English as a second language

I'm revisiting the language of Sign. I've taken several classes, own and study several books (the Best one being Signs for Instruction by the South Carolina Dept of Education—IMHO) If I could find someone to practice with I might even reach a level of conversational skill. It would be nice to have a conversational skill. English isn't working for me.

Notwithstanding a handful of people who understand what I say the first time, and even get my sense of humor (humor being the highest level of sharing a language), I'm pretty much a stranger in a strange land.

Improper use of reflexive pronouns?...eeeeeeeeew. I hear someone say “I'd like to thank you for inviting my partner and myself.” and it's like fingernails on a chalkboard. Only I can invite myself; everyone else can only invite ME. This was drilled home by my fifth grade teacher Mrs Clendenin in Gassaway, WV, who taught three grades in one classroom.

Rich goes out of his way to keep my gas tank full, because anytime I have to PrePay In Advance, I'm in pain for hours afterward.

Even the happy pills couldn't filter that shit out.

Five AM Tuesday morning I'm doing Pilates and watching the Local “News”. Only a critical weather situation could induce me to watch local “news”. (The last time was 2007.) Seven minutes of watching local “news” reminds me of exactly why I need an apocalyptic weather front to force me into watching local “news”. I've tried turning off the sound and focusing on the Doppler, but as good as Doppler is, you still need it framed within basic information. I thought the Pilates would distract me enough to make it tolerable. I was wrong.

The Doppler is running colors across the map I've never seen before, from way west of our state skittering quickly into our eastern neighbor. It's going to be one helluva commute. School closings are flashing on the border at the bottom of the screen, miraculously in alphabetical order, and their numbers are doubling every fifteen minutes. Every few minutes, apparently to keep it interesting, they cut to film clips of ice, sleet, cars careening on main, secondary and tertiary roads. Salt trucks "running since the midnight hours" are barely keeping up. Snow, with blowing snow and drifting snow. Enough snow and ice that you don't have to be a meteorologist to figure out that this has been going on for a few hours.

Then it Happened.

The camera cut to the overly-coiffed woman with the big jewelry and the overly-white teeth who said... out loud... “And the storm isn't even HERE yet!”

I froze, bracing myself and praying that I had not heard what I thought I heard. But no. I heard it. I am certain of this because the overly-coiffed talking suit with the power tie and overly-white teeth sitting next to her replied “That's right! The storm isn't due to reach our area for another three hours.”

Could somebody please lead these poor, pathetic assholes to a window?!?

At this point I wanted to take one of the resistance cords from my Pilates Power Gym-TM and strangle myself. The only thing that saved me was my goal of losing 53 pounds and 27 overall inches (excluding my bust). I REFUSE to die before THAT happens.

Seriously?!?!?! Sah-eriously.

Guess what, you English speaking idiots. The storm is HERE!! YOU just failed to correctly define it's perimeter and/or E.T.A. Ya Think?!

This was a bit much to handle when I still haven't recovered from the local woman making national news—which is the ONLY way I would have learned about it—who is being prosecuted by “Cherry Bovine Washer” (almost not her real name) for falsifying residency so her children could attend a “better public school”. In this state that's what I call HOPE. It has gone national and all Cherry Bovine Washer has accomplished is confirming the pathetic state of affairs in this state on several levels.

I wish Cherry Bovine Washer had called me, cuz I could have saved her a ton of grief with small words and short sentences that even our public school board could understand.

1) Step Away from the mother who has made her children's education her priority. She is obviously a species you are not familiar with.

2) Her children are occupying seats that other kids don't want to be bothered to show up for, and if Mom is any indication, HER children are probably contributing to the the class in a positive way.

3)Your time (tax payer's dollars) would be better spent if you went after the parents of chronic truants and disruptive students for parental neglect or malpractice.

Summing up, Miss Bovine Washer, is this the mountain you want to die on? While you HAVE managed to martyr a dedicated mother and provider, you have also managed to point a glaring national spotlight on the state of this city's public schools, the embarrassing prosecutorial focus and use of funds in a city that recently laid off over forty police officers from a force that was already understaffed by national standards. While I admire your skills at multitasking, I find your judgment sorely lacking.

It may seem I've rambled, but it all ties together for me. Bottom line—communication skills. Since I am in a minority so small as to be defined as the fringe, I must conclude that I am the one who is sorely lacking. Too often I find myself asking the Voices...”am I speaking English?!”

So I'm thinking about giving up on English and devoting myself to Sign. I guarantee MY signs will NOT include...

...Please Pre-Pay in Advance.

The Wife is always the Last one to Know

cliché but true. Although I could hardly be expected to pick up on subtle clues while living in the lovely mist of happy pills, Now Could I. Almost a week ago I stopped taking the happy pills because as pleasant as it is to be a Stepford Wife, the effects on my GI tract had finally reached the unbearable. And for the record, I did not “stop taking them” so much as I consecutively forgot to take them and by the fifth day of forgetting, the Happy Fog was gone, I was back on my game and the pieces fell into place.

So while I WAS the last to know, it wasn't because I've been in denial. I was chemically impaired. Then suddenly last night I had The flash of awareness—Rich is having an affair.

If I were arguing for the Defense I would point out that it is a clear case of Stockholm Syndrome. But then, I'm not arguing for the Defense. Am I.

Oh yeah, the clues were all there, and any non-Stepford Wife would have closed the case long ago, and I pride myself on being a little smarter than the average bear, Boo-Boo. Once the lovely mental goo drained away, what was the spark that caused that final synapses to fire? I don't know if this will make sense, but here it is....
One hundred times in the past few months I have told Rich, ”I miss you....” and he has always given me the same response. Last night, for the 101st time I said to him, “I miss you...” and for the 101st time I got the same response, only THIS time the light bulb flashed.

Like always, he said, “I miss me, too.”

Take as much time as you need to process that. If you're a heterosexual man, you may want to consult a woman or a gay man.

For the first 100 times that response did not register at all for me other than to confirm that he had heard me. Last night that response lit a three inch fuse, and in the explosion I realized my husband has a mistress. If I need to put the dots closer together—
A) his response is never “I miss you, too.” For a split second I thought it was because it's All About Him, but B) he's not that selfish.
Ergo, if it's not me, and it's not him... A + B = C, and what begins with “C”? That's right boys and girls, Mistress Cancer has her hooks in him but good.

I understand that she is not going to die or leave. I can be flexible. I can share. ( I've said before that I would consider a sister wife if she shared the load.) But I'm really pissed with this current arrangement. She has him physically, mentally and emotionally. I will not even use the word FAIR. Fair is a festival with food and music that is happening somewhere else. This just sucks.

Without the Happy Pills that take irritable bowel syndrome to an exotic room in hell, I leave Stepford Land and realize Mistress Cancer has muscled me into being a nurse 24-7. No vacation, no perks, no fringe benefits.

What to do. What to do.

Hmmm. I could go back on the Happy Pills and resume my Stepfordness. With that comes the absolute hell between my duodenum and the porcelain, which admittedly distracts me from all things EXCEPT being pleasant to everyone and everything I encounter. On the UP side, totally obliterating my libido as far back as memory allows. BUT. Before you Go There.... I need to explain that I am firmly convinced that sex on Viagra/Cialis is worse than sex with a male prostitute, because if it's going to be that damn mechanical, I'd rather it be with a stranger, and THAT is worse than none at all. Furthermore, if I have to bury MY desires for 18 months, I'm going to need a magic pill too, because I can't find the switch that turns THAT back on just because he can take a pill. (And I can't blog for shit when the whole world is artificially pleasant)


OR... I could return to ME, hacking and slashing my way through this jungle perception of “Reality”, on the road to find out, trying to grow my spirit.

I know what Rich means. I miss me, too.

So Rich has Stockholm Syndrome Mistress Cancer. I'm good. I've got Kenny, Olivia, Madeline, Tessa and the one yet to be named. I've got Lynn and Christy, Chris and Alicia, Richard Bach and Douglas Adams, Lewis Black and James Taylor, and Enya.

I get by with a little help from my friends.

But I will admit I think the Bitch should kick in with some of the chores.

TIP of the DAY: Bitching about the weather doesn't affect the weather; Bitching about the weather does affect you and the people around you.