Author Archives: (((High Priestess Kang)))

So I made an ass of myself…

…yet again.

There are some people in life who manage to bring out the best in you.  You know who I’m talking about and you know what I mean by the best.  I’m talking about the people that render you completely and utterly stupid by simply looking your way.  The people from whom you would like some reciprocal respect for some inexplicable reason.  The people who manage to shatter the “I give zero fucks about you, world!!111!” barrier we strut around with daily.  Yeah.  Those people.  Like everyone else, I have had a few of these creatures in my life; personally and professionally.  My experience has been to avoid these people at all cost because who wants to appear as a mentally deficient dumbass or be mortally embarrassed on a frequent basis?  Egos can only sustain so many punches before the bruising occurs and permanent damage is done.

Working from home has granted me the good fortune of essentially eliminating characters like this from my life.  I stay in the safety of my home, free from the days of hiding under the sofa and from my own shadow.  When venturing out in public, terminally shy Kang now has her sidekick as a sort of deflect-o-shield.  Any situation with a potential for discomfort and embarrassment can be quashed by interacting with my child.  I no longer come across as aloof.  No longer do I appear as a snob.  No longer do I have to worry about someone engaging me in conversation and searching for words while, internally, I’m hoping to self-immolate because shy introverts do not care for these particular challenges.  And before another word is said – yes, you can be extremely chatty and opinionated among people you know quite well but still be shy and introverted.  Weird, eh?  But completely true.

Back to the topic at hand, there is a teacher at Milkface’s school who has this unique gift of rendering me dull-witted.  The woman who can take down the strongest of people with a single sentence becomes totally unhinged and unable to string together more than three words without sounding like a total lunkhead.  Trust – I’m talking about a level of dumbassery reserved for signs at Tea Party protests.  I become the physical manifestation of “Get a Brain! Morans” or “Not a Extremist.  Just Extremey Over-Taxed!!! No Amesty”  Is the picture forming, now?  It is also imperative to note that if, by some flaming miracle, I do manage to string together a coherent sentence to exchange pleasantries with this person, the question is typically so inane the only suitable response is an adolescent-esque side-eye.  I lower my head, blush and, again, wish for self-immolation.

The natural question “Why can’t you simply avoid this person?” springs to mind.  Alas, I cannot.  Milkface adores him.  And, like every good mommy out there, when you see your child adore a teacher, a part of you shares that adoration.  It’s just the way the Mom Gene works.  Fucking Mom Gene.  As if the menstrual cycle and hormonal fluctuations weren’t enough to contend with, now I have this bullshit to toy with my emotions, too?  As I age, I seek paths to simpler living; not more complex.  This is more complex.  I did not sign up for this part when I procreated.

With the back story somewhat set up, I bring forth the asshattery.

Last week, after the weekly doctor visit and Target run (look – Mom Gene up in here), I roll up to the school.  My mind was back at the doctor’s office or Target or up my own ass.  Whatever.  It was not present.  Teacher-of-Whom-I-Make-an-Ass-of-Myself was traipsing through the parking lot.  Dilemma:  stop the car, roll down the window and exchange pleasantries or keep going?  No time to think!  Eye contact made!  Awkward alert!  Awkward alert!  Code humiliation!  Think of your kid!  Think of your kid!  My Little Pony!  What’s for dinner?  How much money is in the bank account?  Did you leave your coffee at the doctor’s office again?  Did you remember to eat lunch today?  Where’s the fucking brake pedal?  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  I stop the car.  FIRST FUCKING MISTAKE.

I roll down the window.  BOOM.  Reality settles in.  As soon as I open my mouth to speak I realize that the radio is on (Sirius Lithium channel, to be precise).  Playing on the radio is Nine Inch Nails’ Closer.  Aaaah…you see where I’m going, don’t you, my pretty?  My mouth is open, a word salad is about to come tumbling out and I’m interrupted by Trent Reznor bleating “I want to fuck you like an animal.”  Did I mention the teacher is MALE?  Did I mention the male teacher is young (perhaps young enough to be my son)?  Did I mention that the young, male teacher who renders me an idiot is not exactly a passenger on the Big Bus of Unfortunate Looking People?  SECOND FUCKING MISTAKE.  And, I hasten to add, the only mistake that matters.

So here I sit, in my middle-aged splendor, in my middle-aged sedan, listening to music that is 20 years old and sexually suggestive – trying to keep on chattering away as I frantically push the volume buttons.  Naturally, the volume buttons are all “NOPE!  EAT MY SHIT, BITCH.  YOU AIN’T FINDING ME TODAY.  NEENER NEENER NEENER!”  The words “UR…uh…Milky’s favorite…heh…heh..heh…” did come out of my mouth but for the love of Flying Spaghetti Monster, it was fucking Beavis and Butthead hour up in that bitch.  Fortunately, the conversation lasted about as long as a sixteen year old boy having his first go at it so I was able to remove myself from the situation, park the car and begin laughing hysterically.  And did I laugh!  Tears were streaming down my beet red face.  I was so damn discombobulated, I stumbled around the school and went in the opposite direction of where my child would be when it was time to pick him up.

A few joking text exchanges with friends and a self-deprecating Facebook post later, I thought that was the last of it.  After all, who would actually take any of this seriously?  I mean, it’s not like Closer isn’t a well-known song, right?  And really – look at me?  Do I look like the type of person who would be sexually suggestive?  Wait…now I sound like a paedophile.  TRIPLEDEFUCK.

Welp – the joke is on me!  Things weren’t just awkward or remotely uncomfortable.  Things have gotten a bit more “real” for my taste.  Mind you, I have yet to be yanked into the Head Mistress’ office for improper conduct (although, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if that did happen) but there’s a whole lot of side-eye, uncomfortable exchanges and general ignoring going on at the school by other faculty members.  That’s right.  Unfortunately, it’s not simply limited to the teacher who constantly bears witness to my inner circus freak.  Others with whom I would normally chatter have been just a wee judgmental.  Granted, I do spend a lot of time up in my own head, “thinking too much” about experiences but it doesn’t take a terribly intuitive or intelligent human being to detect when others are, how shall we say, put off by their presence or essence.  And that really cuts to the core.  So, I put on the big girl panties and dashed off an email explaining my embarrassment and apologizing for any offense I may have caused.  Classsssy.

I can live with making an ass of myself.  I have been doing a stellar job of that for forty-three years at this point.  Some people paint.  Some people craft.  I fuck up in spectacular fashion in the most public way possible.  That’s my milieu.  To paraphrase a bit, with such extraordinary talent comes great responsibility.  I have learned the whole “improvise, adapt and overcome” and move along with my bad self.  I have mastered the art of letting the haters hate.  I could teach a class on giving zero fucks.  In this instance, there are just too many layers of ewwwww, ugh and ouch to do that, though.

I feel tremendously shitty because my child is on the periphery of this madness.  If anyone judged him because his mom had a momentary lapse of judgment, I would be crushed for him.  He’s a great kid and will have his own issues to handle later on (the joys of being a kid and then the joys of adolescence).  I feel really frustrated that a group of adults could fall into the trap of making an assessment about my behavior without even considering what might have been going through my brain at the time.   No one likes being denied the opportunity to share their perspective.  It’s very dehumanizing.  Usually, when I run across people like that, I immediately consign them to the box of stupid people and banish them to a life at sea with the rest of the intolerable human stains on this planet as they’re not worth the oxygen spent speaking of them.  Unfortunately, I’m sort of stuck being nice to them and that just grinds the old gears.

The ultimate sadness comes from two places:  the idea that someone could think so poorly of me and that someone I respect could think so poorly of me.  It’s a double-edged sword slicing through an already fragile ego.  It’s a problem with absolutely no solution.  For an outcomes oriented person, it’s a tough, tough pill to swallow and yet I have to swallow it because my options are limited to making jokes about it among my friends, scribbling down my thoughts on paper and doing absolutely nothing else.  The following Monday morning, after a pantload of unpleasant interactions, I left the school feeling like a cross between a deflated balloon and a broken toy.  I actually cried while driving home and pulled a full melancholia by listening to The Smiths, album upon album.  Then I slapped myself across the face for self-flagellating.  Sure, the whole thing is going to smart for some time to come.  Maybe it will all be forgotten after Christmas break and I can resume just being my bad ass self without worrying about what others think.  I won’t lie and say that as I walk with my head held high that there isn’t a part of me cringing on the inside, though.

The moral isn’t simple.  This isn’t a case of “Hey, Jackass!  Don’t listen to songs with questionable content when driving to your child’s school.”  That would be omitting a significant part of the equation; the dynamics of human interaction.  And, if that was easy to work out, there wouldn’t be a bazillion psychotherapists in the phonebook, would there?

And time stands still…

…but for a fleeting moment.

We were home for Thanksgiving, visiting with Kate’s parents.  Visits to Philadelphia are always pleasant, far too short and there is never enough time to see all those near and dear to me.  I do try my hardest to visit Kate’s parents, however.  These are people who stood for me when others were not willing to do the job themselves.  Kate treated me like a sister.  Her parents treated me like a daughter.

Towards the end of the visit, Kate’s father took me aside and gave me a watch that had belonged to Kate.  He was slightly confused by the watch as it was a strong representation of how Kate compartmentalized her life and kept many secrets.  While her parents knew of Kate’s fondness for the finer things in life, they were not aware that Kate would procure said fancy things.  This component of grief and frustration seems as if it will never sort itself out; no matter how much time passes.  So many questions remain unanswered.

Immediately, I put the watch on.  Of course, having sat idle for nearly four years, it no longer functions.  It will definitely need a battery.  I’m thinking a complete service is necessary, as well.  Just my luck – there are neither authorized service centers nor retailers in our state.  I kept the non-functional watch on my wrist so I wouldn’t lose it while we were skittering hither and yon in Philly.

We have been home for over a week.  The thank you note is overdue (will I ever get my shit together, I wonder?).  The watch is still on my wrist.  It still doesn’t work.  And it occurred to me:  why should I fix it?  Is it not more…erm…sentimentally poetic that I’m wearing a watch that belonged to my deceased best friend and the watch no longer functions?  On December 19, 2010 time, in a sense, stopped for many of us that day. We find ourselves moving forward, doing the things we do, living life as we should because Kate would not want people moping about and, let’s face it, this is part of life. That said, is there something inherently unhealthy or wrong about wearing the watch that no longer keeps time?  The watch that froze time, perhaps?  The watch that could potentially bring me back to the time when Kate was here and I was still a whole person?

This morning, Milkface asked if I was going to “fix Aunt Kate’s fancy watch?”  I had no answers.  I’m in no hurry.  After all, in this particular instance, time has stopped.  Time is irrelevant.

Tedium

It certainly cannot be only me.  Granted, I do enjoy living in my bubble doing my thing, but I cannot be the only human being on this planet who finds certain people entirely tedious.

Maybe it’s middle age.  I have become very guarded about my time and how I invest it.  In the past, I had patience to deal with people.  Now, not so much.  Things should be simple, pleasant and even.  When things are not simple, pleasant and even, I find myself less willing to invest the time.  There is freedom to packing proverbial bags and moving on.

Anyone else feel this way?  I’m neither angry nor frustrated.  I’m just over it.

For a good time…

…call Ginger at the Morrisville, NC branch of TruGreen.  Her number is:  919.481.1172.  Please be sure to ask for the High Priestess Kang stalking special.

In 2010, fed up with my trainwreck of a garden, I contracted TruGreen for service.  I freely admit that I was beyond excited since Dock wants nothing to do with yard maintenance and there is very little I can do with my deteriorating spine.  Alas, like many things in this wicked world, TruGreen broke my heart.  Shattered it in a billion pieces, I tell you.

TruGreen couldn’t be arsed to keep to its agreement.  As I mumbled many times over, it was if I had to call TruGreen and remind it that I had bags of money at my house with its name on it.  The service was that horrendous.

2011 rolled around and I figured I would give them a chance at redemption, mostly out of sheer laziness on my part.  This was a very poor decision.

After waiting twelve weeks for service that should be performed at six-to-eight week. intervals, I gave up.  Then…the phone call came.  TruGreen wanted to swing by to seed my lawn for a not so nominal fee.  At this point, I cancelled the agreement.  It’s just not worth doing business with an organization that drives you batty.  The customer service rep I spoke with was entirely ambivalent but agreed to terminate the contract.

Shortly after noon today, a TruGreen truck was idling right in front of my house.  Rather than dealing with otherwise lovely men who do not speak English well, I called the local office.  It is my lucky day.  Ginger answered the phone.

I begin to explain the situation, express my displeasure with the truck idling outside of my house, etc… and cunty Ginger says “Well, it’s not as if they are stalking you.”

Aaaaah.  Wrong.  Words.

/me waggles tentacle

You know, in this stellar economy, where jobs are abundant, it would be prudent to maintain a professional decorum lest one ends up with a pink slip in their grubby paws and no opportunity for unemployment.  Either Ginger is sucking some major TruGreen cock or she is as dumb as a fence post.  Perhaps it’s both.  I have never met her.

I will say that I do not plan on meeting Ginger.  I find her narrow lexicon tedious and do not necessarily appreciate dealing with a snotty customer service troll who thinks she is omnipotent because she is paid to speak on the phone.

Look…we all know customer service jobs suck.  We all know these people are abused by angry customers and they’re not compensated well.  That’s fine.  But when you turn your vitriol on me, please do not sound appalled when I call you a pedantic, little shit in return.

So…if you’re looking for something to do today, go ahead and call Ginger.  Alternatively, if you live in the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina, you should consider refraining from contracting TruGreen.  Unless, of course, you like talking naughty cunts like Ginger.

…Alasdair Thompson

…may be the biggest shitheel in the world.  The only fitting response to this story is to fling bloody tampons at the man.

Many thanks to the BBC for sharing this with the world.

NZ sexism row: EMA boss Alasdair Thompson sacked

New Zealand women are paid about 12% less than men, recent figures showed

The head of a major New Zealand employers’ group has been fired after he caused public outrage by linking women’s productivity to menstruation.

Alasdair Thompson of the Employers’ and Manufacturers’ Association made his comments on a radio show last month.

Mr Thompson said women were paid less than men because they took more sick leave and “have children they have to take time off to go home” to care for.

Prime Minister John Key said Mr Thompson’s dismissal was inevitable.

“I don’t think it’s surprising,” Mr Key told reporters. “In the end that’s a matter for EMA, but I’m not shocked by it.”

Asked if the decision took too long, Mr Key said employment matters were often complex and it was as matter for the EMA.

“But in the end this situation he got himself into didn’t look like it was sustainable.”

‘Brain explosion’

Mr Thompson’s comments were made during a NewstalkZB interview on 23 June, during a debate on recent figures that showed New Zealand women were paid about 12% less than men.

“Who takes the most sick leave? Women do, in general,” he said.

“Why? Because once a month they have sick problems. Not all of them, but some do.

“They have children that they have to take time off to go home and take leave of. Therefore it’s their productivity. It’s not their fault.”

He continued: “I’m sorry, I don’t like saying these things because it sounds like I’m sexist, but it’s the facts of life.”

Mr Thompson later apologised for his comments.

Minister of Labour Kate Wilkinson described the comments at the time as a “brain explosion”.

Women’s Affairs Minister Hekia Parata said on Wednesday that people would be pleased there had been a resolution.

“I think that it’s been pretty clear from the response that the remarks made were unacceptable to a wide range of people and my own experience of talking to businesses and across the country is it was a generally felt view that they were unacceptable,” she said.

…raining on your morality parade

It’s a watershed moment in America.  A woman who was suspected of murdering her daughter, dumping her in a field and living the high life for 31 days before notifying authorities (excuse:  missing child) was rendered not guilty by a jury of her peers.  The peanut gallery gasps in horror at this miscarriage of justice for the slain toddler.  News, being news in the United States, can only focus on one story per day and this is it.

The jury is a collection of fools.  The prosecution was robbed.  The toddler’s memory was tarnished.  The peanuts take to the street, marching in lock-step tooting their horns and waving the “It’s unfair” flag while singing songs about the terrible, murdering mother.  All while overlooking some significant facts:

  • It is the responsibility of the prosecution to prove guilt.  Clearly, from the jury’s perspective, it did not.
  • Children are abused on a daily basis.

I understand the concept of cause célèbre.  We all have our pets we choose to support.  But let me ask the peanuts in the parade some critical questions:

  • Where is your outrage when it comes to other children being abused, beaten and slain?
  • Are you fully aware of the broad reach of child abuse?
  • Aside from Twattering and Fecesbooking, what are you doing about it?

Now…I’m certainly not denying the right to one’s opinion.  What I am trying to do is offer a different side to the tale.  It’s very easy to lash out at a monster who would harm his/her child when it’s the dominating story in the daily news.  It’s very easy to express outrage. That said, if you’re so horrified by child abuse, what are you doing in your community to stop it?

No one is omnipotent.  Dollars to donuts, abuse goes on behind closed doors and the general public is never even aware of it transpiring. That does not change the fact that it does happen.  A parent doesn’t have to murder a child to be a monster.  A parent doesn’t have to get caught to be guilty of this crime.

The sad fact of the matter is that a variation of Casey Anthony lives on every block in every neighborhood in every state/country. The sad fact of the matter is that most of us are blind to it.  Rather than taking the easy way out and joining groups supporting the non-purchase of any tell-all book, why not get involved in your communities and schools and help a child in need?  Surely that is a far better investment of time and energy, yes?

…the more radical the bumpersticker

…the bigger the hoopty.

I am not sure if this is a regional phenomenon or if it’s a widespread epidemic.  There seems to be a distinct relationship between bumperstickers and cars.  Primarily the bumperstickers screaming a pro-life agenda or screaming about how science is evil.   On my way to the pharmacy for a refill, I had the esteemed privilege of following a raging pro-lifer who also wants to end fetal testing.  Of course, it was on a piece of shit, Sanford and Son mobile that was held together by duct tape and driven by a knuckle-dragging, frizzy haired inbred with a tremendous underbite.

Yes.  This is exactly the type of person who deserves a say on all things scientific, amirite?

What kind of Good Christian would wish a debilitating disease like Tay-Sachs on anyone (parent or child)?  Are these people so fucking clueless that science is now, officially, the root of all evil and that humans should needlessly suffer because some mystical book says so?

Now, I realize that I’m a Mid-Atlantic, Liberal Elitest who grew up on the periphery of a big, big city among those who can fucking read and marry someone with a different surname, but surely geography isn’t the driving factor in one’s intelligence.  Or is it?

To those who eschew science in the name of the LAWD, here’s a bit of advice:  don’t want the tests?  Don’t have them.  Carry on and pray for our condemned, technology embracing souls.  Don’t foist your bullshit, neaderthalic beliefs on those of us who do.

And…for fuck’s sake…buy a goddamned car that is road worthy.  Not only are your beliefs scary but so is sharing the road with you.

…where I have been

Ah bless.

Between the stomach virus that will not leave our house, the abortion of a project from hell and usual mental malaise, I have been absent. I am terribly sorry.

Where I have I been, you ask?  Scraping stuff on my body that does not belong there.  Be it bodily fluids of varying types or food, I have been scrubbing myself raw.  Tonight’s joy was applesauce.

In order to maintain a pleasant demeanor and not take my frustrations out on a toddler with zero understanding of the world, I put myself in time out when I’m frustrated.  I have been in time out a lot these days.  I really wish time out was in a bar.

…sick mommy vs sick daddy

Alternatively, sick woman vs sick man.

Yes.  Go ahead and roll your eyes for this is yet another post about the superiority and strength of the weaker sex – the woman. You know, those of us who behave irrationally because our hormones make us act like a rabid dog.  The woman.  The crier.

Here is a picture of my daily existence:

Ouch. That fucking hurts!

For those of you not overly familiar with all things spine related, this is a basic x-ray of my spine.  Or what is left of my spine.  Each day is a joyous exercise in spasms, sciatica and mind-crushing pain.  I’m truly fortunate that I am currently able to postpone the inevitable ALIF surgery.  While I may feel older than dirt, I’m a little too young for such drastic measures.

On a good day, I have back pain.  On a not-so-good day, I have the back pain and whatever ailment is ravaging my body.  Be it a cold, dengue fever, malaria, sinusitis, ears that won’t work or a really angry menstrual cycle, I’m left to manage it.  Sometimes, I get to do all of this while my husband is travelling, leaving me to care for the Milkfaced toddler by my bad self.  Quite the conundrum when your orthopaedic surgeon strongly advises against lifting anything heavier than five pounds.

This is really hard work when you’re suffering from the above *and* you are stuck dragging around that cross and having a crown of thorns poking your scalp.  Alas, I am woman.  I will do.  Then I will spend your money out of spite and frustration.

Men, on the other hand, take an entirely different approach to illness.  THE WORLD GRINDS TO A FUCKING HALT.  A hangnail may require an amputation.  A runny nose and a fever requires hospitalization in a plastic bubble with an IV.  A stomach bug – oh just get the fuck out of the way.  The man is vomiting, for fuck’s sake.  Food is coming out of the wrong orifice!!!  This is a horrible fate and means death must be near (let’s completely overlook the first trimester of pregnancy when all the mommy does is spew).

Dock falls ill two or three times a year.  Most of the time it’s a nasty cold or a headache (hey – I never said I was easy to live with). Unfortunately for all of Raleigh, this time he has the pukes.  Milky and I have both had the pukes this week so it’s a safe assumption that he caught whatever bug we had been hosting and that he hasn’t been poisoned by some decaying morsel that he would sooner eat than throw out.

A sick Dock is a marginally useless Dock.  I have seen this throughout the years but nothing quite like seeing a pancake in the sink. I presume that my husband was far too weak to make the three steps to the garbage bin and press down on the lever that opens the lid. Profuse vomiting can render the strongest man to the feeblest 90 year old woman.

This post isn’t meant as an indictment.  Dock is genuinely ill and I do feel (somewhat) horribly for him.  My intent is to paint a picture of the male patient and how poorly they handle being sick.  The Earth needs to freeze in its orbit until male feels better.  It’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

Back at the ranch, the woman with the deteriorating spine will somehow manage to get the laundry done, shower and unclog the kitchen sink (I don’t believe that is pancake related).  Then she will manage to wrestle herself onto the sofa, cross, crown of thorns and all and ponder the injustices of the world.