Mistaken Identity

I have a handful of email accounts including a gmail that is my real name that I use for professional purposes. It’s funny really how I could luck out in getting it before anyone else considering how many Yo-yo Mamas there are just on Facebook.

In October 2009 I received an email directed to Yo-yo Mama about a work schedule for a very prominent company. The problem was I don’t work for said prominent company. I ignored it. But then I received a couple of emails that were exchanges between the Other Yo-yo Mama and what I’m guessing was an instructor or counselor from a special ed school about the Other Yo-yo Mama’s son, including one in December regarding the child’s ADHD drugs and getting kicked off the school bus.

I knew then it was probably better if I contacted the Other Yo-yo Mama and let her know that I was getting some pretty confidential emails in error, which I did by using her work email that she originally copied to herself the first time. She responded quickly by thanking me and letting me know that the problem was most likely due to the fact that her email was yoyo.mama530@, whereas mine was yoyo.mama@.

Then I started getting emails from a program that reported her son’s school lunch balance. I forwarded these as well to the Other Yo-yo. These became annoyingly frequent so I eventually emailed the administrator of the program. When even this didn’t fix the problem, I set up a filter to block the emails as spam and notified the Other Yo-yo that I was doing so.

I should also mention that among those emails from the school, I received a couple confirming the signing up of accounts from different websites – including passwords and a congratulatory email for adopting a new puppy!

And now that I’ve told you about it, I’m wondering what the original intent of this post was…maybe just take it as a lesson and make sure when you sign up for web service, you double-check your email especially when you use your real name so you don’t end up annoying someone like me who already gets enough spam. Because of several screw ups in emails, I now know the following about the Other Yo-yo:

  • Her full name, including middle initial
  • Her place of employment
  • Her home address
  • Her son’s name
  • Her son’s school
  • Her son’s medication

Pretty crazy, no?

And I’ve Been Told *She’s* The Athletic One

As we were leaving the daycare tonight, my daughter took off at a trot towards the gate that leads out to the sidewalk. It has a slight slope to it and she’s navigated it very well in the past. Obviously, I wouldn’t be here to tell you how she made it just fine once again.

Just before the gate, she stumbled, and in slow motion I watched her and it looked like she caught herself before her head hit the ground. In a flash I scooped her up and turned her to face me only to see a tiny rock sticking out of a wound in her head. It then fell out. And then the blood came. Nope, she hadn’t caught herself afterall.

I whisked her back inside and one of the caregivers saw us, blood running down her face and bringing down the roof with her screams. My son looked on in a daze. Soon, we had her cleaned up and while they tried to put on a really big band-aid, I instead requested one of those tiny button band-aids. I mean, the hole in her head was smaller than a ladybug.

After being offered a couple of gummy bears, she sniffled her way back into my arms and we headed home. This time she didn’t make any attempt to wiggle out of my arms to walk like she normally does.

Once I got home, I took this picture:

Doesn’t look too bad, does it?

Nah.

But then we went out to enjoy the last night of the carnival at the local mall, where she garnered many curious looks. The wound continued to bleed, just enough to turn the band-aid completely red. Also, I didn’t notice the scratch below her nose or on her lip until her face started to turn red on that side.

Two hours later, we had this:

Ooooh. Not good….

During her bath, I also noticed that it was still bleeding, but I didn’t want to draw attention to the band-aid so we decided to wait until she went to sleep and give some covert first aid. The blood soaked band-aid was pretty stubborn and only took me about four attempts to peel it off because she would stir and whimper and brush my hand away. Once it was off, I could see blood still bubble up. I quickly put a new band-aid on (unfortunately, it’s one of those waterproof ones, which means it’ll take another scrape to her noggin to remove), and tiptoed out of her room.

I’m a bit concerned that it didn’t scab. Too wet? We’ll see how it looks in the a.m. Also concerned that she may very well end up with yet another black eye. Maybe not. That fair skin doesn’t hide a road rash well, does it? Now the trick will be to keep her from seeing her face, and specifically the band-aid since she would just claw at it. That could be tough as she enjoys sitting on the bathroom counter brushing her teeth while I put my make-up on, giggling when I put the eyelash curler to my lashes. Yeah, I giggle too. A frog has better lashes than I do.

And just for shits and giggles, let’s compare to her picture from when she was six months old with her FIRST black eye:

Meh. Since this picture was taken within the first hour after that nasty fall and already the eye is bruising, I think she’ll be just fine this time around.

I hope so.

Wish Me Luck

Are you ready for more whining about my employment status? Oh god, it seems eternal, doesn’t it. That’s probably because I have now been without a “real” job for the past 17 ½ months. I wonder if the time can be counted much like a child’s? I guess once I reach two, I’ll let you know. Speaking of which, Aitch is 22 months old.

I found out yesterday that yet one more position that I really wanted and that I thought was going to be IT – wasn’t. It’s crushing. Of course I got a little weepy after I hung up the phone. I’m sure my desperation didn’t come across when I updated my Facebook status.

*bleh*

The one person who has every right to be disappointed with me right now has actually been my rock. I am to blame for losing my job of 10 years and the retirement funds and the insurance, and yet Sparring Partner reminds me that while yes, the extra income and benefits were and would be nice, we are not in fear of losing our home or being able to take care of our children. I can go to the grocery store and still pick up a box of Ho-Hos or Double Stuff Oreos for a special treat. I can go buy socks and underwear for the boys in our house when I notice holes and tearing of seams. I can go to my favorite greenhouse and pick up annuals to spruce up the deck. I can sign up my son for swimming lessons and arts and craft projects and archery lessons and football to give him something to do over the summer break.

These simple tasks are luxuries to many and I do not take them for granted, while at the same time Sparring Partner has to pull me aside and remind me from time to time, especially when I’m feeling sorry for myself, that everything WILL be okay. I want to find someplace to work that will remind me that I’m a valuable asset. I know my family appreciates me, but honestly? Conditional “love” is as important to me as unconditional love. Right now I’m just not as happy as I could be and it’s obvious to those close to me.

All I can do is keep looking. Maybe even throw in a good cry and wash it down with a glass of wine, like I did the other night. I can’t be lucky all the time. It was bad luck that brought me here and introduced me to some fabulous on-line friends. I guess sometimes Bad Luck is just really Luck turned on its head.

Forest Through the Trees

Can’t update my blog or respond to some of the comments from work, but by the miracle of modern technology, I can still add a new post! Righteoussss. Or Fuckin’ A. Or whatever floats your boat. Or mine.

No matter how badly I would like a tattoo, it won’t happen. I’m all for protecting the sanctity sanity of my marriage. But if I COULD…yeah, I would still do a half sleeve on my upper arm without regard for who will or won’t see it because as visible as it might be on a “normal” person, it would remain as hidden on me as if I were to put it on my butt cheek. I was biologically blessed with the glandular dysfunction of a ‘roiding teen-age boy and have acne scarring on not just my upper arms, but back, chest and neck. I roll in the sexy, no? A tattoo would actually improve my self-confidence by hiding some of the scarring.

At work, I never wear sleeveless tops, even though currently it would be allowed. But if I was to ever find myself gainfully employed in my area of expertise, going sleeveless would most likely be a no-no. Business casual/dress for me, thank you. That means the only time my tattoo would see the sun would be when I’m intentionally trying to get some sun, as I don’t even wear sleeveless tops without something layered; or when someone other than my family is around; or without a really good tan, which seems to minimize the nasty appearance of the scarring.

In the weeks before I lost my job, Sparring Partner was encouraging me to seek out a skin peel or dermabrasion because I am so very self conscious about my skin. It’s one thing to have it on your face. A little make-up and voila’, I am presentable enough. But formal attire and summer clothing styles and swim suits are all so adorable, but sadly I avoid them at all costs. For those of you who are astute in recalling my photos from the fundraiser where I was baring quite a bit of skin and you don’t see anything amiss, all I can say is that I’m so thankful I found 3 cans of discontinued spray-on stockings through ebay. Yes, really. That and dim lighting are life savers in that regard. Shopping for my wedding dress was very bittersweet because in my head I had this image of myself wearing a sleeveless, or even strapless gown, but couldn’t. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a wedding gown that has sleeves that don’t look like legs of mutton attached to your earlobes? This was in 1997 when Google was just a funny word and the familiar noise of the computer getting connected with the internet included “beeboobeebeeboopsssscccrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewoppleworpscreeeeeee!!!”.

Now you know just one more of my many, many insecurities. If we ever are to meet in person, I won’t hold it against you if your eyes wander from my face. Pretend you’re checking out my boobs, mmkay?

Tattoo You

If the number of hits I got today are able to be counted on Heather Mill’s fingers and toes, you KNOW that things are slow.

As for one of the hits that was a result of this query, “does a c section leave a scar”…please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me that the person who actually typed in that question is NOT pregnant. That’s just beyond ignorant and is full-on short bus material.

I could easily go click my Publish button and walk away now, satisfied that my blog was now updated, especially since I have been so fucking tired lately. So, so tired…

I guess updating here is a good way of ignoring the annoying bickering going on between Doodicus and Sparring Partner. At least it’s a way of pretending I’m ignoring it.

One of the women I work with asked for my opinion about a tattoo. When I told her I didn’t have one, she was very surprised. But you’ve got that vibe about you, she said. That’s just anger issues, I responded.

Not really, but I wanted to. You know. Because I DO have anger issues.

She had printed out a sheet of paper with several different styles of flowers, mainly gerber daisies. Once she had selected a style, she was going to have it tattooed onto the top of her foot but to the edge, by her pinkie toe. Wow, I yawned, cool.

I guess I’m envious. Sparring Partner hates the way tattoos look, which in his defense, given the examples he’s seen around here, are raunchingly fugly. If I hadn’t settled down with Sparring Partner, I’d be the aging emo with the red or pink hair – maybe both, and naval, lip and nose piercings. Instead, I’m drive a minivan and enjoy wearing my maternity panties (which I’ve had for over 8 years).

But yes, I would love to have a tattoo. And not just a butterfly on my ankle or a dolphin on my ass. I would love to have a half sleeve on my upper arm, like the one Maggie Gyllenhaal had in Stranger Than Fiction (awesome film).

I think tattoos on the back can look too arbitrary, especially if they’re small. I would want one that says yes, I have a tattoo and I’m damn proud of it, and has the size and elaborate enough to obviously not have been done at 3:00 a.m. after a IHOP binge and still shitfaced from hitting the clubs. I like the ones on the wrist and inner forearms, but I’ll turn up my nose at lower leg and ankle tattoo. I can’t answer why except maybe again, the ones I’ve ever seen have often been accompanied by house arrest ankle bracelets.

Do you have a tattoo? Where is it? Is there a place you wouldn’t have a tattoo?

Defeated. Deflated.

My apology for the last post. I was just so frustrated and angry and needed a quick vent or I would have fucking gone postal so for the first time in four years, I emailed a post in.

This post may take a while because I’m watching last night’s DVR’d Saturday Night Live with Betty White. And my battery is waning on my laptop. And BettyfreakingWhite!

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I just now deleted a long diatribe about the work situation, but you know? There’s just no point to it. Defeatism is panting at my heels.

Should I bother mentioning it was Mother’s Day today? Oh, you knew that? Of course you did. Isn’t it funny how the celebration of this holiday is done by escaping all things mother-related, like getting the kids up and dressed, and breakfast prepared, snacks ready, homework, lunch, laundry, naps, baths, supper and keeping the peace until bedtime so that finally….FINALLY, there’s time to chill out?

You should know how my day went if you paid any attention to the time stamp of this post (it’s currently 10:37 p.m. CST). Yeah, so Mother’s Day was pretty much like any other day from the past 8 years. Except this afternoon my son asked me to check out something on the table. I found a piece of pink construction paper that said, “To Mom From Doodicus Happy Mother’s Day” and taped to it was a ten dollar bill. One of HIS ten dollar bills from his gift stash.

God, I love that kid.