And What Do You Do?

I know I've bitched about mentioned this before, but I do have panic attacks issues when someone asks me:

And what do you do?

I know they are not asking about my hobbies. I know that they probably don't really give a damn.
But they want to ask me what I do for a living. How I make my dough. What mark I am making on the world.

I would rather have an enema on the spot than answer.

"Well, I call myself an artist but I haven't really sold much lately because of that nasty economic downturn. I used to sell a good deal, but not so much lately. I like to work with fabric and collage. I sell on Etsy. I used to sell on Ebay but that stopped working for me . . . no, I'm not in any galleries. I don't think there are any within 200 miles of where I live. Etsy is an internet shopping site. No, its very easy to use. Never heard of it, huh? No, my quilts are not like my grandmother's. I've kind of gotten away from sewing lately and . . . sure, sure, go get another drink."

What should I say?

"Well, for part of the day, I work as an artist. This time is often interspersed with domestic duties. At 2:30 in the afternoon, I become a dog walker. At 3:00 the bus arrives, and I am a mother for the rest of the day. I play games, do more domestic duties, do some dull computer work."

I could say:

"Well, I'm a homemaker with hobbies, and yes, I can hear the blood congeal in your veins as boredom shuts down your bodily functions."

I've either got to have a great job or just clamp my jaws shut and walk away. I want an alternative!

And I know I'm not the only one out there. Read this.

Really. Read it.

God. I wish I could have written that.

Skeeter Season (a repost)

Once again, the hubby and the kid are covered in itchy red bumps. Mosquitoes. Damn things.

And once again, acquaintances are asking if we are going to be camping out this season.

Hell no. And here's why:


Am I the only person in this world who does not like camping? I know I’m the only person in my (limited) circle of friends who does not.

I do like the type of person that is into camping. Campers are usually a somewhat liberal (I’m talking campers here, not survivalists) and laid back sort of people. These are the type of people with whom I’ll discuss politics, religion, education and the environment. I just don’t want to talk camping with them.

Camping discussions crop up frequently, especially at this time of year. Everyone and their brother is preparing to go out and live in the woods and I get to hear all about site selections, propane stoves, tents, tents to go over top of tents in case of rain, sleeping bags, etc. And I am the lone, quiet, voice that wants to scream “I don’t care!” I am not a snob. I am not an elitist. I just don’t want to pitch a tent, crawl in it, and declare myself on vacation.

I’ve got a nice bed at home. At the end of a very short hallway is a bathroom. I don’t have to put on shoes or take a gun to get there. My hubby is on the far side of our king-size bed and a fan is running so I don’t have to hear his breathing, muttering and flailing. My daughter is in the next room; close enough to know if she is sick, but not close enough to hear her muttering and flailing. I’ve got a lamp and a glass of water by my bed. Also a little fuzzy rug. I know if I get up during the night that the little fuzzy rug will not grab me, disembowel me, and leave me for dead.

And what if I want a late night snack? If I open a bag of Cheetos, everyone in the tent will wake up when they hear that rattle of plastic. The outdoor critters will get a whiff and come to investigate. What if that chicken cooked in a 20-pound iron skillet that I lugged to the campsite was still a hair on the rare side? I just might not make it to the outhouse (or hole in the ground) before that dinner tries mightily to make its way outside of me. I can just see myself soiling my camping jammies upon tripping over a log or sleeping bear.

I’ve never been fond of sardines in a can (is this what you eat when you forget the 20-pound iron skillet?), I really don’t want to pack myself into a tent with several others who have not had the ability to fully bathe in days. I don’t want to smell me. I sure don’t want to smell you.

I’m fond of the little things in life – hot water and other plumbing related niceties, sturdy tables that don’t have others’ grease stains and gum wads on them, dry pillows; dry socks, toilet paper, ceramic plates, wine glasses. Of course, there are little things in life that I am NOT fond of, and these things can usually be found at the bottom of a sleeping bag, the bottom of a creek, or flying up my nose.

I might not roll with the Rockefellers or pal around with the Du Ponts, but, like them, I might be just a bit happier in a hotel with a view and a well-stocked mini-bar. To me, a vacation means good food (cooked by someone else) with a candle on a table (sans used gum) and a chandelier over my head, a hot bath, and perhaps a chance to play with a bidet. I want a uniformed man to bring a shower cap to my door if summoned. I want little shampoos, soaps, and gels. And when the vacation is over and its time to go home, I want to leave my rumpled bed items, towels and garbage behind for the staff to deal with.

I’ll sum this post up by saying: Does a bear shit in the woods? Yes. But I don’t.

Mom Fail?

Needless to say, I won't be heading up the the PTO next year.

Place, Part I

I've posted this at my art blog with little response. I'm hoping to get something out of you guys here.

Where are you? Are you in the right place?

You Are Here I, 7 x 7" ©2009 K. Hambric

on Etsy.

You Are Here II, 9 x 9" © 2009 K. Hambric

on Etsy

When you step out of your front door (or the back door, if that is what you perfer), how do you feel? Excited? Anxious? Content? Depressed?

You walk down the sidewalk and stop at the street. Which way do you turn? Where do you go?

The Silence of 72%

If registered voters do not go to the polls on election day, does anybody hear them?

Oh, yes. There will be bitching and complaining. For months and years to come no doubt.

But since you didn't vote, you 72% of registered voters, you need to shut up.

I worked at the polls in my neighborhood yesterday. From 6:15 am to 9:00 pm. Fun. In a strange sort of way. I did get to see and greet my neighbors. The 28% of registered voters in my precinct that bothered to show up.

If I had though about it, and had permission to film, and the 20 minutes (at least) of patience to do it, I would have taken a video of our oldest registered voter. Even with the process of voting taking (a mere) 20 minutes, I can't imagine the preparation involved for this one voter to do her duty. Her caretaker must have required a great deal of patience herself to help this woman dress, get her oxygen tank and wheelchair, and get this woman into the car. Once at the voting place, the woman was wheeled, in the rain, to the ramp at the front of the building. She was rolled into place, given a ballot and her caretaker read and reread all pertinent information. The ballot was cast, and the woman was wheeled to her car once again and taken back home.

Jeez, I wish she had been of my political affiliation. She has my admiration, though. 72% of you do not.

I'm going to expect the neighborhood to be quite quiet for a while. At least until November. 'Cause only 28% of you can hold any kind of conversation about your elected officials.

Explanation of Benefits

Benefits?!? Holy crap that's a funny way of putting it!!!

Call it a medical bill. Call it robbery.

Backstory?

O.K.

Back in March, I took my daughter to our large and ever-growing, ever-merging health building, center, complex, death star, for her annual physical. Ears, good. Eyes, good. Weight, good. Everything just dandy. Except for a small splinter in her foot. Been bugging her for a couple of days. I figured it needed to come out before we took our trip to Barcelona. I knew extensive walking was going to be a large part of the trip and I was worried that continuous picking at the splinter on our part was going to be detrimental to her walking. So, I logically worked it out that if we were going to be at the doctor's office anyway, we could just have them remove it.

The main part of the exam completed, the doctor went to fetch a pair of tweezers. The fetching and removing of tweezers, gauzes and disinfectant from sanitary pouches took about 45 seconds. The actual removal happened so quickly that I would like to have seen an instant replay. Let's say it took about 3 seconds. Fast, efficient and pain free. Until . . .

Yesterday, the bill, entitled EXPLANATION OF BENEFITS was mailed to us. Two entries under Services Provided category. #1 - Preventative Medical Care - $225.00. O.K. Not cheap, but the kiddo was thoroughly looked over. #2 - Foreign Body Removal - $639.00. WTF? We're not talking about the cost of having the body of a foreign person removed (and buried). We're talking about a tiny splinter and less than 60 seconds of medical time.

Sure, sure, our "benefits" paid for some of this. Not nearly enough. But frankly, the question here is, how the hell can this cost $639.00??!!??!!

I'm guessing the whole point of these costs is to rip off as many people as possible in the short term and deter them from returning to their doctor in the future for any medical issue short of death.

Jeez, what is that strange lump?
Could that sharp pain be something important?
How much blood is too much blood?
Is that finger (or other appendage) really crucial?

These are questions we will have to ask for ourselves. To include a physician on the decision making is just going to cost too much.

Is this what the Mafia is into now? Screw drugs and prostitution! There's more money to be made in the "healthcare industry."

Bling

Necklace courtesy of Uncle Chris and a Texas gumball machine.

I'm hoping a gold tooth is not next.