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Erato's Musings

Lovely Erato

Planetoid
Joined
Sep 10, 2013
Ha! See what I did there?

Some of you might not, so I'll explain and in doing so, tell you a little about me in the process.

For those who don't know, Erato was one of the nine Greek muses. Originally she was the goddess of music, song, and dance. Later in Classical times when the muses were assigned to certain artistic spheres and aspects she was named the Muse of lyric and erotic poetry. She seems to be associated with star-crossed lovers more than anything, and I am a sucker for those types of things. My favorite being Tristan and Isolde. I've got a lot of Irish in me, and their story even predates and was thought to inspire the Lancelot and Guinevere tales of Arthurian Legend.

A little more about me. I am female; I'm not going to give my age but I am old enough to be on here, be married, and have a five year old. Then again, with shows like Sixteen and Pregnant, that isn't saying too much I guess. I'm sort of a writer I guess; I've had some short stories and poetry pieces published. I'm currently working on a loose book but I think I'm going to wait until NaNo to hit it hard.

I was going to school for Law, though most of my elective classes at the time were filled with English courses and creative writing, sociology, and psychology. Thanks to family, I'm a bit of a history buff and just full of useless trivial knowledge. Experience has given me a decent bit of wisdom to draw from as well.

I'm happily married. My husband and I were together for five years before I found out I was pregnant. Our little girl was not expected, but her birth certainly put things in perspective for me. She came along in those wild, irresponsible party days that most people go through at some point in their lives. I was also extremely career and college oriented, probably a little too much so. She forced me to learn to sit back and enjoy the little things in life. At first, I'll admit I wasn't entirely happy about it. I thought I gave up so much when I was pregnant. Now I can't see my life any other way.

I'm have the luxury of being able to stay at home. I've got my things to keep me busy and be more than just a wife and a mom.

Unfortunately, time is getting late and I've got to be up soon. I'm sure this is a horrible first post but I can always come back and edit it later.

Also, please do not post here.
 
I must be insane

So, yeah... as many of you may or may not have noticed, I have not been around in awhile.

Probably on a small fraction of those who have noticed might be asking why. This is because I have recently learned that volunteering for any extracurricular activity for a small child (or group of small children) is officially signing the paperwork to be admitted to the looney bin.



Signing my First Name:

My child is into everything.

From the time she was two until now, and probably for many years ahead if her lofty goals speak to her desire to continue, she has been in ballet and dance classes. Despite the Nutcracker not being until mid December, it has already been looming over me. Monthly dance payments, trips out of town to specialty stores since the one we had closed this summer without any notice at all, fretting about costume sizes and accessories needed. Okay, so the last part isn't that hard since she is an Angel this year and with it being so close to Halloween, you can find things like halos and glittery wings all over the place. But I'm already noticing a huge difference between Beginning Ballet to Ballet I.

Signing my Last name:

The kid is officially in school now. That has never been more obvious. I remember things being so much different from when I was in kindergarten to her being in there now. When my mom was in PTA, it was a few meetings here and there over the course of a whole eight months. Now they've started at the beginning of August. Three days into school we were slammed with a fund raiser. Guess who idiotically signed up to help process orders?

They've done away with the famous Accelerated Reader lists and decided it would make perfect sense to switch over to this new program, that basically does the exact same thing but is more complicated. Some parents got roped into helping the school's media center get ready for the change. Now, when we first told this, I was thinking it would be so simple as updating a few lists and putting in existing information. But no. It can't be that easy. Ever. It has taken hours upon hours of volunteer time, sitting in uncomfortable pint-sized chairs, and scanning in every book... every damn piece of equipment that has nothing to do with anything... into this new system. Why the hell does a decades old projector needs to be scanned into something related to 10 page books with 5 words per page is completely lost to me.

October is peeking its head around the corner just to remind me of Math night, a college hosted trick-or-treating event, and a Halloween party the school is having.


Signing the date:
Oh Girl Scouts.

How I envied the color corresponding uniforms with all the nifty iron and sew on badges when I was little. How I still drool over the cookies I can only get for three months out of the year. How I'm ready to set every damn troop on fire now.

I was sort of bullied into the role as troop leader by being told that my little girl, who was all over me to sign her up since the newsletter came out months ago, would not get into a troop if not enough people volunteered to be leaders. She'd be placed on a waiting list until the next year rolled around. Even then, it was not a sure bet if not enough people signed up that year too. She was literally tearing up at the recruitment meeting when she heard this.

I reluctantly raised my hand. A whenever-I-want job as a writer could not be placed over the happiness of my child. My schedule was open; the unfinished project could always be put on the back burner for whenever I had some free time. Besides, it would be fun having a handful of girls, planning some meetings, maybe doing some group activities with them every now and then... and of course, I'd have first dibs on the drug cookies.

The last month has seen me logging more computer time than I did when I was in college. The 'handful' went from being eight girls, to almost eighteen after I called everyone on the recruitment list. There were three times as many who luckily lost interest. As the number grew, I was quickly becoming more and more hesitant. I asked if there was someone else who could take part of the group from me. Of course, Daisies (Kindergarten to First Graders) is a relatively new age group. There is no one else. I just keep seeing the face of my child, her heart literally breaking before my eyes, when she found out that all because of lack of adult involvement she wouldn't have this coveted spot. So down the list I went.

To shake things up a bit, they've decided to add these things called Journeys into the mix. Sure, you can get your regular petal badges, but there are 12 more potential badges (that look a lot cooler than some oval shapes around a yellow center) a kid can get. The last few weeks have been spent coming up with lesson plans for meetings. Sounds easy enough. It isn't. New troops can't do fundraising their first year. Daisy troops, even established ones, can only rely on cookie money unless otherwise approved. I've been trying to come up with things that can get the point across with recyclables and school supplies kids should already have. Even then, when my projected expenses came up to about $170 per girl with just badges and books... that number is huge.


Turning it in:
Okay, so this is really more of an addictive pastime, but Diablo 3 finally hit Xbox. All this parent stuff when the land of Whimseyshire and killer cows and flowers is waiting for me? Yeah... I'd rather be vegging out in my Gamer chair making callouses on my thumbs.

However, I think I have most everything done for a little while. I should be good to go.
 
As a mother of 2 small kids (5 year old son, 3 year old daughter), I sooooo get this. I so get this so very hard there are no freakin' words for it. TIRED. That is the one word that sums up how I feel pretty much 100% of the time. TIRED yet having no choice but to keep on going and not for yourself, but for everyone else. Because, you know... it's never about you. Not ever. And it extends beyond your kids too. It always does.
 
Lol. To be honest, this 'me' time was rather forced. Last night my husband came in and took all my Girl Scout stuff that I had been working away so he thought I didn't have anything and would be using my computer for writing, RPing, or playing and yelling obscenities at Candy Crush. Little did he know I don't have to have my 'hard copies' of things to keep me from going through my e-mail, scrounging through Pinterest for ideas, and looking up PDFs :3 To be completely honest... I have some GS and PTSO things up in another window.
 
Losing my grip in the grey

So, I just spent two hours writing what was probably my most honest, deepest journal thing that I have in awhile. Maybe ever. Very introspective all the while touching on some of the more sensitive subjects from a detached and less bias view.

Iight have helped quite a few people. Maybe not here, but it was just one of those types of things. Even if I got off track and rambled for awhile about something off topic but still culturally relevant. After reading over it again, it made me sound complete bat shit insane and possibly emo.

Then I selected it all and hit the backspace button but I learned an important lesson for myself. Never do something like that after a seizure that leaves you with brain pudding.

Now on to more important things like posting :3
 
The High Cost of Living

I've been gone awhile again. Actually, looking at my last posts, it hasn't been all that long but it seems like years. I don't feel like sending everyone some massive PMed apology; it feels like a cop out and very informal. Besides, I've apologized to current RP partners too many times already for my spotty activity record. One more, despite the reason, seems like it would be too much. The few I'm pretty sure somewhat follow me around, will likely see this and be sated. Those who don't, hopefully I'll be able to sneak in with nothing being said. I don't feel like explaining twenty times over or rehashing the same events over and over, but I do feel like venting.

It all started about two months ago but has finally come to an ultimate, but untimely end. I'm heartbroken for the loss, but conflicted about my emotions and actions over it.

My husband's business partner, Bob, had been declining for awhile. Calling Bob a business partner seems so... strange. The man ultimately became a sort of father figure for both of us. After all, when your own is an asshole, and you have someone like him, it happens pretty damn quick. Our biological dads were both pieces of shit. Mine was missing from the time I was born. He even went so far as to cut a couple of his sisters out of his life for even wanting to have me in theirs. It caused me to keep everyone I was related to through his blood at arm's length. My husband, I don't know if he had it better or worse. His was around, but an emotionally and physically abusive alcoholic and drug addict. However, he started to get better and then went about trying to rebuild burning bridges. While they were on a vacation in Savannah, he ended up drowning after their Sea-doo hit a sandbar. My husband actually watched his dad die.

Bob used to live down the street from us, just a few houses down the culdesac. I knew his wife, and she was awesome. One of those Southern born and bred women who worked hard in her early life, had kids, and finally settled into the Grandmother stereotype that happens down here. Her job became her home. She was always cooking and helping out. Then she died of cancer a little over a year ago of cancer. The woman they were renting from was quick to screw Bob over when he rebuffed her pathetic attempts to seduce him into marrying her. Great daytime drama material, but when it happens in real life, it is just...

He ended up moving out of town, about thirty minutes away. When my husband had been out of a job for a few months, Bob offered to let him work with him as an apprentice electrician. You always hear about people who 'love their jobs' but to see someone living it is strange. My husband always been very left-brained and sort of a geek when it comes to math and science. He'd come home after having a couple of beers with Bob after they finished a job, and even though I didn't get half of what he was talking about, seeing that light in his eyes whenever he talked about transformers, amps, lumens, converters, even getting the shit shocked out of himself and looking down at his swollen and reddish hand was something that made me smile. Bob introduced him to it, showed him things that you can't learn from books, and was there to guide him.

Back in August, Bob's health had seemed to be on the decline. Again, one of the slightly altered stereotypes of a Good Ol' Boy. He could be a racist bastard at times, but he volunteered in Vietnam. With other men, he'd communicate with grunts over beers talking about politics and weather. With women, he opened doors and greeted them with hugs. He watched his temper, never cursed around children. He had worked from the time he was ten years old in some fashion. If he hurt himself, he wouldn't say anything. Never even saw him with a band-aid on. So of course, not having him down the street from us, it was hard to notice until it got bad.

He'd been giving subtle clues for awhile. Walking with a limp, mentioning how his fingers were going numb sometimes. I used to cook big dinners on the weekends and send a plate to work with my husband to give to him and Bryan started to find them in the fridge, hidden away with only a few bites taken. We finally convinced him to go to the hospital after Bob stumbled on a job and hurt his leg. They misdiagnosed him with Osteoporosis; that was my present. They kept him for two days and gave him some fluids and put him on some prescription vitamins. We thought that he'd get better, but he didn't. Two weeks later and things only kept getting worse. Bob tried to say it was just a cold, but we took him to another hospital where they diagnosed him with Stage Four cancer.

As he stayed, he continued to get worse and the diagnosis darker. It was in his lungs, his stomach, and he had a large but benign brain tumor on the left side of his brain. It was large enough to where the fluid began pressing against it and hampering movement and thought processes. He was still at the hospital when an old business employee of his, decided to screw him over. Bob thought he was just signing his truck over to him, but ended up signing power of attorney and everything he owned over to the guy, Phil.

If there is a hell, Phil will go there. Dude thought that Bob had all sorts of insurance money that would be coming in and going to him, but Bob had to cancel most of them when there was a slow period over the summer. So, there was next to nothing. Finding out that he'd have to pay for the funeral, Bob's family (who were living in California) managed to talk him into signing most of the assets back over once Phil had squandered it away within a matter of days. He still owns the actual business, tools, materials, accounts, and contacts of Bryan and Bob's business. Bob's house and shed were plundered. Attorneys were contacted, but when you are actually worried about someone's health, legal shit falls to the wayside.

He was released from the hospital on the 11th and given 6 to 8 months to live. That Wednesday night, while his daughter was running to grab some clothes from the hotel they were staying at, he fell into a coma and passed away. We got the news Thursday, over Facebook. His daughter couldn't find Bryan's number. The funeral and service were held Friday. I'm still trying to find away to break the news to my little girl. After all, a dead pet and a dead person are two completely different things. Even with my miscarriage earlier in the year, she didn't exactly 'know' what it meant.

So, here I find myself.

I've grown sort of numb to the whole thing myself. I think I've known more than my fair share of people who died too early. I don't know why that is. I'm dubbed as a suicide magnet by some. My best friend killed himself at thirteen. I was the one who found my cousin and my god father after they had killed themselves. I helped clean up blood splattered walls and clothes of my best friend's brother, who I had used to date, years later. But there is something about a taken life and an ended life that are different.

I'd rather deal with suicides. However misguided, there was an intent there to extinguish their life. In normal circumstances, there is no control. Everything just stops for that person. I had started to distance myself from Bob much earlier than I should have, because I was able to see the signs. A man who was so close to me. I had meant to go see him. I actually had plans to the day he got out of the hospital, but something came up. It was trivial, but at the time, I deemed it more important. What would one day matter when I was told he had six to eight months?

I never do funerals well. I'm awkward and quiet, and prefer to keep to myself. I have no clue why some families decide to do viewings. I can see it in a sentimental purpose, but looking down at the lifeless corpse. Knowing what exactly the embalming process entails... body drained of blood and filled with chemicals, cotton place between the eye and lid to keep them from opening, mouth and jaws sewn shut, organs stabbed so gases and fluids can be sucked out. Dealing with an autopsy, makes it worse. Makeup used to make someone look more natural... just makes them look fake. Like a broken doll. I went with my husband to the viewing, but stayed outside for about an hour smoking cigarettes back to back to give myself a reason to stay outside. I didn't want to talk to his family. They all seemed to know us, but I had only heard them mentioned from time to time. What would I say? Sorry he's dead, but at least he didn't suffer? It seems so hollow, especially when no one really had time to prepare. They had just arrived, moved into the house and were setting up for a long term stay when he died. I think my smoking came across as inconsiderate, considering he died of cancer but they mostly found traces of agent orange in his system.

The funeral service itself was small and 'intimate'. I'm actually sort of glad it was short. Afterwards, we all went out to eat at a little sports pub here that was his favorite. Reubens and beer around, except for me. I hate corned beef and sauerkraut. I don't drink beer. I still felt out of place. I was the only person who hadn't cried that day. Like I said, it was sort of a relief. I wouldn't have to watch him get sick and slowly die. I could remember him like he was. I was shocked at the speed but thankful for it. He passed in his sleep, in his home, in his bed. Not going through chemo, in a hospital, hooked up to IVs.


I've become very close friends with Death. I think Neil Gaiman had the personification down pat with his Endless personification: quirky, nice, beautiful in her own way, and someone you'd like to meet at the end. That is how I always look at it, but I feel bad for... not feeling bad.

Anyways, I'm rambling now and time to put my daughter to bed.
 
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