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August, 2010:

Today can suck it

I’d really like to start this day over.  On second thought, no.  There’s not one moment of this day so far that I’d like to relive.  Let’s just fast foward to tomorrow, please.

It started by getting up extra early so that I could go have a vampire phlebotomist draw blood.  Now, I have very deep, difficult veins to find.  I know this.  I always inform the phlebotomist.  I expect pain.  It’s not their fault.  Today the phlebotomist decided to draw blood from my wrist because the vein was visible.  Let me just tell you, I’m not a whimp when it comes to needles.  I have four tattooes and they didn’t bother me.  Taking blood from the vein in my wrist?  Sweet baby jeebus that hurt!  Not only did inserting the needle hurt, but her moving it around and sticking it in deeper about sent me through the roof.  My doctor must have ordered every test under the sun, because she just kept filling vial after vial.  Six hours later my wrist is still so sore that my entire hand hurts.  After experiencing this pain, I don’t know how anyone slits their wrists when they decide to off themselves.

After leaving the vampire’s office, I went and voted.  This is about the only thing in my day so far that went well.  I get to work and have to deal with the backflow of stuff because I left early yesterday to attend to some health issues.  Spent part of the morning at work dealing with said health issues.

Lunch time arrives.  I look forward to getting out of the office for an hour.  I decide to drive a little further than usual and try a deli near downtown I’ve heard is good.  I fight the rain and the traffic all the way down there only to discover the place is out of business.  Decide to stop at steak and shake on my way back to the office.  I pull into the parking lot and around the building to the drive through.  Out of nowhere this bitch woman in a ginormous Escalade pulls in front of me and cuts me off in the drive through lane.  I resist the urge to get out of my car and bitch slap her.  I wait patiently as she orders food for an army.  My turn at the speaker arrives and I order a burger that comes with caramelized onions, cheese and butter.  Now, I don’t know about you, but steak and shake burgers are greasy enough without adding butter to the mix.  So why order it?  I want the caramlized onions.  I order said burger with no butter, but add ketchup and mayo.  I also order a drink, but no fries.  I get up to the window and pay and think the price is a little high, but whatever.  I get my food, I drive away.  I grab my burger and realize there are fries in the bag.  They charged me for the combo I didn’t order, but whatever.  No big deal.  Until.  I open the burger.  It has no ketchup.  No mayo.  Tons of butter.  I do a quick u-turn and go back.  I go inside and explain that nothing about my order, other than the drink, is correct.

The cashier refunds me for the fries and they make me a new burger.  The guy who is actually  making my burger comes up and asks me again, specifically how I want it.  He makes it, hands it to me and I leave.  As I’m walking to my car, Moses’ mom and dad are pulling into the parking spot next to mine and come within inches of hitting my car.  Seriously, at some point, driving tests should be required every year.  I get in my car and leave.  Get back on the road and open my burger.  The guy who specifically asked me how I wanted it made it the exact same way he did the first time.  The. Exact. Same. Way. 

Now, I know I should have checked it before I left the second time.  But the guy made it a point to come up to me and ask me exactly how I wanted it.  One would think since he asked, he’d make it the way I instructed.  One would be wrong.  At this point, going back was not an option.  I had to get back to work.  I did call and speak to a manager, and they’ll buy my lunch another day.  Wonderful.  I’ll make sure I triple check it.  In the mean time, I choked down the burger with butter because, well, I had to eat something.  I’m going to regret this all day long.

I’m hoping the rest of the day is fairly uneventful.  I’d just like to fast forward to being home and having wine and chocolate for dinner.

Only straight couples need apply

I try not to talk about politics on this blog too much. However, sometimes I’ll come across an article that just makes my blood boil and I can’t help myself. Today is one of those days. I read this article about Republican gubernatorial candidate Bill McCollum saying that he doesn’t think gay people should be allowed to foster or adopt children.  Shouldn’t the most important thing in selecting foster and adoptive parents be a loving and stable environment? 

“I really do not think that we should have homosexuals guiding our children,” McCollum said.

He’s saying that merely being gay somehow precludes someone from being a good parent.  I say bullshit.  If you’re going to purport that the only environment in which children should be raised is a heterosexual one, then why stop with gays?  Why not ban foster care and adoptions by single people, gay or straight? 

The 2000 U.S. Census also showed that there are approximately 600,000 gay and lesbian families, and that they live in 99.3% of all U.S. counties.  These families are like their straight family counterparts.  They drive their children to school, they carpool to after school activities.  They help them with their homework.  They have play dates and birthday parties.  They love their children.  Love knows no race, gender, or sexual orientation. 

Florida has the distinction of being the only state in the country that has an outright ban on adopting to homosexual parents.  The few brave couples in Florida who have challenged this ban and tried to adopt their foster children have had their families threatened to be torn apart by the state.  Again, isn’t this supposed to be about the children?  How can ripping them away from loving parents and siblings be a good thing?  It’s better to bounce around from foster home to foster home rather than be adopted by loving gay parents?  How many of those children were taken away from straight “traditional” family homes in the first place? 

McCollum is right about one thing.  He says it’s inconsistent that the foster care law reads one way and the adoption law reads a different way.  He’s right, it is incosistent.  A gay couple can foster a child for years, but then not be allowed to adopt that same child.  I contend that the correct thing to do is not change the foster policies, but lift the ban on gay adoption.  It is, after all, supposed to be about the children, not the politics.

My ears are bleeding

To the woman in Ross with the screaming banshee child. I have a young child. I realize that they don’t always enjoy the shopping experience as much as we would like them to. There comes a point, however, when your child is being so disruptive that no matter how much you’re enjoying casually strolling through isles of discount clothes and housewares, seemingly oblivious to your screaming child, that your fun must come to an end for the sanity of the rest of the shopping public. The worst part about all of this is I don’t even know where you were in the store. I know where you weren’t. You weren’t near your children. Apparently your lack ofparenting skills dictated that your older boy, who had to be all of 7 at the most, was in charge of watching your girl who appeared to be no more than 3. It was this demonic angelic little child who was screaming at the top of her lungs. Repeatedly. For at least 15 minutes. Not once did I see an adult in their general vicinity. I could still hear the poor child when I was on the opposite side of the store.

When I went through the checkout line with my purchases, I could still hear your child screaming relentlessly. I informed the cashier that I had just come from that part of the store and there was not an adult in sight. I sincerely hoped that management did something about it. Perhaps I should have stayed to find out. My ears, on the other hand, were very grateful to get out of that store and into the relative quiet of the busy parking lot.

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