view that will make you believe in God, if you don’t already. My son is goggle-eyed over mountains so large that they’re capped with snow even in the summer.

Last night, we made a rookie mistake. We drove until 6pm before stopping to eat supper. Anyone who has ever had to deal with exhausted, hungry kids will appreciate the special kind of hell we were forced to endure that night. Multiple admonishments (“sit up!” “shh!” “don’t kick your brother/sister!” “leave the salt/pepper/ketchup/cream/sugar alone!”) were followed with multiple threats (“do you want to go sit in the car? Is that what you want?” “I’m going to count to three and then you’re not having any supper!”) before our meals mercifully arrived. Ordinarily, we are then blessed with several consecutive minutes of happy, well-behaved children. In this case, though, my son took one bite of his supper, declared “Eww!! This is just horrible!” and promptly melted down into a spastic puddle on the floor. My husband was forced to take him outside to the parking lot until he calmed down. After about 15 minutes of unsuccessfully trying to cajole The Boy into eating his dinner, my husband gave up and promised him a Baby Cheese from A&W if he would sit quietly at the table while the rest of us finished up. Instead, my son’s cries became increasingly louder because “OHHHH, my tummy hurts so much I need to eat RIGHT NOW!!” While simultaneously flaming a deep, embarrassed red and managing to keep my head held high, I coralled both my hysterical son and my surprisingly calm daughter out of the restaurant and into the car so my husband could finish his now-cold dinner. He wolfed the rest of his food down, paid his bill and bolted like a bat out of hell.

We drove to A&W and waited for about a gagillion hours for our one tiny cheeseburger, which my son promptly dropped on the floor of the car. More wailing. (Mostly from me.) I’ll admit that I dropped the “s” word in front of my kids two or three times in the span of about 1.5 seconds. I wrestled myself from my seatbelt, threw my purse at my husband and crazily flung myself out of the vehicle. I opened my son’s door, promptly causing half of the burger to then fall on the ground outside. As my son’s wails rose to a deafening (and heartbreaking) pitch, I cried, “three second rule!” snatched the bun off the ground, gave it a quick dust and slapped the burger back together. A little gravel never hurt anyone, right? Just a little roughage…

It wasn’t until we pulled into the parking lot at our hotel that we realized The Boy’s beloved Spidey was missing. Fuck! Fuckity fuckity fuck.

I got the kids into their pajamas and we settled into a near-catatonic state in front of Tom & Jerry. Hubby drove back to the restaurant to retrieve Spidey. He returned some 20 minutes later, empty-handed.

“Where’s Spidey?”

“Gone. They said some kid took him.”

(Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!)

“Oh, great.”

From the bed, the small, sad voice of my son piped up, “He’s gone? Spidey’s gone?”

I swear that I’ve never before wanted to kick a kid’s ass but at that moment I was ready to beat on some kleptomaniacal behind.

“Apparently, the kid lives in town somewhere. I gave them our hotel number and home address. They’ll call us if they track him down.”

(Right).

Reconciling ourselves to the loss of a beloved family member, we piled into bed in an exhausted heap. Just as we were falling asleep, the phone rang. All four of us bolted upright and hubby dove for the phone.

“Hello? Oh, sure. Thank you! I’ll be right there.” Then, “They found Spidey! I’ll be back soon.”

Not five minutes later, The Boy was clutching his beloved Spider-Man to him like a life preserver and I was busy praising the kindness of strangers. Somehow, a couple of the restaurant staff had managed to track down the last name and phone number of the family who had taken off with Spidey, retrieved him and driven to our hotel to hand-deliver him back to us. Either it was a slow night for business or some very kind, selfless people are employed there. I prefer to think of it as the latter. After a long, hard day, I had been pushed to my very limit and was ready to write people off as a selfish, morally corrupt bunch of bastards. Thankfully, all it takes is one kind act to instantly restore your faith in humanity. What’s that line from Streetcar? “I’ve always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Well, I doubted that we’d ever see Spidey again, doubted that anyone would want to take the time to get him back for the family who caused such a total scene in their establishment, but I was wrong. I happily stand corrected. Though I won’t ever come to depend upon it, my heart is warmed by the kindness of strangers. So, to the wonderful staff at the Legendz Diner in Golden, British Columbia, thank you from the bottom of our hearts. You have made one little boy very, very happy.

(I’m thinking that drilling a hole into Spider-Man and hanging him from a string around the boy’s neck might be my next project. He’s far too valuable a commodity to just leave lying around on random restaurant tables.)

Filed under: Happy Happy, Just My Luck, Offspring, The Spidey Chronicles by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →

That’s right! I am on vacation. 9 whole days in a car with the family. Obviously, I have my laptop with me. I do plan on updating at some point on this trip, though, so look out!!

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