My youngest son graduated from law school this past spring. He passed his bar exam and is, for all intents and purposes, a real attorney today. Am I proud? Yeah, sure. But as I stood in the rear of his graduation ceremony and watched my son except his diploma from Mercer Law, I noticed a BUNCH of others doing the exact same thing. And that’s only one law school…from one year! Kudos to the kid who stuck it out but when it comes to earning maternal pride, one must do something different, make his own way in the world and do it with style, panache and charisma. Anyone can walk across a stage and grab a diploma…with the possible exception of that Hawkins dude.

But, as I always knew he would…my oldest son has made his mother proud in a way no other son before him has done. I can’t say that he’s been making me laugh since the day he was born, a 4th degree episiotomy prevented any jocularity for the first week of his life. But shortly after that, he began cracking me up, leaving me walking away, wondering if I had heard right, and learning lessons from a person not yet 3 feet tall. (NOW, of course, he is OVER over 3 feet tall.)

One particularly frustrating afternoon in 1980, I told him to, “Pick up that truck, damn it!” He responded in a manner far too old for his 3 years….”MY NAME’S NOT DAMN IT!” Of course he was right, right after I met him in the delivery room I bestowed upon my newborn son the aristocratic name of William. And, as you will see, he has lived up to that moniker…and then some.

Concerned about the barefoot children in front of him at the local grocers, a four year old William asked me, “Why don’t they have any shoes, Mommy?”

I resisted my natural instinct to answer, “DUH! They’re hillbillies, dude!” Instead I chose the high road and explained that, “Perhaps they don’t have the money to buy shoes, son.”

Shortly after that, as I was tucking my young prodigy into bed one night, I noticed that my red neck neighbors were letting their 2 year old walk around the front yard in the dark. I commented, more to myself than my son, “I can’t believe they haven’t put that baby to bed yet!”

Well, the young William put me in my place again, this time with the observation that, “Maybe they don’t have the money to buy any beds, Mom.” From the mouths of babes.

Over the years my son has given me the regular joys of motherhood, of course. But he has also given me 3 of the greatest gifts of all, that mother’s smile you have as you walk away shaking your head after your child has told a joke that ends with a fart, the pride a mother feels when she realizes that her child has chosen the road less traveled (let’s face it, that takes a LOT of nerve!), and the gift of outright laughter.

Today my son has topped himself. He has managed to give me all 3 gifts at once. So, without further poo…this is William…MY SON…the one with the great big stiff…middle finger:

Solaris Gal…this one’s for you!
Connie, aren’t you proud of your Godson?
Dad…you know, I can’t add a thing here.
Marie…nyuck nyuck
Gay Dudes…sorry, I know it doesn’t look like it, but he’s straight.

OK…

…so I’m in Los Angeles minding my own business. I went on a date with a handsome man and I had a few drinks. I had smoked a bit-O-weed before leaving the house so after a couple Margarita’s, I was happy enough to take the beaded necklace from the Miller Lite people walking around the “cabaret” we were patronizing. I didn’t mind that the beads had huge blue circles bearing the name of the product they were selling, after all, I was on my 3rd Margarita by then. Why not? The only plans I had were to go home, kiss the handsome dude and pass out on my daughter’s couch like any good mother would do.

But as Steinbeck opined in Of Mice and Men, the best laid plans can always meet an unexpected glitch and mine certainly did. Now, remember, I wasn’t hurting anyone, I wasn’t causing any trouble and my date was paying my way so I had no obligation to society whatsoever at that point.

Some of you might argue that I had the responsibility of not smoking pot but I chose the ONE state in which I can legally do that. I defy any of you to tell me I’m not sick. And if you try to tell me that ganja doesn’t make me feel better, I will laugh in your face. I won’t argue with you, pot smokers don’t argue with straight people, only other pot smokers and only while high. But…I will absolutely make you the laughing stock of me.

So, I was smoking legally obtained weed, in my own home, strictly for the purposes of feeling better…and perhaps a little bit because of how much it helps my pool game. I was drinking perfectly taxed liquor, shooting pool for fun as opposed to cash and kissing a guy who is apparently my OWN PERSONAL dude. All of the people around me were having fun, I saw them. We chatted and laughed and no one was injured in any way.

Then, I go home, stroke out and wake up to find myself being transferred to UCLA Medical Center from another hospital that didn’t seem to have the ability to deal with my injuries. Talk about your “YIKES!” moments…that one qualified.

Anyway, I present at the emergency room of one of the most prestigious hospitals in the world…wearing no pants (Don’t ask me, the first hospital lost them.), smelling like tequila and wearing blue Miller Lite beads. I was a poster-child for drug tests if ever there was one so they tested me and, like the smart people that they were, they soon knew that, in addition to drinking a bit-O-booze, I had smoked the wacky tobacky that night.

Yay.

Then they got all FBI on me and asked, “Have you done any drugs today?”

Well, I may have been a bit tipsy and I certainly could have had a bit of a weed buzz going on and perhaps I even had brain damage. But I wasn’t stupid enough to go, “Uhhh…nyuck nyuck…nope.” So, I admitted my sins and was apparently adjudicated a stoner by one particularly annoying child/physician.

That kid was a hideous mix of Greg Brady and Eddie Haskell. (See photo in following post.) Surprisingly, the Haskell genes must be dominant because this guy was the type who LOOKED like the bully down the street. (See photo in the following post.) I may have seen his older brother in Karate Kid. I wanted to poke him in the eyeballs like Moe. (See photo in the following post.) If enough people had smacked this dude when he was a youngster, he might not be the little shit he is today so…do your grandchildren a favor and smack any and all kids you pass this weekend, only when you’re sure that you can get away with it of course. Stranger’s kids are best because they don’t know who you are so they can’t really TELL on you and they make rotten witnesses for the prosecution. Worst case…you hit an innocent kid…but that’ll just build character so it’s all good.

And yes… I am going to name this brat who held my life in his hands a mere two days ago…it’s Matthew Garrett and I’m sure that’s right because he signed a bunch of papers that I have right here in front of me.

Did Dr. Garrett do anything malicious? Probably not. But he didn’t go out of his way to be professional and that’s really a good idea in health care. I’m a nurse and sometimes I don’t particularly like my patients but the worst they’ll get from me is professionalism. They would never be able to read any negativity into my affect. I could be wrong…but I’m pretty sure that’s what professionalism is all about.

This little man came into my room twice and told me that I would be discharged that day. Then, real doctors came in and never mentioned discharge so when Dr. Brat said it again, I didn’t pay any attention to him. I had the impression that he was the junior resident who had been pegged as a nimrod and assigned to fill in while the real doctors shaved and put on ties.

I didn’t like much of what he said because it all seemed to contradict what the real doctors had said. They told me that my blood pressure medicine wasn’t working so they were going to try some different meds. Then, when Dr. Toddler came in, all he did was lower the dose of the one I already had. Now it will not only NOT work, it will not work with a lower dose. I guess that means it really, REALLY won’t help me avoid future brain injuries. I hope that it’s, at the very least, cheaper than the higher dose I’ve been taking for years. Then, the little wanker told me to stop taking my anti-seizure medicine in 7 days. I’ve been taking that for a LONG time and I don’t know if I really want to be playing games with it. Call me kookie, but I’m a bit ANTI seizure myself.

Anyway, as a nurse, I know what it is to be discharged. A doctor can discharge you all day long and even if he wiggles his nose when he says it, until a nurse comes in with the paperwork, you pretty must just sit there and wait. If I’m going to wait, I’m gonna do it in the bed…not standing in the hallway or sitting on the folding couch in the room. Anyway, apparently Dr. Bitch learned that by 10 AM, I was still in the hospital. My guess is that he made the nurse feel so stupid that she hadn’t discharged me that she came in all rattled and SHE didn’t really know what was going on either. So, as I was waiting for my ride to show up, the nurse came in again and explained that there was a “discharge lounge” downstairs and offered me it’s use. I felt like a wretched outcast.

With the single exception of Gail Spencer, I found the nursing staff at UCLA to be of the highest caliber. I wouldn’t have believed that one manager could hire so many excellent nurses in one place and even the nurse who discharged me was doing a superb job until Dr. Jack Ass got to her.

That’s what made me think that Dr. Matthew Garrett was a bully of female patients and female nurses. I don’t know about the men, I can’t speak for them. But most of us know what it’s like to be in the presence of a mean and nasty person and that’s exactly what I felt around Dr. Miserable.

That’s truly a shame because I was so impressed with the nurses that I wanted to mention them. But since the last impression was the fall-out of Dr. Phibes, that was the most pressing issue this morning.

What’s the moral to this story? Easy…don’t take the beads from the Miller Lite people.

Am I a bitch? Yes. Do I care if you agree with me? Hell no. As a matter of fact, if you don’t, I’m doing it wrong.

I’m BAAA-AAACK!!!

And this time I’m typing from home. I will, more than likely, write about my experience at UCLA Medical Center one day soon but right now I’m bored with that and I would rather talk about MEEEE!!!

I’m officially a crazy old lady so my lifelong dream of becoming old enough to do silly stuff and be considered cute instead of nuts has finally come true. The nursing staff told my daughter that I was “pleasantly confused”. I guess that’s a nice way of saying “nutty as a fruit cake”. When I first came around after the stroke, I was frightened by everything because I didn’t recognize any of it.

But, after a while I realized that I was in a hospital so I sort of just assumed that the aliens were nice aliens and I decided to go along with the program. Since I’m pretty much just following the fates into a confused state that seems seems to be calling me closer and closer, I have no idea what type of blog posts people will be finding when they come here in the future. I suppose it’ll be as though I’m Charly from Flowers for Algernon and no one will know if tomorrow holds a witty Irish chick, a dithering idiot or some combination of the two.

And as batty as I may become, I will STILL make more sense than a hospital that has “Neuro-psychiatric Center” on the front door, “Stroke Unit” on the door to the wing, my NAME on the door to my room AND a promise of confidentiality. I don’t get that at all but maybe it’s me so I’ll just leave it alone until I have more to offer the entire botheration than my verbal wrath.

Confusion is feared by most people but once you adjust, it’s actually rather interesting. The smallest stuff has been fascinating me, like the thing in the bed that looks like a phone, has voices coming out of one side and lots of buttons but you can’t call anyone with it except the nurse.

Oh, and forgetting a few months of your life is exactly like time travel. If you don’t remember what happened since you went to bed on your last birthday which was several months ago, you have, for all intents and purposes, travelled into the future. It’s not something you’d welcome arbitrarily into your life…but it IS time travel nonetheless. Actually, it was space travel as well, after all, it was June and I was in Atlanta…now I’m in Los Angeles and I don’t remember how I got here although once I was told that I took a plane, I DID remember that my dog had flown with me.

I guess it’ll all clear up eventually…it did after the first stroke. I was right smack dab in the middle of singing The Happy Birthday Song to my niece when I suddenly forgot the words to the song. Or, I would need a cup and know what a cup looked like but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what the heck one was called. Words would elude me and like the trips through space and time, you never see it coming. Who would foresee such a curse? No one expects to forget words that you use every single day of your life. Think about the repercussions of that…you could be in rush to order french fries, to get to an appointment or to have an orgasm and suddenly you might forget the word “faster”.

But it’s not all bad, actually there are several other positive things about confusion that are underrated my most people:

1. Lack of responsibilities like driving, babysitting and chopping vegetables.

2. Automatic approval for most government health plans.

3. Appreciation for the phrase, “Once an adult, twice a child.”

4. This is the time in life that you are allowed to fart nilly-willy and not see quite as many aghast faces.

5. If caught loitering, committing vagrancy or trespassing, you’ll avoid jail and go straight to the nearest hospital.

6. As soon as you GET to the hospital, they’ll give you the good drugs.

7. Confused people have absolutely NO interest it smoking, doing drugs or drinking. They exist in a permanent altered state of consciousness. Confusion is one helluva trip dudes!

8. After you spend some time staring at the idiot box, you realize that swings and long walks are much more fun.

9. Of course…if you walk long enough, you get a ride home from the sheriff’s department. If you’re lucky, you could even get a ride back in a helicopter!

10. You fully appreciate John Lennon while NOT under the influence of pot.

Imagine.

Well, I’m sure there are more but one of the bad things abut this entire sordid debacle is the fact that I can’t type anymore. Well, I can but it would probably be quicker to use a pen. This has taken me a LONG FRICKING TIME and I feel like assisting gravity in her efforts to keep the sofa on the floor. See ya!

Hi ya’ll!

I’m still in the hospital but my daughter brought me a laptop so I can talk to you. I can’t talk for long because the longer I talk, the better your chances are of noticing that I’m quite confused. I wouldn’t like that at all. They keep asking me stuff like “What day is it?”, “Who’s the president?” and “Where are we now?” I keep crib notes written in the palm of my hand but that only works for 24 hours before I have to get new notes.

I read the shirts of the people asking me those questions and it would seem as though I’m in Los Angeles and it’s November. Imagine my surprise! I thought I was in Atlanta and it was June. Oh well, it could be worse, I could have forgotten that I was divorced and that would suck. Instead, I seem to have a boyfriend and I didn’t even know it!

He’s a very nice man, he comes to see me every single day and I’m impressed with my taste in men. He’s rather good looking and he’s quite tall. He weighs twice as much as I do and I like that in a man. I’m afraid to ask him if we’ve had sex yet but I figure that as long as I’m in the hospital, it isn’t really an issue.

It appears as though I’ve had a stroke but other than a headache, I feel pretty good. My nurse just came in to give me pain medicine so I’m gonna let her. I’m glad that I wrote stuff everyday because at some point, I need to figure out what’s happened to me since June.

See ya soon!

This is Ann, Megs Daughter. She is in UCLA Medical Center Neuro Intensive Care Unit. Right now she is in room 6429. I’ll let you know when and if she gets out.

Last week I posted this poll to get an idea of how I should handle a man who made me “the other woman” without letting me in on the scam. I think that I’m gonna finish this little escapade today and then, I’ll merrily go on about my life. But it might be worth a look later today just for the helluvit.

http://diaryofmydivorce.blogspot.com/2009/11/new-poll-question.html

Some of you may remember my matricidal cousin…

http://diaryofmydivorce.blogspot.com/2008/09/100-opinion.html

Ordinarily, being quoted in New York’s Village Voice would be quite a treat. But when Village Voice contributor Roy Edroso quoted me, he also de-sexed me…or is it re-sexed? Cross-sexed? As many do, Edroso assumed that I was a man and he used the pronoun “he” in reference to me…twice…and that’s just not right. I happen to be a she…I always have been. I’m not one of those ex-dudes who had their manhood hacked off..I’m an honest to goodness woman, with PMS, a tendency to act coy when I have a flat tire and an absolutely acrimonious attitude to my cheating ex who, if Karma exists, is being bitten by a huge spider bite on his left testicle as I type this.

Sometimes, I can fool people who aren’t paying attention because I drive a car really well, I usually make perfect sense and I rarely, if ever, lose control of myself and go into some female tantrum. Yeah, I’m an odd woman, but a woman nonetheless.

Of course, some things I do will give me away immediately. For example, watch me try to parallel park…like a set of knockers on a chest, my parallel parking is a sure gender giveaway. Also, if a cop pulls me over, I WILL cry. I won’t even wait to learn what I allegedly did to earn the personal roadside service…I’ll just start the water works before that cop taps on my trunk for whatever it is that cops tap on trunks for.

Also, I LOVE sports…on TV. I have no business around balls, pucks, large wooden sticks or golf stick thingies. I just end up crying, further confirming my female status. But…I know what a touch back is, I can name 8 ways for a batter to get to first base and I know what a power play is. I love football, baseball and hockey. That’s not really “he” stuff…that’s just tomboy stuff. That STILL doesn’t make me a “he”. I may enjoy the hockey game, but I AM a woman and I can prove it before the game is over. You’ll know that I’m a “she” as soon as you notice that my tendency to remain stupefied for most of the game because, for the life of me, I can’t figure out how they get that big piece of ice in the building. The doors are NOWHERE near large enough. I guess it will have to remain one of life’s little mysteries.

My passion for sports aside, I don’t know why some arbitrary dude who’s never met me would assume that I am a “he”. I wasn’t trying to be a “he” when I wrote the piece to which Edroso was referring. I can’t convince others that I’m a man when I TRY to do it.

In one of the first movies I ever worked on, I played one of 5000 Union prisoners of war during the Civil War. Back then I would go out of my way to try to get close to the camera and I tried everything I could think of to get my puss on the screen. I’d hide behind tall guys and pop out when they said, “Action!” or I would stand up front with my back to the camera until it started rolling and I got caught EVERY SINGLE time I tried it. One day I actually taped down my boobs during PMS and had some friendly make-up man give me some facial hair. The director, John Frankenheimer, was never fooled. Not once. That man caught me EVERY single time. Then I ended up in “deep background”. That was behind ALL of the other background players. On the bright side…it was in front of the plywood cut-out people in the back. So, try as I might, I cannot pass as a man in front of another man.

But…let me put a few coherent thoughts together…and to the rest of the world, I’m a dude. A part of me feels as tough I should be offended by that.

“Others worry about fallout. “I assume another publicity hungry freak will try to top peeing on The Savior of all Mankind,” says {Flagged For Removal}. Then he provides samples: “Pope answers ad on Craigslist to be a ‘host’ at an S & M party. We find out he likes to play the submissive male…” We hope he’s registered this with the WGA.”

http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/archives/2009/10/outrage_du_jour_2.php

Good morning!

I spent the weekend hanging out with a guy who entertained me from the moment he came to pick me up Friday night until he left for the week last night. (He went home to sleep…I’m still a Los Angeles virgin!)

We had a lots-O-fun going to see Jethro Tull, Malibu, Farmer’s Market and just walking around. We had GREAT food at a restaurant called Du Par’s which is at the Farmer’s Market. Yesterday we started out for Brentwood and Bundy Lane so that I could take pictures but we were mainly walking and by the time we got close to our goal, we were losing the sun so we just turned around and went back to my place to make-out. I haven’t done that in a while and I plan on doing it much, much more…even if my daughter keeps catching us and saying, “ICK!”

You know, you can kiss a lot of bad kissers in a lifetime and lord knows that I certainly have. So, it’s always a nice surprise when you come across a really accomplished kisser and I certainly have. Unfortunately, there are far too many kissing fish out there and I’m very disappointed after most kisses planted upon my lips. Oddly enough, a bad kisser has just as much confidence in their kissing abilities as does a really GOOD kisser so just in case there are any bad kissers out there (and chances are there are a LOT of them!), here are a few things to ponder BEFORE you assault another person with your lips:

1. Hard lips are only good for expressing derision and you should NEVER express derision in a kiss. I hate it when I kiss lips that seem to be in a foul mood, relax those bad boys and enjoy the moment.

2. If the lips you’re kissing keep wandering away from your mouth, consider the fact that you might be offending them with your tongue, your lips or your facial hair.

3. This seems to be a tough one for some moustachio-ed men…if the person you’re kissing continually jumps and says, “OUCH!”, you might have one of those faces that hurts. Be on the look-out for sharp hairs. You wouldn’t want to kiss a porcupine and neither would I!

4. If the chick has road rash on her cheeks, you should stop rubbing her face with your own.

5. Just because she let you kiss her, that doesn’t mean your hands can act like Daniel Boone, keep them away from boobs, crotches and backsides for at least a FEW make-out sessions.

6. Here’s a good rule to remember…if your hands aren’t soft, touch others softly with them.

7. A kiss is hard to refuse if you have your hands on both sides of a woman’s face.

8. Pay attention to a short person’s neck…they might be badly positioned. You never want a chick to remember you as the person who gave her whiplash.

9. Tongues should NEVER encroach uvula’s…if you’re going to let one out to play, keep good control of it.

10. Your best bet is to let another person kiss you for a bit and when you figure out what they’re doing, do it right back. It might not be exactly what they want, BUT…they can’t get mad at you for doing it!

My ex could have used some lessons in kissing and I’m glad I didn’t help him out. It’s nice to know that he’s annoying someone else with his mouth, moustache and bad breathe.