A New Site!!

Please check out:

http://www.dks327.WordPress.com

Posts Monday at 9:30pm, Eastern Standard.

This has been a 90% Free Write site. Typos abound, and I never expected people to actually read it! So I’ve begun a new, hopefully more prefessional site: A Little Bit of Something. It will start off with a lot from this site, but hopefully with fewer typos and better content.
I’m not giving up on this site!

Blessed Be,

D. K. Stevens

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Back To School September / October

Every couple of weeks, I hope to post a Back To School blog for US, THE PARENTS.
* One week, I will introduce you to amazing, relaxing products with a special interview by the products creator.
* Another week I will give you tops and quotes from parents who got off of drugs for their kids, and stay off of drugs for their kids.
* Tips on dealing with Children’s Services.
* Pets and kids.
* Making sure your kids actually do their homework
* Kids and bullies
* Anything readers suggest.
Send suggestions to: lalitadevibastet@yahoo.com

Find this on my new site, “A Little Bit of Everything

End of 2016: Cleaning Out Drafts

It all started with a simple tweet from Lynette Noni, ofAkarnae fame:

Leigh Bardugo(@LBardugo on Twitter) has written some amazing books; I began with The Grisha Trilogy on Scribd: 

Ruin and Rising

Siege and Storm,

and

Shadow and Bone.

These books have Alina Sarkov as the main character in a world that is similar to Russia, but not quite. There are people called, “Grisha”, who have different powers: the Squallers, dressed in blue, who can control the winds; Inferni who can control fire; Heartrenders who can slow and stop your heart; and so on. Alina is an orphan fgom Ravka, which was split in two pieces with The Fold between them. The Fold is a place of pure darkness, but Alina is the first Sun (Light) Summoner in hundreds of years. She goes for training and meets The Darkling who says they were meant to destroy The Fold together. As these are YA (Young Adult) novels, Alina is divided between the boy she grew up with, a tracker named Mal (I feel that I should point out that “mal” means “bad” in most common languages.), or The Darkling.

“The Darkling” by @fictograph on Twitter

After reading The Grisha Trilogy on Scribd, I knew that I had to read The Six of Crows and it’s sequal, Crooked Kingdom. The characters are different, but it takes place after the events of The Grisha Trilogy. While I believe that we should support our fellow writers as much as we can, I am on Disability. My monthly income doesn’t cover rent on a crappy, falling apart, Hellhole, much less transportation (I have go pay for my son on non-school days now), laundry, toilet paper/ paper tosels, electricity (I’d include gas, but cannot affkrd tbe minjmum $20-$30/month), etc. So I found two sites where I could read these books for free:

http://www.bestlib4u.net

http://www.manybooks4u.net

Oh, while we’re on the subject of Free Online sruff:

THE WALKING DEAD:

I was talking to a crush of mine who is into The Walking Dead. My son is scared of zombies (even though, in addition to a Fire Safety Plan we have a Zombie Escape Plan), so I’ve only seen the first couple of seasons. But I’ve read the comic since issue #1. Turns out, I don’t have to wait gor the graphic novel or the Compendium. If you Google, “Walking Dead Comic Free“, you’ll find a site that has them all. Free.I’m now up to #147.

How cool is that?

(and everything I wrote was deleted, so I’ll try to start over a bit…)

And from high school… The 1000 Point Purity Test

Crochet Lovers: Black Cat Slouch Hat – Free Crochet Cat Hat Pattern – Persia Lou

http://persialou.com/2015/11/black-cat-slouch-hat-free-crochet-pattern.html

Apps, Old and New:

*  Creative diary
A very good diary, although there is a $10 yearly fee to access all of the features. I think that it is worth is with or without the yearly fee.

*All Social Media and 1 App:

I love these apps that combine many online accounts into one app. This app combines many social media apps with other online apps. Here are just the Socisl Media apps All Social Media has:

I’m also looking at / trying out 1 App

As you can see, both apps (which take up less than 2mb of space) are awesome. I’m still not sure which I’ll keep and which will go.

* Brain Games
Many games to help keep your brain in shape. My 12 year old don really enjoys them and you czn play them underground (on a train or subway).

*Word Wheel
Too much like my original Word Wheel. Same name, but the only problem with the Original Word Wheel I have is that there are onky 12 levels.

*Headspace – meditation

Reccommended by Gerard Way, former lead singer of My Chemical Romance, I had to try it. It is an excellent app for beginners, although the down side is that it won’t go onto hour SD card.


October 2016: Three weeks ago, I started Monday off with a yearly checkup at my clinic. Despite my seeing my Primary Care Doctor and my Pain Dr the previous week. The yearly checkup includes meeting with the very nice doctor whom, after 4 years, I cannot understand due to his accent and so I wind up getting stuck with way more needles than anyone else because I smile and nod. The TB (Tuberculosis) test goes in the ring of my Sandman Key To Hell tattoo on my forearm because, four years ago, I squealed, “Don’t stick the needle in the tattoo!” and this has apparently become a runnjng joke between us. Then it’s an EKG test and having blood taken.

Sandman Key To Hell

When I first started there, instead of the required monthly meetings with one’s counselor, I chose to go weekly when I found out his speciality was PTSD* (read my previous posts like, “This Is What It’s Like” — which still needs a good ending — and you’ll see why I have PTSD. I see a seperate therapist once a week but I needed it at the time as I was new to the whole “being crippled by your son’s dad in front of your son and the court giving the dad more unsupervised visitation despite video of the incident”.) On the way to my then counselor, I would pass the nurse who took my blood and try to joke around with her. I’ve since found ojt it’s not me, it’s her — even the males say she’s a bitch.

So last Monday I sat in the chair and didn’t try to joke or do more than be polite. She stuck in the needle, took a few vials, removed the needle, and handed me a single gauze to cover the vein. Unfortunately, she had hit a really good spot and the blood bubbled up through the gauze, down my arm in three streams, and onto the arm-rest before she could hand me more gauze and alcohol(!!!) pads. “Ohmig-d, I am. So. Sorry.” I said, pressing extra gauze and ripping open alcohol pads with one hand. I was mortified. And a bit woozy.

She grunted. Literally grunted. Wha???

I wiped the blood off the arm-rest, my arm, kept applying pressure, added fresh gauze, one bandaid, two, the blood would not stop flowing. Finally I left the room with three gauze pads and two bandaids, trying to hold my phone, sweatshirt and bag, all while applying pressure and I still had to get on line to get medicated. And the blood had already soaked through, so I was basically trying to keep the gauze and bandaids in place while returning three bottles and drinking my methadone.

BIKE BRUISE:

I decided to head home. Unfortunately, I missed the 4th Avenue bus stop and figured since I needed a new goodie, I’d get off at 5th Avenue to go to DII (D2, which used to be, “Dee & Dee”). As I walked up the wheelchair ramp, holding onto the railing with my right hand, I suddenly felt like I hadbeen stabbed in the upper right thigh.

The culpret? A bicycle chained to the bars with the handlebar sticking out so that, 3 weeks later, I can still see the outline in the bruise on my upper thigh.

I went home and slept… 

Blessed Be,

I’ve celebrated the Jewish New Year and

The Wiccan/ Pagan New Year,

The Goyem is a bit much.

Happy Holidaze,

Be safe and careful,

D. K. Stevens

To The Woman Below Me In E11:

Two weeks ago, at the beginning of November 2016 (it’s taken me time to write this as well as get the previous dates of your harassment correct), you physically blocked me from entering the building my son and I live in to make one of your crazy claims: when we take a shower, you claim it drips down into your bathroom. Did you tell the Super? No. Did you tell the Landlord? No.You waited until you caught me and my son coming home from my son’s Dr to harass us — AGAIN.

This is not the first time that you have harassed my son and me banging on my door, trying to stop me from entering the building or the elevator — and, as I did not wish to physically touch you, I had to work my way around you. This, despite my being physically crippled, which you are aware of. I said my usual, “Call the landlord”, although I’m guessing they no longer listen to your insanity, as well as asking if you wished for my son (who was with me at the time) and me to, “stop taking showers”.

Since we moved into this Hellhole (song by Spinal Tap) in June 2006, the walls and floor of my bathroom have been knocked out, leaving large, unsafe holes for months at a time, at least three (3) times due to your paranoia and insanity.

1.) LESS THAN 24 HOURS AFTER WE MOVED IN YOU BROKE THE LAW BY ENTERING MY APARTMENT WITHOUT PERMISSION: My son, aged 1.5yrs at the time, and I saw the apartment above you for the first time on Monday or Tuesday 29/30 May 2006. We filled out the papers and signed the lease at the end of that week, and I picked up tbe keys Monday 5 June 2006. We were to move in that Wednesday and were looking forward to having a bathtub as my son was too big to be washed in the sink and the shelter we were in only had a stand-up shower stall. Due to a SNAFU, we were moved from tbe shelter to the apartment around noon Tuesday 6 June. We immediately went out to purchase a queen sized mattress to sleep on that night and, after a late afternoon delivery, bought sheets at the Atlantic Mall and had dinner at the pizza place on West 7th and Kings Highway. We picked up some essential food and liquids to get us through the night at the bodega across the street and came home between 7 or 8pm. My son was in diapers so the only water usage was when I brushed my teeth (I don’t leave the water running), and washing my hands after I peed, although I didn’t flush as my son was asleep. The next morning, just after 7am, my son and I were awoken to a banging on the door.

“Super!” yelled the Super. We jumped up and ran to open the door to find not only the Super, but you with your huge Russian-English Dictionary. I stepped aside so the Super could come in, and you pushed your way in even though I didn’t know who you were and didn’t invite you in. (Going uninvited into someone’s apartment is illegal in this country.)

“There is leak from this apartment from past two weeks,” the Super said. I reminded him that I had seen the apartment for the first time the week before and had only had the keys since Monday. You tried explaining the water was causing damage and, not realizing what a horrible person you were, I helped you piece together that your kitchen cabinets were coming loose. I would learn to regret that help, not just because you never thanked me in English or Russian, but because the Super proceeded to knock most of the bathroom wall* out on the right side of the toilet, as well as some of the floor, before realizing the leak was from the kitchen and he went in there to knock out some more walls. You gave yourself a tour of the bathroom while my son burrowed in my arms. Finally you and tbe Super left, telling me that the holes would be fixed “soon”.

For the next three months I had to pee and poop sideways on my toilet with my feet in the tub (facing the normal way meant my feet would hang in the floor hole). I had to keep my son out of the tub as I had no room to kneel beside it, and I had to keep him out when I went to the bathroom. Showers were quickly done when he was asleep. And he got washed in the too-small sink.

2.) The wall in my bathroom was knocked in (or out) due to a potential fire from your place. I never complained to you. You never apologized or came to see if  we were ok.

3.) Not sure if this happened before or after the fire, but, again, I was the subject of you and the Super shoving into my apartment. And a large hole that had garbage bags over it held by duct tape for months. No thank you, sorry or ANYTHING polite ftom you.

My son used to have nightmares of “La Bruja Russe”, which is technically “Red Old Lady / Witch”… My son had heard me praying*** for help from the red-headed bitch downstairs and that’s what he heard. You and your tacky red hair taunted his dreams and mine. Even before you saw us, your face was turned to a nasty look. And then you would see us, usually in the lobby, and you would light up and srart some tirade against us.**

4.) And so it begins again. Sorry, but no leaks here. I refuse go let anyone in to check your made up stories anymore. “Move kn. G ed t a lufe.” = “Move on. Get a life.” I’ve never had so many problems typing a post.

* Let me briefly describe the bathroom. It is very narrow. It is just under six feet across. Standing in the doorway, the sink is on your left, next to the bathtub going the long way. On your right is a towel rack and two steps bring you to the toilet. There is a window behind the toilet but people on the street can watch you pull down your pants to sit on the toilet. (Thank you to a sralker who let me know.)

** I’ve had typos in my Free Write blogs. But never this bad. I’ve corrected almost every word in this blog.

*** My biological mom is, minimum, 3rd generation New Orleans. (We’re Choctaw on her dad’s side so much more than 3rd generation). Normally I stay away from Dark Magick, but mess with my kid and I’ll take what comes back three times.

Zymere Perkins: Another Child Dies Due to ACS (from October, updated November 2016)

From 11 October 2016:

Zymere Perkins, age 6, is the latest victim of New York City’s Administration for Children’s Services (ACS). The mother, 26 year old Geraldine Perkins had 5 (five) founded cases against her. When neighbors of this Harlem child tried to report the abuse done to Zymere by his mother and her boyfriend Rysheim Smith, 42, they were ignored. In April of this year (2016), a school social worker called ACS and Nitza Sutton was assigned the case. As Sutton was up for a promotion, she had to close out her cases. Despite the overwhelming evidence that Zymere was being physically abused, and the previous founded cases (meaning there was evidence of abuse found; a first time offender can get a warning but after that there are mandated parenting classes, anger management, and removal of the child. This is usually done with the first or second “founded” case. I have no idea how Ms. Perkins made it to five founded cases and still had custody of Zymere. I was unable to find any reason for this red flag oversight and as I am not a relative, was told that I could not get information over the phone.) against the mother, the case was closed. And Zymere was beaten to death with a broomstick handle.

“Neighbors saw repeated abuse of Zymere…”

So WHY weren’t they listened to? A neighbor, the mother of the son in the above photos with Zymere, claims she called the police and ACS.

Nitza Sutton, Zymere’s ACS / Children’s Services worker, closed his case early due to overwhelming evidence of serious physical abuse. Why? Because she had a chance at a promotion but had to finish up or close out all of her cases first. Now, I can understand wanting a promotion. As someone who had to go through eleven cases against my son’s dad (none of which were called in by me; only the first 3 workers spoke to my son’s dad and only the 1st saw him where he lived, but even though the cases weren’t against me, we — my son and I — had to deal with home visits, school visits, meetings at the ACS offices, etc, for 6-8 weeks each time), I know there are many cases which the worker doesn’t even look at the abusive parent unless the child is living with that parent. But Zymere was living with his abusive mother and her abusive boyfriend. He was six and had nowhere to go, nobody who could help him — except Nitza Sutton, his ACS worker. But she had that promotion dangling in front of her, so what’s one more abused kid? Giving her the benefit of the doubt, which is more than she deserves, Ms. Sutton probably figured there would be another call from the school or a neighbor to open another ACS case and it would be another worker’s problem. Why should she care about a bright eyed little boy when she had a promotion coming her way?

Medical Examiner Says Zymere Perkins Died Of ‘Fatal Child Abuse Syndrome’

http://gothamist.com/2016/10/21/zymere_perkins_homicide.php

UPDATE:

ACS Workers in Zymere Perkins Case Return to Job (16 November 2016)

https://www.google.com/amp/www.nydailynews.com/amp/new-york/acs-workers-return-jobs-zymere-perkins-death-article-1.2876417


The Following Links Were Accessed in October 2016:

* ACS In Recent News:

** https://www.google.com/amp/www.nydailynews.com/amp/new-york/nyc-acs-failed-act-2-cases-kids-died-report-article-1.2623190

** https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City_Administration_for_Children%27s_Services

* ACS – What is Child Abuse/Neglect?

https://www1.nyc.gov/site/acs/child-welfare/what-is-child-abuse-neglect.page

* New York Cityโ€™s history of failure to prevent fatal child abuse – NY Daily News

http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/new-york-city-history-failure-prevent-fatal-child-abuse-article-1.2810934

* ACS 20 Milestones

http://www1.nyc.gov/site/acs/about/Events/2016/milestones/twenty.page


* ACS WIKIPEDIA

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City_Administration_for_Children%27s_Services

* Neglect of Childrenโ€™s Services contributed to deaths of 8 kids: report | New York Post

http://nypost.com/2016/08/28/neglect-of-childrens-services-contributed-to-deaths-of-8-kids-report/?0p19G=c

* Innocents lost Database: Children who will never grow up | MiamiHerald.com

http://media.miamiherald.com/static/media/projects/2014/innocents-lost/database/

I’M NOT IGNORING YOU :)

To those who have been concerned about my lack of online time these past two weeks:

My son has had a cold. He’s given me two since school started, but apparently I passed on his latest: sore throat, coughing, mild fever at night. He was in bed all weekend and I kept him home on Monday.

I know. No Big Deal. I’ve always been over-protective. But there’s something I’ve failed to mention.

N was born in early November, so that’s when he gets his yearly check-up. Two years ago there was a minor problem, and it was there last year. This led to a follow-up visit in January for a second blood test. A few months later he was called in for a sonogram of his kidneys.

At the beginning of summer break we were told that one of his kidneys was smaller than the other. Not a big deal, it’s possible to live with one kidney, but his larger kidney wasn’t covering for his smaller kidney. I was referred to a specialist, but after waiting 6 weeks, debating whether to tell my son, he freaked out at the specialists office. And we lost the appointment.

We did get blood taken again and, with the sonogram, it looks like my son — as of now — should be able to make it through his teens before needing a new kidney. This is ideal as I’m not a match and if his kidneys are adult-sized, he has more of a chance of finding a doner.

Ideally, his larger kidney will kick in and do it’s fucking job.

Realistically, his smaller kidney will be removed and he’ll need a healthy kidney to make up for what his larger kidney is not doing.

Worst case, he’ll need a kidney sooner. Meaning his smaller kidney will be removed and he’ll be on dialysis waiting for a doner since the larger kidney is a fuck-up… Like me.

So meds are a problem for my son. Even for a stupid cold. My son knows some but not all — not even most — of this. He thinks it’s No Big Deal. But it is.

Sorry.

Not ignoring. Just wallowing in self-pity.

— Dee / Kat

Chester The Mouse Is No More

I first noticed the dark colored mouse as it ran across the sink and jumped behind the stove. I thought my (retired mouser) cat Ema and I had imagined it until my son winessed almost the same scene the following day.

I was the runt of my litter and, worse, had the dark grey fur of my absentee father. My four siblings, all a light grey like our mother, and nearly twice my size, liked to make fun of me:

— Chester the Nester, he’ll need to feed til he’s one; Chester the Nester, he’ll always come in last. Chester the Nester, he’ll never be much fun, Chester the Nester, he’ll never be that fast.

It wasn’t much as childhood rhymes go, but it hurt. A “nester” is a mouse who never leaves the nest; and while I had no problem with the idea of caring for my mother into her old age, I had images of a wife and a litter of our own…

I was the first of our litter to go searching for food. Not because I was ready, mind you, but to try and prove myself. I was returned home by the two EMMT (Emergency Medical Mouse Technician) mice on a stretcher, my head bound tightly from a deep cut and a concussion I had received running from a cat and banging my head on a low-hanging piece of wood. I was still clutching the piece of cheese and saying, “Please, Mr. Cat, this is for my mum, not for me.” This changed the rhyme my siblings chanted a bit:

— Chester the Nester, chased by a cat and whacked his head, Chester the Nester bled and lay there looking dead, Chester the Nester, clutching the piece of cheese, “Please, Mr Cat,” he pled, “this cheese is for my mum”.

I moved a pan over to block the mouse from running to his oven hiding spot. We lived with (I’d say, “owned”, but what human has ever “owned” a cat?) three cats. The oldest, the aforementioned Ema had caught a mouse or three in her day; by the time the other two were acquired, my son and I assumed the Smell of Cat would keep away any mice. We were wrong.

After the head wound healed, I noticed that my sense of smell and taste were gone. I tried to hide this fact, but to no avail. When my older brother Charles was run over trying to bring home food for us, my sister Charlene shoved me against the wall. “You’ve lost your sense of smell,” she stated. Charlene was always very direct. “I’ve noticed how we all smell something, yet your whiskers and nose are the last to go — like you’re copying us.”

She let go of my shoulders and stood back, knowing I wouldn’t run even though I was back on all fours. I hung my head in shame; there is nothing worse than a mouse with no sense of smell.

“Mother knows,” I said lamely, in a quiet voice.

“And what of us?” Charlene demanded. “Chrissy has moved in with her husband, Charles has been run over, Christopher has some wild idea about going to the upper floors–“

“I’ll go with him!” I exclaimed, although my stomach churned at the thought. Christopher was the Wild One of our litter and the upper floors scared me. A lot.

Charlene glared at me. “You,” she paused. “You will go with Christopher to the higher floors?” She was almost screeching her squeaks were so loud. She slapped me across the face, then; the first, last, and only time. She looked ashamed. “Chester…” her voice softened. “Chester, I’m sorry about the chants. They were jokes. You’ve got nothing to prove! Chester, no. No,” she squeaked more firmly. “I’ll go with Christopher. Someone needs to stay with Mother.”

She rubbed her cheek, her whiskers, against mine. “I’ll go,” she whispered. Charlene was used to getting her way, and not just because of her large size.

That night, as everyone slept, I pulled myself carefully away from the bundle. “Ready, Christopher?” I squeaked quietly.

“Ready,” he whispered. I gently kissed my mother goodbye. “We’ll bring back loads of food, you’ll see,” I squeaked quietly, and followed Christopher down the halls and up the elevator wires to wait for daylight when the humans would be out.

The mouse hadn’t been seen in a couple of weeks. My son and I had forgotten about it. Until we came home to see it dart through the sheet that blocked the air conditioning from the living room / my bedroom to the hallway.

When you’re a Parent, there are things that you would do for your kid that you normally wouldn’t. I’m terrified of bugs. TERRIFIED. But so is my son. So when there’s a bug, I MUST protect my son. Even if I’m terrified. Even if I’m about to throw up / pass out/ scream/etc.

I stepped on the mouses’ tail, glad I was wearing sneakers. The mouse squeaked — LOUDLY. I moved my foot and moved a box, effectively blocking it in on three sides. “Get me a plastic container!” I called to my son, who came running in with a small container, while trying to remove the top. I took it from him, yanked off the top, and tried to catch the mouse in it. I succeeded on my second try, slid the top underneath — had to shake it a bit so I could close it without hurting it’s tail, and it was in! 
Carefully, I slid the lid underneath the mouse and flipped him over but had to shake him a bit so I wouldn’t close the lid on his tail.

“Open the door for me, please, Sweets,” I said. I didn’t want to touch anything even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t touched the mouse. “I’m going to bring this to the Super,” I said. “Don’t touch anything, ok, Pup?” He nodded.


I was reminded of the time we stayed in a Family Homeless Shelter. I had refused the mouse traps that snapped on the mouse for the sticky kind. I surrounded the heater with them and one night a mouse, holding a Phillies Blunt wrapper in it’s mouth, was caught. I called the front desk because I didn’t want to touch it but, long story short, after half a litre of vegetable oil and a lot of “this isn’t part of my job” complaints from the night guard, the greasy mouse slid off the trap and ran off into the night.

I had decided to take the mouse to the Super’s apartment on the first floor. Not his son, who should be the Super, but the old guy who purposely stepped on and broke my then toddler son’s favorite train set piece; the old guy who put a lit, bare bulb on my antique luggage collection and set them on fire; etc. Hundreds of dollars worth of damage, and not a single apology. He goes through the tenants mail and steals government mail — welfare letters, disability letters, and so on — so appointmens are missed and cases closed. He broke the lock off of my mailbox with a screwdriver and tried to charge me the fifty dollars I had refused to pay for my keys when I had first moved in.

I rode down the elevator and looked at tbe little dark mouse in the clear plastic container. I realized I should take pictures with my phone, which I’d left upstairs, so there would be a time / date stamp. When the elevator opened on one, I quickly pressed “6”, followed by the Close Door button. The mouse was busy going in circles, keeping his right side against the plastic container. Upon reaching my floor, I called out to my son, “Pup, my phone, I left it up here. I want to get pictures.”

My son opened the door for me with my phone in hand. “Mom,” he said, “there’s a big drop of blood on the floor in front of the kitchen, in the hall. I think one of the cats got a bite just as we came home.” The blood stain was almost the size of a quarter and there was a light blood smear nearby, heading towards my room. I held up the plastic container and shook it a bit. In the sunlight I could see a chunk missing from the left shoulder of tbe mouse. It was so deep that as he scurried about his plastic container, I could easily see the bone of his left arm as it went up and down with each step.

It was a set-up. Christopher assured me that he had scoped tbe place out twice and there were two humans but they had gone out. He would stand guard while I grabbed as much food as I could and give it to him. I thought the strange glint in his eyes was excitement. Or the sun. Or his crazy.

“You’re sure this is safe?” I squeaked quietly.

“Don’t you trust me, Chester?” Christopher squeaked back, a bit loudly, I thought. “Now… go!” And I felt both hands shove me out into the open kitchen and by the time my eyes had cleared from the bright sunlight, I was surrounded by three cats. “Christopher!” I squeaked as loudly as I could. “Christopher! It’s an ambush! Let me back in! Please!”

“Couldn’t smell the cats, could you, Chester?”

“Who else is in on this?” I squeaked, ducking under a paw with very long nails. “Charlene?” I asked. No answer. Suddenly I felt fangs pierce my left side, right on my shoulder. I didn’t want to know, but I had to know. I gasped for air, pushing with hands and feet against the felines’ mouth. My head was back so I couldn’t bite the cat, but I squeaked out quietly, “Mom? Was Mom in on this?”

The cat shook her head, teeth digging deeper into my shoulder meat,  her claws reaching for my belly. “No, Chester the Nester. This was all me. I’ll return and tell how we were ambushed and though they’ll pretend to be sad, Charlene and Mother will be glad you’re gone,” Christopher answered, his voice fading as he ran away through the tunnels to tell his version of the story.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise as the two humans returned. In the split second that the cat was distracted, I pulled free, losing flesh and blood, and ran for a dark room.

Not fast enough. “Mouse!” yelped the bigger of the two who pushed aside the doorway and stepped — hard — on my tail. I yelped. The larger human moved a box as I tried, and failed, to jump through a tiny hole. Now I was boxed in on three sides — wall, wooden table leg, box. And a large human on the fourth side.

After going downstairs, realizing I needed pictures, having my son take them, and noticing the wound on the mouse, I wasn’t sure what to do. I left the closed plastic container in the garbage room on tbe first floor. Back upstairs, I cleaned my shoes, the blood, the cat puke ln the bathroom floor.

Then I sat on my bed.

I felt horrible.

I should’ve let the mouse go. Somewhere… Outside? Where the feral cats could kill him? No. Where, then? I think I went into shock, a little, at that point. I would shake uncontrollably, intermittently, for almost four hours afterwards, until my Nighttime Meds kicked in.

But what choice did I have? Make my son get rid of it?

That night, and the night after, I had nightmares. Mice everywhere. Big ones, little ones, mice with missing chunks of flesh and visible bones. Leering mice. Mice squeaking at me. The following morning, I ran downstairs. “Did they take out the garbage from yesterday yet?” I asked a neighbor who lived on tbe first floor. He nodded, “You just missed them. Why?”

And that was it. The mouse had most likely suffocated or bled to death. I am a horrible person.

The plastic container wasn’t closed all the way, but enough that with the loss of blood and lack of air I soon became unconscious.

“Psst! Psst! Chester! Wake up! Wake up!” the last was more of a plea. “Charlene? You’re dead, too?”

“No, stupid, but we’ve been trying to get you out all night and the garbagemen are coming!”

I took a deep breath — I could breathe! And I felt the burning pain in my left side, where the cat had taken a chunk of flesh. Charlene and my mother had been chewing through the bottom of my plastic prison for hours! The two EMMT’s who had brought me and that infamous piece of cheese had been helping, and now one took charge. “This is going to hurt, Chester,” she smiled reassuringly as she squeaked. “My name is Jen, that’s my brother Jonah.” She nodded at a mouse with white fur like hers; litter-mates are named using the same letter. “That bite in your side is bad but we are out of time. Hold my hand and squeeze when it hurts.” Charlene and the male EMT, Jonah, looked at one another and, with some unspoken signal, pulled me out through the hole.

I squeaked, I wet my fur, I squeezed, I passed out… We were a couple of months old: Charlie, Charlene, Chrissy, Christopher, and me. “Look! I’m Chester!” squeaked Christopher after rolling in coffee grounds to make his fur darker like mine. “Chester… Chester… Chester!” the voice changed from Christopher’s teasing tone to Jen’s concerned tone.

I tried to sit up and as the pain shot through my left shoulder, my nose touched Jen’s nose. The pain wanted me to fall back onto the soft bed, but everything else wanted to feel the warm wetness that was Jen’s twitching nose and feel those whiskers move against mine forever. “You should, uh,” Jen paused, as if not wanting to move away either, “Lie down.” She smiled nervously. I took her hand in mine as the pain took over and I fell back onto the feather nest. I looked around. “This. Isn’t. The. EMMT. Uh, place,” I said slowly.

Jen smiled and lay down next to me on my right side. I noticed my left shoulder and arm were tightly bandaged. “When your mom and Charlene found out about your brother’s plan, well,” she covered her cute pink mouth with her dainty pink hand and gave a fake little cough.”Well, there’s only one bed at the EMMT’s headquarters so I said I’d take care of you here.” She paused and looked up at me, and I could see the pink skin under her white fur turning a darker pink. “Um, as long as it’s ok with you.” I pressed my nose against hers, our whiskers twitching together. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I smiled.

Afterwards: We had a dual wedding, Jen to me; Charlene to Jonah. Charlene was halfway through her pregnancy, and six months after Christopher set me up I was a proud, happy, stay-at-home dad. My mom lived with Jen and I and our four; Charlene often helped as she and Jonah had a litter of six. Christopher agreed to get help although none of us had gone to visit him yet. On the other hand, we had all agreed not to press charges, either. I’ve been writing short pieces for the local paper, but Jen thinks I should try a novel. Or a Children’s Book. Or a comic… Who knows? I’m just happy to be surrounded by family who love me as much as I love them and don’t mind that I have a bit of a limp on my left side. Lester, our runt, thinks it makes me look, “cool and tough”. And that’s good enough for me.


School Is Starting Soon…

My son will be 12 in November; he’s starting 7th grade on 30 August. As someone born at the end of March, I was one of the older kids in my class; my son is one of the younger. I’m still not used to having a child born so late in the year. When it became 2016, I immediately knew my age*, but when I came up with “12” for my son’s age… I realized I’d better learn about having a kid born later in the year!

My son goes to a Charter school. (When he leaves this school, I have a loooong post written, including video, photos, emails, etc, to show just how bad this particular school is. Until then, we’ll pretend he’s going to a school that is a tiny bit better than our zone school and not mention the name if the school.)

Normally, the school allows students in between 7:15am-7:30am. A second after that, and you’re considered “late”. When my son was in 5th grade, they excised kids whose parents called in and said there were problems with the trains (this can be easily confirmed by going on the MTA website). Apparently, too many kids showed up with food from tbe local McDonald’s and train delays, even with a note from the conductor, are not acceptable reasons for lateness. I can understand this for kids with McDonald’s or kids who use this excuse a few times a week. But I kept track, and my son was less than 5 minutes late due to train delays about once a month. We would leave at the same time each morning, leave twice the reccommended time Google Maps suggested, and normally arrive between 7:10 and 7:15am. But at least once a month, my son, probably the only kid brought by a parent on the train (I didn’t see any others although about five come by car), would have “lunchtime detention”.

With the exception of Wednesday, when they get out at 2pm, they would get out at 3:45pm. Unless they had detention or Homework Center (meaning you didn’t do or didn’t hand in all of your homework). Then they got out at 4:30pm.

Either way, my son arrives as the sun is rising, and, in winter, leaves as it is setting. He was put on a Vitamin D supplement as he didn’t see the sun for a few months every year.The new schedule is 7:45am-4pm. Meaning my son still needs his Vitamin D supplement.

I’m worried about my son returning to this school. In 5th grade, he was bullied by 3 boys (one of whom was part of the reason we left his last school) to the point my son had to be switched to a different class. Knowing this, they still put the one boy we had left his old school to avoid in my son’s 6th grade class. Ironically, the bully’s mom had also asked that they be separated. (I had tried being friends with her and apparently “knew too much”. And there was the time she yelled at my son in the charter school office in front of teachers and staff before I got there. But why should they care about my son?)

Anyway, once my son is back in school, what will I do?

I will write. I will set up, and keep to, a writing schedule. I will set up doctor’s appointments on only two days a week so tbere will be a minimum of three day wbere I have to take my son to school and pick him up and in between, write. Write, Write, WRite, WRIte, WRITe, WRITE. (That was harder than you’d think with my cruddy phone keyboard.)

I have tons of ideas and I will do them.

I will be more social. Fuck this pain. I’m in pain no matter what I do or do not do, so I might as well do something!

And that’s all, really.

(Oh, I’ll find out hpw to have a bar separate sections of my blog!)

As for the asterisk it will be explained below.๐Ÿ˜ƒ

* Although I tend to add a few years. Most people take off years. I had a boss who turned 30 three times when I knew her; everyone laughed behind her back, saying she was probably closer to 40. I add a few years, and people say, “You look so much younger!” That’s the trick, folks: add a few years. People will think you look and actually are younger than your real age.

I also reccommend staying away from ages that “sound” fake. Twenty-one always sounds fake, and you will be carded, even if that’s your real age. Thirty sounds like you’ve been there before and, depending on how you look, people will mentally add a couple of years, believing you’ve been 30 before.

Obviously your real friends will know the truth ๐Ÿ˜ƒ

And now I’m melting in the bathroom, and the constant knocking followed by, “Are you ok in tbere, Mommy?” (I only get called, “Mommy” when he’s worried or tired. Otherwise, I’m, “Mom”.) means I’m done.

Blessed Be.

See y’all soon!

Warning: I’ve Got A Twisted Sense of Humor

(NOTE: This entire post just got deleted. I’m rewriting from memory.)

I wrote a whole long post about how I came to have what some might call a twisted sense of humor.

It was all erased.

My dad was going in for surgery on some herniated discs in his neck. There was a 50% chance he’d die on the operating table. But when his parents and brother went for lunch, my dad launched into a hysterically funny story about a hot female nurse shaving him “down there” as he would need a catheter after the operation — and how cold the room was.(look up the Seinfeld episode about Cold Water if you have questions.)

Then he pointed to a huge fruit basket he had received. “What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t eat solids for a month!”

When our family came back from lunch, my dad was smiling and I was hysterical laughing. He was literally facing Death but he had made me laugh.

As he was wheeled into surgery, everyone said how much they loved him. I whispered, “When you wake up, you’ll have a catheter.” My dad smiled, “I already do.”

He came out of surgery as well as could be expected, but I learned a valuable lesson:

As I grew older and amassed my own laundry list of illnesses and diseases, I remembered that lesson. Life can suck but if you are reading this, you are better off than most of the people in the world. If you have a roof over your head, food (or money to buy food), and a change of clothing, you’re better off than 70-90% of the world. (Sorry, but I couldn’t find an exact number to quote.)

I’ve been told I have a twisted sense of humor. But…

Here are a few links:

http://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/stress-management/in-depth/stress-relief/art-20044456

http://time.com/3592134/laughing-health-benefits/

http://www.m.webmd.com/a-to-z-guides/features/give-your-body-boost-with-laughter

http://www.chopra.com/ccl/6-reasons-why-laughter-is-the-best-medicine

http://www.helpguide.org/articles/emotional-health/laughter-is-the-best-medicine.htm

Laughter truly is the best medicine.

When I was in high school there was a girl I couldn’t talk to because she was so cool. We became Facebook friends and, I thought Real Friends. We supported each other and sent messages of encouragement. Recently, I made a joke to my ex- high school/ college boyfriend, based on this joke:

An elderly widowed gentleman in a nursing home became very friendly with an elderly lady. He told her his former wife used to hold his penis every night to help him go to sleep. The elderly lady decided to do this for her new male friend every night for a week. Each night he fell soundly asleep. The next week the gentleman told the lady that he was sorry but he had found a new partner. She was very upset and asked him, “What does she have that I don’t have?” He replied, “Parkinsons.”

The Cool friend replied:

NOBODY WITH ILLNESSES AND/OR DISABILITIES SHOULD EVER BE MAKING FUN OF. IT IS VERY CRUEL AND IGNORANT. HOW DARE YOU.

I replied:

[i]t’s how my family deals with us all having chronic pain / illnesses. Mostly my dad and me when we were talking.

It’s from a joke about a couple who meet in an old folks home. One day the woman sees the man with another woman and calls him over.

“We’ve shared meals, we’ve slept in the same bed, I even put my hand on your penis! What does she have that I don’t?”

He answers with a grin, “Parkinson’s.”
If I couldn’t laugh I’d curl in a ball and cry. Sometimes the pain is so intense I’m laughing and crying. 

When the muscle spasms started, it would scare my son to see me jerking around or flipping off the bed or, one time while making dinner, a knife flew out of my hand across the room. If I let my son know how much pain I was really in, it would’ve scared him and he would’ve worried more.

So I’d laugh.

Often hysterically, like a crazy person, but then he [my son] could laugh, too, instead of being scared all the time.

I hope you understand — I’m not making fun of anyone. When Michael J Fox was diagnosed an article said it was from head injuries playing hockey as a kid. I used to get my head slammed into walls daily by my biological mother so I was terrified I’d get early onset Parkinson’s.

It’s the best coping mechanism I have since my son is with me a lot. If I didn’t have a kid, well, I wouldn’t be using prescription pain killers, that’s for sure! I’ve been out of Lyrica for a week now & am praying I can get it today. Mixed with the heat… It’s been rough. And my son has to watch.

And then after finding out she had unfriended me on Facebook and Instagram, I wrote:

I see you unfriended me on Facebook and I had to request to follow your instagram account (again; As we were following each other).

If you’re that bothered by me making a joke, I wish you’d text me or messagenger me or dm me privately to discuss this.

I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve noticed my sarcastic / laugh-instead-of-cry approach to living with chronic pain. Even with my son, if I had to take a cold hard look at my future — in a wheelchair, in constant pain, completely alone — I’d probably be suicidal. It’s one thing to not mind being alone but to deal with never being held as I sleep, never being kissed again, etc… Once my son is grown, I will have to deal with such self-pity. But until then, I need sarcasm and humour or else I might as well pack it in. I’m sorry if I offended you but it’s how I cope.

And now I’m [re]writing this. Hoping she will see; hoping she will understand.

Mi Manzanita:

I’m very sorry that you misunderstood my comment on Facebook. If you don’t wish to talk to me, I will respect your wishes.

Please understand, I would never “make fun” of any illness or disease; I do use humor to deal with my situation and if that means we cannot be friends, I understand. I would like to hear your reasoning, but I wish you health and happiness no matter what you choose.

I freely admit that my mind goes to self-pity-mode a lot. It depresses me that after I have raised my son I will be, literally, alone. It upsets me that I will never be kissed or held by a lover again. But I need to stay strong for my son and for myself. Please do not mistake my joking as “making fun of” or “laughing at” others.

Con mucho amor,

Dee

Aka, D. K. Stevens