Another fun filled day.

I feel obligated to write something today.

I am not a depressed person at all. I don't know if it's in the stars or what, but this has been a tumultuous year. I really can't wait for it to be over. I couldn't get out of the stupid driveway today to pick up my kids from school because I can't drive out of the driveway, I have to back out of it because there's a slope. How does my husband park it? Exactly the way I told him not to a zillion times. I don't know what happened, but my husband doesn't hear me at all most of the time. (anymore, i was tricked in this marriage). He used to hear me and I really thought that he was my kismet. I don't know if the honeymoon is over, or it's me. I think that's why so many women are taking prozac and paxil, to name two. There isn't a cure for things like this. I've just really been trying to figure out what the hell I did in a previous life for anybody not to hear me unless I yell. I can ask, bargain, plead, bribe, and I get no results unless I put on my ugly face and yell a yell that comes from the pit of my gut. I really don't know why. It has been like this my entire life. Nobody takes me seriously, and most of the time, I am going to sound egotistical, I am right. I must say too, that I am perceptive and can really pick up -- I call it a vibe -- from people and places. Too bad I didn't see this coming. That's the only glitch in my sixth sense. It doesn't apply to me. Maybe I subconsciously pick up on it, but secretly I think I can change the way things are. I always know how things will turn out, but I always thought that you could alter your own reality.

I am sick of all of the trivial baloney that goes on with everyday. I am sick of people calling me to sell me something, and I try to be polite, and eventually I wind up hanging up on them. I am disgusted with the mental midgets that they hire to do billing in doctor's offices. I get a bill for an astronomical amount of money when I know we have great insurance. Then, looking a little further, I see that our insurance wasn't even billed. They ask you for your insurance card when you go there, and photocopy it for heaven's sake.

I am also sick of people with, pardon my french, piss poor communication skills. I am convinced that there is a vital part of the brain missing in most of the population. I call these people "decoys". They really can't be people at all, they are void of emotion or reaction, can't put together a two piece puzzle, (realistically and virtually), and can't communicate a simple idea or fact. It's too abstract for them. I theorize that they are placed here just to throw "the rest of us" off. You know who you are. I guess I'm tired, maybe even delirious today.

I used to think that I was a late niter because that's when all the best ideas are floating around and somebody has to be around to receive them. All of the hubub of the day, including radio and tv signals just screw up the karma, and if you wait until most of the people in your time zone are asleep, maybe you'll get a thought you wouldn't have normally had. Now I have a different theory.

Either A) I'm an insomniac or B) I'm just so dang excited that the kids are finally sleeping.

So, off on a tangent there.....The school calls me and wants to know who is picking up my kids (this is 45 min. after I told my husband I was stuck in the driveway--he works 10 min away.) and all I could think is, "If he's not dead on the road, he'd better be." Of course, I finally had to will the car out of the driveway after an hour of shoveling, rocking, and praying. By the time I get there, he's sitting in his car, and the kids are playing in the snow. Unbeliveable. Thanks for the phone call.

Despite a crummy week, I know that tomorrow is another day.

So much for "Truckstop tales". This is turning into a poor me blog. I should have called it "A day in the life of the disgruntled housewife".

TRUCKSTOP TALES AND OTHER STORIES (c)2004

I worked at a truckstop for many years, and quit my lucrative position at the watering hole a couple years ago. Everyone always asked me why the heck I was working in this shithole. There are many answers to that question. Some days I asked myself that, because it was one of the most mentally grueling jobs I've ever had. Delivering food is hard. Just kidding. That's the no brainer part. It's the mental abuse that you have to take from nutty truckers and disgruntled fat asses whose french toast isn't hot enough. I have so many great stories, some of them I wrote down, and some of them I just fondly remember. The truth of it all is that I never hated a job so much, while liking it just as well. I met so many people from literally, around the globe.
Truckers are a breed of their own, and most are decent human beings. However not all of them are like what you hear about cowboys singing on the country stations.
I have always wanted to tell them to somebody, because I make myself laugh thinking about some of them. I have always led this crazy life, where murphy's law always applies. That's why I had to write "Other Stories". I had always planned to write a book about the events that take place in my life, hoping that it would make somebody laugh. I take great satisfaction in being the self-dubbed comedian in my already nutball family. (Including my husband and offspring). To begin, I have to start by telling you about my day two days ago.


MY SHIT FILLED DAY

I have a laundry mountain that would put any dry cleaner to shame. Sometimes, I just throw the stuff out and don't tell my family. They don't really notice because they don't ask where stuff is, so all the better. The only problem is, the proverbial other sock sometimes get stuck in the layers. We have a ton of mismatched socks. In an honest attempt to do some laundry, (I got tired of drying off after a bath with sheets or anything else that was clean and nearby.) I put the baby in his crib so he wouldn't take a tumble down the stairs or eat an inanimate object. (A common occurrence in this house.) I was in the laundry room and the baby started to cry so I put him in his walker. My two year old just runs circles around me, and she was darting in and out while I folded laundry.
You know how things get quiet? So quiet that you know that somebody is up to no good? After folding a pile of clothes, I was looking for my two year old, and she had crawled into her baby brother's crib and stripped the sheets for me, crawled onto his dresser, and peed all over the top. Pee. everywhere. In the drawers, down the side, on the floor. I love cleaning up pee, just ask my floormate. It probably has urine stains on the inside. I never look inside of it, I just dump it and rinse it out. It took me a while, but I cleaned it up.

We recently acquired a cat. She is a beautiful calico persian. I saved her through an animal adoption agency. (That's overdoing it. Rather, I saved her FROM the adoption agency.) I remember signing a contract that said I wouldn't have her declawed and blah, blah, blah. The woman also stressed that there was no guarantee to the cat's mental well-being. ok. What exactly does this mean. A paranoid schizophrenic cat? A cat with a drug dependency? I signed it. The cat hid in between the ceiling and floor for a week. I don't smell catshit in the walls, so this is a good thing. The cat came out and my kids were holding it. This is right after the pee thing. I was washing laundry that just got peed on and again, my two year old disappears. Fast forward to ten minutes later. My two year old dumped all of the clumping litter in the toilet, washed the cat in the toilet, put the cat in the garbage can, and repeatedly dumped cupfuls of this newfangled clay/toilet water (l'eau de toilette?) onto our dog.
THE DEMON DOG

Good grief. I save the cat, pat dry the dog, and begin cleaning the water/kitty litter off of the floor. My ten year old is admiring the cat who is now so scared, she's hiding in a basket on my daughter's lap. While scrubbing the floor, I hear, "Oh my god. Poop! Poop! The cat pooped!" "Where is the poop?" I ask. "In the basket on my lap!" Oh brother. I finish cleaning up the bathroom, and grab my daughter's jeans covered in cat shit. (There is no worse smell in the world. Besides maybe the smell of chicken shit.) I wash the cat with the sprayer in the bathroom sink and blowdry her. Done. The cat is hiding under the table in the 1/2 bath and proceeds to shit itself on the blanket. I washed the cat AGAIN. The basked too. Shit everywhere.

The baby, all the while sitting in his walker nibbling on his bottle, is smiling and growling. It's his new thing. I knew what he was doing. Get the sprayer.