Ring a ding ding.

Um, so yeah, I'm engaged.

*hides*

Hibbing.

Hibbing, Minnesota is famous for two things:

1. It is the childhood home of Bob Dylan (known there as Bobby Zimmerman, when he was in high school with my mom and Uncles)

2. It is the home of the world's largest open pit mine.

Half of my family (Mom's half) was there because of the mine. My great grandfather is immortalized in a local museum, a full size photograph of him, sitting and smiling on a piece of huge equipment, breaking ground there. The mine briefly turned that tiny little town into the place to be way back then. My great grandmother, a farmer's daughter, married him and raised her children there. My grandmother met my grandfather, who drove the train that transported the taconite that was mined from there. My family survived because of that mine. All the families there were tied into it for one reason or another.

I know a couple of months back I told you about my mom's cousin, Steven, who succumbed to a brain tumor.

I have another second cousin, by marriage, whose father worked in the mine, that is suffering from a kind of mouth and throat cancer, and lost his lower jaw. He is not a smoker.

My grandmother's best friend has a daughter that also had a brain tumor. She survived, after surgery and chemo.

My mother, about 4 years ago, had her uterus removed and a complete hysterectomy due to cancerous cells.

Now comes word that my uncle, my mom's younger brother, just had surgery that removed a 21 pound tumor that ate his kidney. They also removed several lymph nodes that tested positive for cancer cells. It's in his blood. In about two weeks, when he heals from this surgery, he will begin chemotherapy. My mother is currently down there, in California, helping him recuperate.
Hibbing is not a large town, I think it was up to about 30,000 people last time I was there, which was about 8 years ago. The families that I know there have all been dealing with various sorts of cancers, and all of the victims are 45-60 in age.

I don't think its coincidence.

I'm not sure whether it was chemicals leaked out into the environment, or the water, or brought home on their daddy's clothes every night when they came home covered in dust, but I believe something that was in that mine that is making them all sick.

I hope my uncle is as lucky as my mom was in her diagnosis. He's one of the funniest, kindest men I know, and has raised three awesome kids to young adulthood. I love him dearly, but if anyone can pull through though, its him - he's a fighter. He's got a spirituality grounding him that will pull him through.

I wonder how many more families there are dealing with this B.S.

More Adventures in Gothland.

Last night my beloved Brie and I met down at Lola's to get our dance on. I've desperately needed a session of dance floor therapy for weeks now, so I was excited about this. Also, know the DJ, (who was guesting last night) and he plays good tunage so I knew that something cool would be had.

Sucked down a Vodka Granade (aka lemon drop) and the Sisters of Mercy (Lucretia My Reflection - how could I resist?) got me out on the floor with about 5 other hearty souls. Good warm up, which led into *be still my beating heart* BAUHAUS - "Rosegarden Funeral of Sores" (aka the song that makes me want to take my clothes off and do bad things) - which, cleared out everyone but me of course, like Bauhaus tends to do. Eff those haters, anyway! If I was a stripper I'd only dance to Bauhaus. Hahahah.

Anyway, so it was me, in front of the speaker, ruining my hearing as per usual, zoned out and completely oblivious to, oh, reality, like only a good Bauhaus song at 40,000 decibels can do...

Was very very hot due to lack of ventilation, so I retreated back to the booth for a bit. Brie left to go get a drink. And as we all have seen again and again, when I'm sitting alone at a table at Goth Night is when interesting things happen. I'm sure Brie can fill in the blanks to this chapter eloquently.

"Hi, I'm Chris." He plunks down in Brie's spot.

"Hi Chris, that's my friend's seat you sat down in."

"Well... where are they?"

"Bar."

"Cool.... what's your name?"

"Sara."

"Sara, I like your style."

"Oh yeah?" I polish off the rest of my drink, as suddenly I need it.

"Yeah. Like... you're pretty enough that like, your hair is short, but like, you don't look like a lesbian."

"What's wrong with lesbians?"

"Nothing. Why? Are you a lesbian?"

"No Chris, I am not a lesbian."

"Oh...cool... cause like, your hair... it reminds me of like, the 1900's."

"You mean like out on the prairie?"

"No no... like... the, uh, nineteen... 20's or something."

"Oh... okay. Thanks."

Brie comes back at this point, asks for her seat back, and a cigarette from him. Hahahah. He proceeds to try to impress us with his AC/DC tattoo and bottle opener. He tells us he's in a band called "SKULL SPLITTER" as he karate chops his own forehead for emphasis. He used to be in Poison Idea, who I had heard of and kind of liked.

I'm not so sure what was said on the other side of the table, as Brie was over there, but apparently he liked "her style" too, after she informed him (the Revolting Cocks tempted me to the dance floor again) that I had a boyfriend.

Came back, and Brie was giving him a little pop quiz. She asked him what he liked besides heavy metal, and he informed us that he liked to read "Nitch." Brie corrected him, "You mean Nietzche?" and he insisted "Yes, that's what he meant."

"What have you read by Nietzche?" she asked.

"Uh.... um....uh...."

"Okay, what about him do you like? What ideas?"

"Um, well... uh...."

"Don't lie to me Chris. You never read Nietzche." This is where Brie really decides to fuck with him.

"So Chris, how many states are there."

He gets a pained expression on his face and tugs on his scraggly long hair. "Uhhhh... 48, I think?"

She shakes her head. "Okay, how many continents are there?"

"Ummmm.... Nine? Cause there's like, Europe, North America, South America..."

(*editors note: NOT making any of this up - I swear)

"Okay Chris... who was the first President?" she asks.

"Um, like, I know everyone thinks it was Washington, but I can't think of the name of the guy that it really was."

I just look at her across the table, my eyes wide.

"Chris..." Brie asks "How many fingers do you have?"

"Uhhh, what?"

I chime in "Aww, come on, she's giving you one you can get right! But! I can guarantee he knows all the words to 'Back in Black.'"

"I like you Brie. Do you have a pen? I want to get your phone number."

"Sorry dude, No."

He asks me for a pen, I tell him No. Brie says, "Well you'll just have to come back and find me the next time."

Brie gets up to use the bathroom, and something happened involving Chris seranading her in the hallway, freaking her out to the point where she grabs my arm and says "Can we please leave NOW? I want to leave NOW!"

Which of course, was ok with me, as I was all sweaty and tired from dancing my heart out. So we bailed.

Thus ends another chapter in Adventures in Gothland.

Reality enters.

Yeah, so Dave and I officially had our first fight.

We had disagreed in the past, and always kept it level... yesterday was a different story. It allllll came out.

Details don't matter - like all small arguments we've ever had, it was based upon miscommunication. So it's all good now. The playing field is once again level and uncluttered.
And I believe it will bring us closer. And not just cause of make up sex, although that was a nice touch too. hahaha!!!

I was in a very precarious emotional position, where I was ready to call off the apartment hunt entirely, but after a good night's sleep (I didn't wake up ONCE - this never happens) I woke up and made us three appointments to look at apartments - one that is realistic, one in the middle, and one really fucking nice one, where we would have our own loft bedroom. I'm thinking door number one is the most realistic, and I'm okay with that. As long as I feel safe, and there aren't the fucking methheads that we live with now over there I'm good.

Anyway, my first inclination is to emotionally "check out" when I'm scared, and I decided to stick my middle finger up at that idea. Because not only is he worth it, *I* am worth it. I may end up crashing and burning, but it won't be because I didn't throw my whole heart into it. I hope to be pleasantly rewarded.

Crazy is a Crazy Does.

The latest dad round. This is therapeutic for me. I need to get it out. I'm stressed beyond belief and just on the verge of tears. Feel free to skip over and read someone else's happy blog.

Last night he was getting pissed off at me, because I wouldn't buy into his fantiasies/hallucinations - telling me "I'm not crazy!!!" He's never been angry at me before...

It's amazing what they WON'T tell you at the VA, unless you ask.

Like I found out today he's on yet another medication - Heperin - for strokes/clots and that he was anemic and his platelets were shot when he got there initially. Have any of the doctors bothered to tell me any of this? Of course not. GRR.

His hallucinations continue. He's been seeing people "steal his newspaper" and seeing "spiders on the ceiling," according to the nurses there. He also has been telling people that his wife is dead and that he's a widower. LOL.

The social worker (AKA "My team") agrees with me that his dementia isn't bad enough to put him over in the dementia ward of the facility. I explained to this that if they want him to start acting out on his suicidal tendencies that putting him in the dementia ward was the surest way to ensure this.

I know that a lot of this is temporary, a lot of this has to do with his meds being jerked around and things, because it wasn't NEARLY this bad before the VA got ahold of him. The social worker agrees there can be come improvement. Now it's up to us to convince the rest of the "medical team" that this is in his best interest. He isn't ready for that wing at his apartment place, I know it... I know it in my gut. I have a meeting next Friday over there to convince the rest of them this.

He is not making very good progress Occupational Therapy-wise, and they are very concerned over his level of assistance at this point. So that's not good news. He will need a lot of help, and getting him to accept it is going to be the difficult part. I think I need to basically threaten him with "You do what they say or they are going to make you stay here."

I'm worried about a number of things - the main two being

1. He's mentally ill enough to warrant the dementia ward, and I'm not seeing it. I really don't think this is the case. I hope he can still get somewhat better.

2. If he doesn't get better I'm going to have to go to court to get guardianship over him, financially and otherwise, because if he can't be labeled coherent enough to give me power of attorney I'm going to have to do this, and without this I can't have access to his funds to help him pay bills, etc.

I feel nauseous. I have no idea how to do all of this, and I'm trying not to panic here. I don't know if I try to reason with him, tell him he needs to trust me, or if I just get brutal with him and tell him how it is and have him get pissed off. I don't know what to do, and I hate it.

Blech.

I've decided that the weirdest feeling I've thus experienced, in my adult life, is the feeling I got a short time ago as my boyfriend's ex wife kept checking out my rack. Again and again.

She is foul in every sense of the word, from her saccharine over-excitedness to talk to me down to her stained 1980's tennis shoes. It is poetic justice when someone's outsides match their insides. Karma in action, if you will.

She talks so rapidly that it took all of my composure not to shove my fist into her larynx. The horror of her stained "mom" jeans (the high waisted, camel toe enhanced sort - not that her camel toe was visible under her massive roll of stomach fat... I'm not skinny, but I'm just saying...) paired with the debacle of her plaque encrusted teeth and her ratty hair, badly in need of a trim and with three days worth of grease and oil soaking it was only matched by her boyfriend - a stench so ripe that my cat would cover him up at the beach, with salt and pepper balding greased locks of his own, complete with zero personality (she obviously does the non-stop talking) and the crowning jewel of his totalitarian white trashed-ness: the Child Molester glasses.

It's apparent that she has indeed met her match.

The children are glad to be home. Dave of course is glad they are, and I am too. Because they deserve so much better than what pathetic attempt of nurturing she has to offer them. And it has nothing to do with poverty - it has to do with basic hygiene and self respect. It has to do with the fact that she returned them two days before the end of their spring break because of the fact that they wanted to attend a swap meet, and they are staying at her friend's house, and this friend's significant other is a registered sex offender. It has to do with the fact that she can't send her measly child support check on time, or call her kids more than once every three weeks.
In a way I'm grateful she checked out though, as her influence obviously is better off being minimal.

So yeah, go ahead and check out my rack, bitch. I won't deny you the small pleasures of life. In the mean time I'm busy loving the man you treated with disrespect in the worst manner possible, and thanks to your supreme shittiness he appreciates more than just my rack. It's hard to believe you ever had anything to offer him.

The Gift of a Perfect Day

I woke up snuggled,
like a kitten,
in the arms I can't
and won't
imagine living without

Kissing on the train downtown
how only I notice
his eyes softening
as he whispers in my ear
the only words that matter
and we Are love.

Absorbing the city
where I lost and found myself
arm in arm
we laugh as we walk
noticing our strides are in unison
mirroring our hearts and minds
I feel safe and warm
as if I'm wrapped in velvet.

This was a day
that I will remember
with a bursting heart
when I am tired and old
and savor like a fine wine
that some people are never
lucky enough to taste.