Thrift store find...

Like most women, I enjoy having nice things. Lately, I've noticed that a lot of my style over the last decade has been quiet, sedate, and DULL. I wanted to spice things up a bit, but finances still are a major factor.

Which is why I'm so very thrilled at what I found tonight. Walking through the thrift store, a bright red leather bag caught my eye. It was beautiful, gorgeous - and behind the counter, which in thrift store language means "major label" and "out-of-your-league-Tricia". I sighed, thinking to myself that it just wasn't going to happen.

I tend to not even ask the price on things stored behind the counter. It's just not worth having the dream crushed. I could see the price tags on some other purses back there - all uglier than the red one - and the lowest price I saw was $70. "Oh well," I thought. "Some woman is going to get very lucky."

When we made it up to the register, Sean asked the lady how much it was. She wandered over and I saw her hand caress the leather, and I just KNEW it was one of those buttery leather products that make you want to sigh in sheer bliss. And then she told us the price. And I thought my ears were deceiving me.

"It's $19.99."

No. That couldn't be right. I must have misheard her. And before I could ask for clarification, my husband said "Let's see it."

It was as buttery as I had imagined, and such a bright red...my heart started to beat hard at the thought of owning something that was so boldly and outrageously feminine. And then I saw the brand on the front and my heart skipped a beat.

PRADA. As in "the devil wears it". As in "a brand Tricia will never ever own in her entire life". I sighed and opened my mouth to tell the woman to put it back, but my husband spoke first.

"Add it to our pile, we're ready to check out."

I'm still in shock. Complete, utter shock. And that shock is starting to be tempered by purely female desire to gloat. I own a prada purse. Me. I wonder if I can convince Sean to let me sleep with it tonight?

The season picks up pace...

I'm still pretty much incapable of doing any major gardening (stupid back injury, ugh). But I am managing to get some things done. The entire front patch has been weeded, a second set of seedlings are starting to sprout, and foot by painful square foot, my garden is being extended.

(why foot by painful foot? Digging the new garden with a typical long-handled shovel makes my back light on fire before going numb - every time, without fail. So the only way to clear out my garden is to sit down with the hand shovel and till the earth that way. It's a long process - I could get the same amount cleared in two minutes with a big shovel, but with the small shovel it takes twenty minutes...and it still hurts. But not as badly.)

Photos to come as soon as things are looking more neat.

Ethical reporting - where do we draw the line?

The news hit the world like a slap in the face over Memorial Day weekend - a man in Miami stripped naked and attacked another man, chewing his face off. The attack lasted for eighteen minutes and the attacker was only subdued by a hailstorm of bullets.

All this is fact. All of this is good, factual, non-speculative reporting.

Then came the follow-up reports. The attacker, Rudy Eugene, was on drugs. He was taking bath salts. He was taking PCP. He was cursed by a voodoo priest. Theories abounded, each one a little crazier than the last. His family and friends have protested, saying he was a good-natured young man who carried his bible around, attended church, and never took anything stronger than the occasional joint. This contrast only added fuel to the fire.

Then, today, I found out the worst aspect of all (other than, of course, a man LOSING HIS FACE) - graphic crime scene photos were released to news organizations, including close-ups of the victim's face. ~sarcasm~ How sensational! How electrifying!

Screw that. It's unethical. It's criminal. And it's completely irreversible. Once a photo is out on the 'net, it's there to stay. And this pisses me off.

Perhaps I'm just oversensitive to this situation because I myself have been homeless. I've known others who are very much like the victim, Ronald Poppo - those who are chronically homeless. I feel like many of the big media outlets are treating Poppo like a second-class citizen at best, a non-entity at worse. No one asked Poppo for permission to release such graphic photos of his own injuries. I doubt such permission was even considered, for most feel that the homeless don't have any rights to anything, including their own image.

I don't know if this blog post is making a lot of sense, as I am so angry I can barely type straight. But I do know that I am sorely missing the days of straight-shooting reporting, just the facts, where the victim's rights were considered sacred and the news was delivered without the opinions, fear-mongering, and speculation that fills today's news shows.

I miss Walter Cronkite.

I miss Edward R. Murrow.

I miss reporters who will make the delineation between actual fact, opinion, and speculation clear-cut and concise. I miss journalist ethics and integrity.

I miss the little girl I used to be who wanted to grow up to be the next Barbara Walters or Connie Chung.

And as long as the public spends their time and money on news programs that are as sensationalized as soap operas, I know the modern news will not change.

Suddenly with no income

(fair warning - this started out as a post relating our experiences of the week, and turned into an overwhelmed, outraged rant rather quickly. Feel free to skip it if you aren't in the mood.)

This week started out the way it normally does - I got the kids off to school while Sean prepared for work. You know, the usual Monday morning chaos. Things were just starting to settle down when my husband called twenty minutes after his shift was due to start.

"I've been suspended. For sleeping on the job."

My first reaction was that this must be a joke. After all, he's a paramedic, and they are supposed to sleep on the job - that's why most ambulance companies and fire houses have bunk rooms. Ever since Sean started working for this company nearly four years ago, he's taken a pillow and bedding with him to work. Heck, sleeping on the job is practically in the job description, so that you are as fresh as possible when an emergency arrives.


But it turned out it wasn't a joke. He'd really been suspended for sleeping on the job. The suspension is for an indefinite period of time, until he can prove that he doesn't have a sleep condition that impairs his ability to work in his field. Since I have a sleep-related disorder myself (sleep apnea), I know from experience that getting in to a sleep study and then waiting for the results can take about 3-6 weeks - IF you are lucky.


And even if he can prove he doesn't have a sleep-related disorder, he's only going to be allowed back on a six month suspension. I'm guessing that if he falls asleep once on the job - just once - they'll fire him.


(We both feel that this isn't sleep related at all. Lately the company has made several policy changes that not only take away from the employee, but seem detrimental to the company itself, and Sean has been the rather vocal leader of those employees who didn't like the changes. We both figure this is the company preparing a legal defense for firing him because he's been causing dissent.)


This has left us in a huge pickle. How are we going to pay our bills? The rent, electricity, gas service? How are we going to buy food? How are we going to even afford for him to apply at other jobs? (the emergency medical industry is different - in order to apply for a job, you first have to successfully pass testing to prove you are knowledgeable - and the "privilege" of taking the tests costs $50. Per company. And passing the test is no guarantee you get the job - it just promises that you will be put on a list of "potential hires" that expires a year after the testing date. If no positions open up during that time, you have to pay another $50 to test in again.) With my recent injury, medical visits are increased - how will we afford the gas to get around to things like that?


We've spent the last week running around like crazy, applying for aid in any way we could. We put in an application for food stamps, as well as requests for financial aid from groups that help people in our situation to pay the bills while out of work. And before you comment "Apply for unemployment!" - he's not able to. The suspension notice clearly implies that HE'S the one at fault for the suspension, so he's not eligible for unemployment.


And a lot of well-meaning people have given me all sorts of advice one what to do during this situation. But since most of my friends and family are in Wisconsin, a lot of the things they are advising are state-specific, and since we live in Illinois, it's useless. The best I can do is write down the suggestions and see if our state has similar programs, which has meant a lot of research and work on my part. A lot of calls to people like our landlord or the utility companies, trying to make sure we won't lose our home or things like our electricity (and since I have to sleep with a machine to help me breathe, having no electricity is NOT an option). I know those who are giving me advice are just trying to help, and I DO appreciate it. But I feel so overwhelmed with suggestions and ideas and forms to fill out and calls to make and the need to lower myself to the point of begging for help - over and over and over again - that I've been unable to sleep without medicinal aid since this happened. 


I'm overwhelmed. But at least I have some idea of what to do, since I was in a similar situation back in late 2004 when my business was sabotaged. For my husband, who has always been so independent and in control, this has been a far more crushing blow, and he's at a loss as to how to handle it. He's done his part - put in as many applications as he could without having to pay out-of-pocket (there are a few jobs for medics that don't require an application fee, but not many). He's done the running around and the standing in line at public aid and food pantries. He's experienced the humiliation of having to call one of his best friends to borrow money so the electric bill could be paid on time - the second time he's had to borrow money from this friend in the past six months (last time was when the car broke down and needed to be recalibrated).


It hurts to apply for aid. There have been derogatory comments, both directed at me and just posted generally on my facebook page about how horrible it is that people who apply for food stamps can afford nice cars and cell phones and the like. It hurts. It hurts real bad. 


This is hard. It's hard on both of us. And the whole social stigma of having to apply for aid is painful. You get treated like a second-class citizen by many of those people who work in the public aid buildings or for charities. For every genuine person who is happy to help you get through it all, there are ten others who treat you like scum for even asking. When we applied for food stamps on Thursday, the security guard sneered at us when we politely turned our phones off - his expression clearly saying that we had no right to apply for aid if we could afford cell phones (the ironic part? While we did pay for our phones, we don't pay for the cell phone service - it's a gift from my mother-in-law). When I went to the bathroom during our wait to be seen, I heard two of the employees making scathing comments about how half the cars in the parking lot were nicer than the ones they could afford, and they don't even qualify for public aid, so how could "these people" afford such nice cars?


It's because half of "those people" bought those cars and cell phones while still working and able to pay for them. It doesn't mean they are abusing the system. It just means they were, at one point, a success - and now thanks to the economy, they need help. 


I saw one woman who was obviously a professional in the waiting room. Out of respect, she had dressed nicely for her appointment, but a few employees commented in her hearing "How can SHE afford a Gucci bag and designer clothes when I can barely pay my mortgage?" I saw the poor woman blush and hang her head, trying to hide tears as she slid her hand to cover the Gucci label on her purse.


She shouldn't have to feel ashamed for having once been able to afford nice things. She shouldn't have been made to feel ashamed about asking for help. I wanted to pat her on the shoulder, but I was afraid a show of sympathy would push her over the edge from silently crying to audibly sobbing. And what was she supposed to do - sell all that stuff? What would she wear on job interviews? And if she sold all but one outfit, then what would she wear for the first couple weeks once she got a job again?


People say this country was founded based on Christian principles. It's funny - you would think the place you would see those principles most played out are in places like public aid or Catholic Charities or other such places. You would think people would exemplify the kindness of Christ. But instead you get what he preached AGAINST - prejudice, selfishness, and a sense of "I am better than thou art". You get treated like something the dog dragged in. You are told, without words, that you are a burden on society. And this leaves me feeling like crap.


I try my best not to be a burden. I maintain the house, I train up the children, I cook as healthy as I can with the limited kitchen and tools I have. I attempt to grow food in our yard so as to save money and eat healthier. In the last year, I have published multiple articles and made a few strides towards going back to college. And yet the way I have been treated this past week? I've been made to feel like the stereotypical "welfare queen". 


I've had panic attacks EVERY NIGHT this week. It's gotten to the point where I am going to have to heavily medicate myself tonight just to have a chance at a few hours of shut-eye. I'm overwhelmed, I'm drowning, I'm buried under the pressure of a system I thought I would never have to experience again.


I can't even go out and get a job thanks to my back injury last month. I feel useless.


I hate it. And it's only going to get worse next week.

Speaking of zombies and homeschooling...

My friend T couldn't get blogger to let her leave a comment on my blog (weird. I'm looking into it, T, no worries). But she sent me a more direct message suggesting I take a look at someone's work on youtube, a guy calling himself CaptainValor, who evidently posts videos with both sound and signs, which is perfect for our summer school plans for learning sign language.

In particular, T recommended this video. ~happy sigh~ my friend knows me so well!

Zombies in the waiting room

pic found online - if you know who to credit it to, let me know, 'cause it's awesome!

Just as my back was starting to feel better, I picked up some kind of bug. Felt like strep throat or something similar (within an hour or so, I had halfway lost my voice), so I went to the walk-in clinic to get some antibiotics. 

I walk into the waiting room with my barely-there wheezy voice and my stilted, gimpy gait. Barely managed to stumble into a chair. This cute little girl came up to me and asked if I was turning into a zombie. I just looked at her, moaned "braaaaaains" and started to reach in her direction. She shrieked and took off. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

Her father had no such compulsion. He was bent double laughing. 

Spent the rest of my few minutes in the waiting room surrounded by toddlers and preschoolers poking me with plastic baseball bats, golf clubs, and other long toys from the toy bin while I moaned and reached for them. The preschoolers loved poking me with the bats. I'd start to reach for them, saying "Braaaaaains" and they'd whack me, so it was more like "Braaaa - ouuch" "Braaaai...ouuch".

By the time the nurse called me back, the whole waiting room was laughing, even the 80 year old woman on oxygen. I did have some fun with the nurse who came to get me. She said "What's the problem today?" and I answered "Either strep throat, or I'm the index case for the coming zombie apocalypse." She barely managed to hide her smile.

Seriously, though, where is the video camera when you need one? This totally would have gone viral.

Public schools, homeschooling, and a request for help

I am unable to home school full time. Neither my ex (who is birth father to all three boys) nor my husband feel that it would be a wise idea for the boys. I do understand part of their reasoning - as children, all three of us (myself, ex, and hubby) were socially awkward kids, and by being pretty much forced into a social setting (i.e. public school) eventually taught us the basics of social behavior.

Now, I could set up with a local homeschooling group and have the children socialize with other home schooled kids. Sounds great, right? But there are a couple of drawbacks to this idea, the first being transportation. I don't drive, we don't own a second car, and with my back injury I am not confident that I can ride my bike all over town like I used to be capable of. Second, and perhaps more important, the only local homeschooling group I have found is based on a strong conservative and fundamentalist religious ideal, and that would be a horrible fit for our liberal, agnostic/atheistic family. In fact, I'm sure the kids would feel MORE like fish out of water in that situation than in public school!

So the boys attend the local schools, and I admit that they are better than the average school in our country. Not only are the boys taught the basics like reading, writing, math, science, and history, but they are also taught free thinking, acceptance, and of course, the basics of social interaction. Innovation and creativity are encouraged and praised. All of the teachers remain in close contact with me, the parent, and come to me immediately with questions, concerns, and praises. I feel included in their education, which is fantastic! I've had them enrolled in other school districts where my interest and participation in their education was treated as an oddity at best and disruptive at worst, so having a school district that respects and includes me is gratifying.

All that said, I still feel that the boys education is stifled. This is NOT the school's fault exactly. They have to follow the guidelines and lesson plans that are put out by the state, and they are not allowed to deviate from it, even if they really want to. So for the last several years, I have taken it upon myself to fill those gaps during summer break by focusing on one particular area and doing an in-depth study on it. I try to make the sessions fun and short - after all, it is summer, and I want to make sure they have time to run around and play with each other, with friends, and explore like little boys should.

I guess you could call me a summer home schooler.

Let me give you and example from two years ago, before we moved to this school district. I had gotten numerous complaints about all three boys, and all the complaints were the same - illegible handwriting and a poor sense of sentence and paragraph structure. Since my handwriting is flawless and I have always written beautifully, I was truly confused as to how my children could struggle with these issues. So I thought back on how I had learned in the hopes that I could teach the boys in the same manner I had learned.

I decided almost immediately that they would not learn handwriting the way I had. I used to be ambidextrous, and would alternate between left and right hand writing without thought. This really disturbed my stepfather, who was deeply religious in many ways and believed wholeheartedly that left-handed writing was a weakness that allowed the devil a handhold in my soul. He saw it as his responsibility to protect my soul, so every time he caught me using my left hand, he would smack it - hard. When I sat down to do homework, he would silently place a ruler by my left hand as a silent warning - "use that hand and I'm smacking it with this ruler" (the ruler would also be used if my handwriting wasn't readable or neat, so I very quickly learned to write in an obsessively neat script.).

I remember one day, he was sitting next to me doing a crossword while I did my homework My right hand got tired, and without thinking I switched my pencil from my right hand to my left. Of course, he hit my left hand immediately - it was a reflex for him at that point, I suspect. I honestly don't think he remembered he had a pencil in his hand when he smacked my own, but my cry of pain and the blood that flowed proved that he had inadvertently stabbed my hand with the sharp point of his own pencil. I jerked away and in the process, the lead point of his pencil broke off in my hand. He ended up having to cut the wound open a little bit more to remove the lead.

Remembering that made me shudder, and I unconsciously rubbed the small scar from the incident. No, I wouldn't teach my children good handwriting the way I had been taught! I decided I would just teach them the basics of good penmanship, and make them rewrite anything that was illegible.

Figuring out how to teach them sentence structure and paragraph formation was harder. I couldn't recall a single instance of being taught how to write. I did remember teachers harping on things like "a paragraph has a main sentence and supportive sentences", stuff like that, but I also remembered tuning them out because it seemed like such a "duh" thing to me. Of course the rest of a paragraph supported the main sentence. It was just natural. As a child I just couldn't comprehend why others in my grade couldn't get the concept. And I had no idea how to teach my children a skill that I had never struggled with.

It was my mother who shed light on the solution. I was talking to her on the phone and mentioned how I was at a total loss to teach my own children the skill of writing cohesively. I remember her laughing and saying "Of course you learned to write well. You read so much as a child that you picked up the skill instinctively. No one had to teach you, and that's why you were so bored in English classes."

It was like a light bulb went off. I learned how to write from reading - and my children love to read! At that moment, our summer schooling plan was set. I let the kids check out books they wanted from the library, and every day they had to write a paragraph or two about what they read that day. My husband joined in by finding a DVD of the old "School House Rocks" videos, as well as things like Between the Lions episodes and a few other shows that tended to focus on writing.

By the end of the summer, all three boys were churning out their paragraphs (and in some cases, multiple paragraphs) in record time, and their handwriting and sentence structure were improved enough that their new teachers found nothing to complain about.

Over the course of teaching my children, I've learned the truth of Frank Oppenheimer's quote:  "The best way to learn is to teach." So I decided the kids and I will learn something new together, and after researching subjects, talking with the kids about what they want to learn, and thinking about what I want to learn myself, I decided the subject of this summer's lessons will be sign language.

This is where you come in, my dear reader. Do you know of any online classes/videos/educational sites for learning sign language from scratch? Can you recommend any books or DVD series? An educational cartoon along the lines of Sesame Street or Dora the Explorer, only for older children? The more material I have to work with, the better I can create a lesson plan of sorts.

Let me know what you think on in my comments - and if you know anyone who blogs/home schools that knows sign language, please link me to their blogs.

Thanks a lot!