More About The Move That Wasn’t

For those of you who asked, yes, the move is out. Does that mean I am giving up? I don’t think so. I didn’t want to move anyhow. The job aspect was the only thing that made me want to relocate. But you can’t uproot your entire family to a location that blows donkeys because you might have a cool job.

Mr. Lane wanted to relocate to be closer to his dad in Missouri. His idea came with no plan, no secure job and not enough thought. I put in the time and effort of researching job markets and schools because it was something he really wanted. We talked a lot about the move and not moving and decided here is the best place for us all right now.

I can carry on doing freelance work at home. I really liked the idea of working outside of my house again. There’s a lot of freedom in that. Plus there aren’t a million interruptions in any given day. When I’m writing, I get on a roll and don’t want to stop. At home, I have to stop often for house stuff, kid stuff, husband stuff. In an office, I can keep on writing.

It sounds pretty cool to say I run my own business from home, but the truth of it is I can get a lot more done while away from these confines. I always keep an eye out for local writing jobs. There haven’t been any in a really long time. I’ve also applied at local radio stations and it always turns out the same, “Lois, you have a great personality. You carry yourself well. We could really use you… on our sales team.”

Eat me sales team! Just because one has the capabilities to sell Eskimo shit to penguins, does not mean one has the desire to sell. During an interview with a nearby station, I said I would sell ad space if there is a chance for advancement, on-air advancement, and I was denied. I think someone has to die around here before that type of job opens up.

When the move fell through, I had to kick it into high-gear and get the kids enrolled in school, which started a week earlier here than it did in the southern schools. Mentally, I wasn’t ready for my son to go to high school. Who knew I would be such a baby about this situation? He was more than ready, and I wanted to turn him into The Boy in the Bubble and keep him home, safe, with Mommy. Really, I was broken hearted. As we drove up to the huge high school, my eyes welled with tears and I had an empty pit in my stomach. But, he opened his mouth and something teenagerish poured out. I got over that sad feeling pretty quickly, and wanted to kick him out of the car while it was still rolling. Is it wrong?

The girl is in 6th grade, which would mean junior high if she were in a public school. I enrolled her back into St. Peter, Paul and Mary, a pre-K-8^th grade Lutheran school. I think she’ll learn more being one of 12 6^th graders, rather than one of 700 6^th graders. It’s as close to keeping her in a safe bubble as I can get.

It’s harvest season. That means the old man is busier than shit, but at least he is home every night (insert cheesy 70’s porn music here). Moving right before harvest would have meant a huge financial loss too. So, in the end, Dorothy was right, there’s no place like home. Too bad my mom isn’t closer to where we live… I could really use a fresh hot cup of coffee right now.

Curveball # 8,427

That crazy little thing called life went and changed everything, once again. Remember our planned move? It’s unplanned now. This is a long post, thanks in advance if you make it all the way through.

The move was centered around the fact that my in-laws bought a home in Missouri and Mr. Lane wanted to move closer to them. Actually, he wanted to move to Missouri. After researching the job market, and finding out that there isn’t one there, I had to come up with a quick and fair compromise.

Southern Illinois is four hours from the in-law’s new house and four hours from my mom’s and the rest of the family. Mr. Lane and I discussed it at great length and decided that location was a fair compromise.

I researched the schools and properties from the internet. I called chambers of commerce in all of the cities in our buying area, to obtain more information.

I made appointments for us to go look at houses one weekend. All four of us piled into the car for a five-plus hour drive in search of our new home. When we reached the general vicinity, we drove straight to the newsroom where I would be working. Mr. Lane didn’t think it looked very safe. To me, it looked more like a busy city with lots of stuff to write about. No more writing about spelling bees and recycling days. This place had murder and mayhem.

I had a great job offer. The company that owns the newspaper also owns a radio station. When I said I would love to do radio too, I was offered it right away. Timing is everything and as it turns out, they needed a morning personality on the local rock station. Loving rock and talking, it sounded like the perfect job for me. I’ve done a lot of volunteer work at NPR so I know my way around a radio station.

I was hired over the phone. Money was good, job sounded fun, writing and a morning show. Who could ask for anything more?

How about decent living conditions? I could ask for that too, right? If something sounds too good to be true… you know the rest. After checking out the city, we took the 35-mile circumference I’d mapped out, and drove through many smaller, outlying areas to look at houses.

The kids took everything in stride. They were initially sad about the idea of leaving their friends, but also appreciated the fact that we were looking out for the good of our whole family. Have I mentioned how much I love those two?

Lane 1 already devised a plan to come back to visit friends. “I’ll be driving in less than two years. It’s not like I won’t ever see them again.” And told his sister he would “let” her come along so she could also visit friends.

Going to a new school was looking like an adventure they were ready to undertake. Moving into a new house was something we all were ready for since we feel so crammed in the current Lane Estate.

So, back to house hunting. If nothing else it was funnier than shit, literally.

Home number one was listed as a cozy three bedroom, with a bath and a half. It was really a one bedroom that had been converted. If you ever see the word “cozy” in an ad, that means “really fucking small”. The previous owner had cut out a connecting wall and made a hallway closet and the kitchen pantry into a bedroom. And yes, you could tell it was not done by professionals.

The third pretend bedroom was the walk-in closet of the only real bedroom. There may have been enough room for a twin bed and a teddy bear. It didn’t even have a window. The half of a bath was a toilet in a small space that was hooked up for a washer and dryer but was converted into a bathroom. No sink, no shower or tub, just a toilet and accordion doors. In fact, if you sat on the pot and closed the doors, your knees would be pressed against said doors. We all tried sitting in there and we all laughed. Inside I was pretty discouraged, but we had many more houses to see.

This one house was listed at an affordable rate, like the others, and it landed within our search area. The listing didn’t provide much more than that. We drove to the town, which had a sign, listing 704 as their population.

Mr. Lane, our conductor for that stretch, said, “Welcome to your new home family, population 704. I mean… 708 now.”

Following the population sign was a welcome sign. Immediately after passing that we saw a junkyard to our left with rusted out twisted metal by the heaps. To our right was a singlewide 1960’s model trailer. We knew if that view was the entry into that town, we were in for some real sights.

In “downtown” where only one business remains, all other buildings are vacant and boarded, we saw a man who looked homeless, selling watermelons out of the back of his pickup truck, which likely doubled as his home.

We continued through town and found “city hall” which was a singlewide metal trailer like you might see on a construction jobsite. Across the street was the “Park & Ballfield” at least that is what the sign said. The open lot had a tiny jungle gym, smaller than what many people have in their backyards.

There were several houses in between, but the next was what changed our minds for good.

This home was advertised as a three bedroom, two bath with basement and lots of land, and several outbuildings.

There were three bedrooms, but the basement was actually a storm shelter with a dirt floor and concrete walls, with a heavy aroma of mold. The outbuildings, well, see for yourself.

Do you know what that is? The kids didn’t either. They decided to open the door and have a look inside. It was bathroom number two. Look at their faces! Man, I love it!

Today I am thankful for my tiny house and my great little family with their great sense of adventure and amazing sense of humor. This morning while getting ready for school, the kids were fighting over the bathroom. Lane 2 told her brother to take his “wizzle” outside. He reminded her that we didn’t buy that house.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There's Signs

Today is the day, I bring to you yet another blog to read. I can hear the “Yay”s from here. I’m using Top Shelf Newz as a little writing exercise. Since I always read the news, I thought I might as well share it with a twist of funny. Does that new place mean there won’t be posts here anymore? Haha! Um… no. It’s just a different venue to try a few different things. So there’s the link on my sidebar, toward the top. Go ahead, give it a click.

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You ever feel like stuff guides you, as if life has already been planned out and all you can do is sit back and try to enjoy the ride? That is my little world in a nutshell. Some event or occurrence comes along and changes my plans. It happens way more often than I’d care to admit.

Yesterday, the mother of all hit. I keep wracking my brain trying to figure out what it all means, but I keep coming up empty. I’m going to throw it out to you guys today and see if you can make any sense of this. By the way, today’s post isn’t funny. It isn’t sad or overly serious either. But if you are looking for plain old funny, skip this and go check out the newz blog instead.

Here goes, I wrote a series of children’s books. The first was started four years ago. I have five that I believe are finished with minor polishing needed. I’ve had trouble getting an illustrator friend of mine to commit. So I thought it best to tell him he is dragging his heels too much on a project that means a lot to me, which means I have no other option but to move on without him.

My next step was to find a new illustrator. And as many starving artists as there are out there who roam this world, I have had no luck whatsoever finding one. Everyone who was remotely interested wanted money upfront, which is something I couldn’t offer.

The latest step was to send letters to agents seeking representation. I could come across as though I already have an illustrator, and when I land an agent, I could go back to illustrator one and let him know someone is serious about representing the project. I thought this would get him off of his ass and back to the drawing board, literally. And if he still dragged ass, I could get another illustrator onboard since money wouldn’t be as far out of reach with an agent in tow.

I sent 12 to 15 letters, about two months ago. I finally heard back from one of the agents. He said that his firm represents several illustrators who they pair up with authors they also represent. They never sign on a writer who comes with their own illustrator.

I guess I should have researched the subject more before sending all of those letters out. So again, the first illustrator is out and I am on my own. My intentions were to get new letters to the same group, plus others and seek representation for myself.

This new plan was set into motion in my head while trying to go to sleep the other night. After I shuffled the kids off to school, I started my computer and planned to rewrite those letters. I opened my browser, where CNN is my homepage and I saw my plans change before my eyes.

“Pluto is no longer a planet,” read the top headline. My children’s book series is about space. Book one is all about… guess… go on… you know the answer… Pluto. This news was obviously a sign of some sort. It felt more like a kick in the kinishky, however.

So what is your take on the latest development from this four-yearlong, time-wasting project?

Bombs Away!

You know how some people clean for company as opposed to how they keep the house presentable in normal day-to-day? I’ve never really been much for that type of guest cleaning. The house is in the not too shabby state or the in the event of drive-by visitors state, always.

My old man however, feels it is of the utmost importance that everything be picture perfect for guests. On the phone the other day, he gave me an earful because Hoss and Vicki were coming over.

Nearly panicked, he asked, “Did you clean the house?”

“God, you act like the house is a pigsty. I did the dishes after dinner but that’s about it.”

“What about the floors?”

“They are fine.”

“Lo, do you really want people seeing the house in less than perfect condition, especially the first time you meet?”

“I really don’t think Hoss and Vicki are coming to inspect the cleanliness of our humble abode. Besides, I did all the major crap on the weekend.”

He offered up a disgusted sigh of sorts and agreed to disagree.

When I got off of the phone with my old man, I felt almost obligated to comply and get the guest cleaning underway. You know the kind, wash floors that weren’t dirty enough for the effort. Dust ceiling fans that hadn’t collected their quota of dust bunnies. Scrub the bath crayon drawings and words from the shower walls, even though I doubt either of them intended to shower here.

So the house shined like a brand new penny. I even opened the doors and windows while the air conditioner was running, to make sure the air quality was top-notch.

Lane 1 came in the house to check in. “Ma! I’m checkin’ in. Me and AJ will be out in front.”

“Don’t go far, you need to get in bed early for school tomorrow.”

“Okay, bye!”

I heard what sounded like a gunshot. My heart pounded in my throat, my stomach felt like I was kicked. I ran to the front door to check on my son. I was terrified. He and his buddy were on their bikes at the end of the driveway, laughing. I felt relieved. I knew Lane 2 was in the backyard playing with her friends.

What was that sound? And holy shit! What is that smell? A fizzing sound was coming from the bathroom. I walked right into a wall of funk. This was not your typical bathroom stank. This was wretched like raw sewage.

I pushed the shower doors back to find a fart bomb fizzing away.

That’s why those two boys were laughing!

“SON! GET IN THE HOUSE IMMEDIATELY!”

Trying not to laugh, he sheepishly came toward the front door.

“Put your bike away. You are grounded!”

“But dude! Ma! Come on man!”

“Now!”

Of all days for the little shit to pull a prank like that, he had to pick the day I spit shined the fucking house. I was so pissed. I wanted to string him up by his toes from the dust-free ceiling fan. Instead, I made him re-clean the entire bathroom.

In the morning, I awoke to the news that Hoss and Vicki weren’t going to make it. I wondered if they had heard my house smelt like raw sewage and changed their plans, couldn’t say I blamed them. Hoss wanted to get back home to his sweetheart, so he flew out of Chicago at 3:30.

After I finished being sad that I wasn’t going to meet the duo, I finally laughed about the fart bomb. I also vowed to never clean for guests again.

When Good Moms Go Mean

I got into a somewhat heated debate with my 11-year-old daughter the other day. She flat out told me I was being mean. I didn’t get into the parenting business to be friends with 11-year-olds, so it didn’t strike me as an upsetting statement as she intended.

The argument was about scissors. No, not running with them, because I may have encouraged her. We went school supply shopping. I pushed the cart and she held the list. One thing I hate about schools is the fact that they can’t purchase their own baby wipes. I hoped to be finished with the baby crap aisle at the store when my kids could make it to the crapper on their own. But no. The school list had baby wipes listed as a must have.

I dropped about 100 bucks on baby wipes, Kleenex, loose-leaf paper, Ziploc baggies; gallon and quart size, notebooks, assignment book, pencils, pens; red ones, black ones, blue ones, gel ones, crayons, markers, thin and thick, colored pencils, glue; bottle and stick, Scotch tape, protractor, compass, calculator, backpack, school box, binders and folders.

As I tallied the cart contents mathematically in my head, I thought about the other costs I had incurred for this one child, whom I really wanted “left behind” at my local department store. I thought about the cost of registration and tuition, uniform fees and knee pads for volleyball, the rates for hot lunch that had to be purchased in advance, the yearbook that also had to be purchased in advance, the expense of the new wardrobe, shoes; two pair, one for gym and the other for fashion, and teeth cleaning, plus a required school exam at the doctor’s and dentist’s office.

I was spent!

My mind was on overload and my wallet on empty when the child told me she “had to have Fiskars Scissors” because they were on her list. Funny how a tiny thing like that can make a seemingly normal Mom snap.

“Where are the scissors I bought for you last year?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about the pair I bought the year before last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you realize I have bought you seven pair of scissors for school alone. That doesn’t include all the ones I bought to keep at the house. Where did all the scissors go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Between you and your brother,” I paused to count on my fingers, “I have bought 16 pairs of school scissors, Fiskars. In. Nine. Years. Sixteen. I’m done buying scissors. You are going to have to look through that mess of a room of yours and find an old pair.”

“But Mom, they are on my list. I have to have them.”

“Have to? You get out of school all week at 11 a.m.. How much cutting do you think a 6^th grader is going to HAVE to do in those hours?”

“But, it’s on the list.”

“But I bought you plenty already.”

“But Mom, I need them.”

“What you need is to find the pair from last year. It’s not like they were broken or you outgrew them, or they spoiled. There is no expiration date on scissors, sweetheart. When we get home I’ll help you look for them.”

“But Mommy,” she always calls my Mommy when she wants something. Then she gave me her sad face. I think that was when I was supposed to start feeling bad and cave-in, but I didn’t. And my little angel dropped the bomb, “You’re mean.”

And there you have it. I am mean and because I wouldn’t fork over another couple of bucks, for yet another pair of scissors, my little girl is going to be a cut and paste dropout. I’m sure it is only the beginning of a long history of criminal activity in her future.

Keep your eye out for my world premier on Spike TV’s, When Good Moms Go Mean, or maybe Liftime, television for women will pick this story up for their Snapped show.

Redemption

This crow is pretty tasty. I’ve been chewing on it for a couple of days. Mom read that she’d been fired and worked out a scheme to redeem herself. Coffee flowed freely, and food was at my beck and call. She even helped me with my homework one night. Having to rehire her after pulling a Donald Trump on her ass was not exactly fun, but slowly, I am getting used to the idea.

I had to write a sketch for The Second City. I don’t know if it was because I was going on a week without quality time with my old man, or if it was simply a random idea that popped into my head, but I ended up writing about sex and cooking. Odd combinations were encouraged in the exercise called clash of context.

Mom is a big fan of the Food Network. Hell, even before that channel came in to play, Mom watched Julia Child on PBS. We grew up thinking the drunk cooking lady on the TV was a relative. That’s how often she was on in our house.

So I sat at Mom’s computer (yes, she even shared that) trying to get my homework started. She brought me a fresh cup of coffee, without being asked. When she saw that I was on the Food Network’s website, she asked what I was working on. I told her I needed some information about some of the chefs so I could make a parody sketch. She sat down and opened up her cooking magazine with Rachael Ray on the cover. Who has these magazines lying around?

I told her I needed some characters with names that could be slightly changed to make them sound more like porn stars. By the time we were finished laughing our silly asses off, I had, Emeril Longossi, Rachael Lay, Julia Wild and Man (instead of Yan Can Cook).

My next step was to list cooking terms that sounded perverted. She was on it like Julia Child on a bottle of wine. Here are some we came up with:

Heating things up a bit

Big cleaver

Big blade

Meats need to be beat

Work the meat real good

Slather it with extra virgin olive oil

Stick it in the oven

Drizzle the top with cream sauce

Fondue and mushroom caps

Proper boning

Tender breasts

Clams

Heavy cream

And finally, flank steak

See, how could I not hire this woman back? Mom rocks. There, I said it. What additions would you recommend? If I have time this week I’ll add your suggestions and rewrite the sketch to post here.

My Mother Is Fired!

I hereby announce, my mother is fired. There was no coffee ready and waiting for me upon my arrival this evening. I was also forced to fend for myself when I was hungry. Should she redeem herself in the morning and win my love back, I will make another announcement. Until then, she is fired!

Thank you, Lois The Donald Lane

Hard Knock Life

Oh man, I lied to you guys. I said I’d be making fun of Mr. Lane again and I got sidetracked. Damn those mental trains! Sorry 'bout that. Well, life is busy here at the Lane Estate. Looks like a move is going to happen after all.

A job offer came out of nowhere for me, from even farther out in the middle of nowhere than we already are. This weekend the kids, old man and I are going to scope out the area for a new place to live.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the kids are losing their minds. It’s so hard to not give them a straight answer. But I can’t because I don’t know shit. After our weekend of searching properties and schools, I can let them know where they are going to school.

Can you imagine? School starts in a week here! Clothes, supplies, packing moving, new jobs for Mom and Dad. The uncertainty has all of us on edge and loopy. In a way, and I would never admit this to my old man, I hope it all falls through. (that is the first time I wrote a secret here – blog history folks)

Next week, I’ll be no help around here because I’ll be back at The Second City again. Mr. Lane asked me not to go. That wasn’t a reasonable request so I said “Sorry Charlie.”

So I’ll be a busy girl for a while. Please excuse my lack of regular updates. Check back because I will find time to write something. Or you can subscribe by clicking the RSS Feed thingy on the sidebar.

Also, please keep Aunty Shorty and Uncle Giant in your thoughts and prayers.

The Name Game

Mr. Lane has issues. Most of you know about his trouble with song lyrics, but did you know he also has trouble remembering people’s names? Thankfully for him, not mine, but just about everyone else’s name escapes him.

We used to have a neighbor named Bill. Mr. Lane always called him Bob. I corrected the first few times but gave up when Bill got used to being called the wrong name.

Finally one night over beer and brats, Bill said, “I have a brother named Bob.”

It was his way of beating around the bush to tell Mr. Lane that he had been calling him by the wrong name, for months.

“Why would your mom name you both Bob?” Mr. Lane asked.

Bill and I looked at each other and laughed. Mr. Lane didn’t get the joke.

A few days later, Bill came over wearing a shirt that had his name embroidered on it. It was so funny to me and Bill. It was even funnier when Mr. Lane asked him whose shirt he was wearing and Bill replied with, “Oh I don’t know. Just picked it up at the thrift store. You get a great deal on shirts with names already on them over there.”

From then on Bill was Bob.

The farm has been a busy place lately. Harvest season is in full swing. They hired a couple of new guys to transport the crop. In traffic, Mr. Lane spotted one of the guys ahead of him. He called out on the CB, “Todd, you got a copy?”

He called several more times and decided the guy didn’t have his radio on. Mr. Lane caught up to him. Riding side-by-side, Mr. Lane held his CB mic to the window as if to tell the new guy to put his on.

“Dude, I been calling you for miles. Don’t you keep your radio on?”

“It’s been on the whole time, man. I didn’t hear you call me. What’s wrong?”

Keep in mind this is an open mic, on the main channel (19) for all who have CBs to hear, within range.

Mr. Lane said, “Well sometimes we convoy since we are going to the same place. It makes the miles go by quicker.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was hauling today. Take the lead Lane.”

“I’m on it, Todd.”

“Todd? Hahahahaha! That’s why I didn’t hear ya, man. I heard someone calling like crazy for Todd, but since my name is Troy, I didn’t think much of it.”

An anonymous voice came over the CB and said, “Ya oughta know your friend’s name dipshit.”

More to make fun of about my old man tomorrow. Have a great hump day.

New Book Series

This day and age, inappropriate response runs rampant, like a rash one might contract from spending one night in Bangkok. So today, we will revisit Friday’s blog subject. Sometimes Mommies Die is a childhood book, an instant classic, even. It teaches kids the way life really is. I will share with you some of the book titles from the series, Sometimes Mommies Die and you can add your own in the comments.

Sometimes Your Sister is a Whore but She Did Help Daddy Get His Promotion

Sometimes Teachers Know You’re Dumb

Sometimes Santa Doesn’t Bring Little Bastards Presents

Sometimes Santa Ass Slams Rudolph, Which is How He Got So Famous

Sometimes You Really Should Run With Scissors

Sometimes Strangers Don’t Just Have the Best Candy, They Also Have Really Cool Dungeons in Their Basements

Sometimes Daddies Drink, Pop Pills, Eat Pussy and Move on Down the Road

Sometimes Hookers Give Daddies the Clap and it’s Nothing to Applaud

Sometimes Mommies Use Meth Because Diets Just Don’t Work

Sometimes Mommies Cook Meth Instead of Food Because Sending You to Kiddie Fat Camp is Embarrassing

Sometimes Grandma Likes to Rob the Cradle and She Has Her Eye on Your Friends

Sometimes Father Flannigan Makes Sister Mary Margret Get on Her Knees Too

Sometimes Daddy Blows Your College Fund on His Online Gambling Debt

And finally, the book that inspired the entire series:

Sometimes Stupid Neighbors End Up in the Wood Chipper

Inappropriate Response

Inappropriate response is one of the many things we talked about at The Second City. It is a quick way to grab your audience. And sometimes, shock value can be really funny. Like an unexpected joke that smacks you upside the head.

As an exercise our teacher got us started with, “My mother just died.”

Classmate Al responded with a huge smile, saying, “That’s terrific! She was a real bitch!”

Other classmates threw in their off the wall remarks and it was funny.

Who knew I’d have some of these in my real world so soon after coming home? After the pitbull incident posted here I realized how life imitates art. And if Deb’s in-laws weren’t inappropriate enough, I was going to get another taste of it a couple of days later.

My neighbor invited Dino-Mike and I over so the kids could play. She asked him how long he was planning on staying with me and he jokingly said “Forever.”

She said, “But wouldn’t your mommy miss you?”

He said, “Um… no.”

“Oh yes she would. I know it would just kill me if my baby went away forever.”

“Well, my mom is already dead.”

As if the inappropriateness wasn’t already overwhelming, the dumb bitch who had been told about my sister, “forgot” and said to my 6-year-old nephew, “That’s okay. Sometimes mommies die.”

Any idea how hard it was to not laugh? In my head, I began writing the children’s book, “Sometimes Mommies Die” and I am telling you, it’s gonna be a big hit with the little ones.

Have a great weekend everybody!

Who Knew There Would Be Another Part To The Saga?

Since a couple of you suggested I call a lawyer, I thought I’d let you know, I did think about it a lot, way too much, probably. Canadiangirl, thanks for being triple pissed for me and offering advice. There are 100 reasons to seek custody of my nephew. There are 1,000 to not. When I weighed these things in my head I knew what to do.

If you take into account how much that little boy makes me laugh with his quick wit, if you could see love oozing out of his pours when he just talks about his daddy, if you realize that someone must be raising him right to attain those fabulous qualities he has, you know what should be done.

Does that mean his father acted less than an asshole? No. But in the end, you have to think about how the child is treated by said asshole.

I’ve complained before here on this blog about my impeccable timing and how it gets me in a whole heap of shit. This time, it was a good thing, which I’ll get too in a minute.

As Janet (AKA Jacny, Aka Paris is a Ho, AKA ect…) eluded to, I have to keep my enemies close, which is why I was as kind to him as I was. Most of my family was done with Dino-Mike’s dad as soon as he and my sister broke up years before her death. I’ve been the go-between for our family so Dino-Mike knows this side of his family and never forgets his mommy.

Don’t think for one second I didn’t want to smack that guy the fuck out, because I did. The older I get the more patience I have, I guess.

A really good thing in the midst of this bad situation took place yesterday. I was snooping around on the internet. I checked out blogs and MySpace to find out if Dino-Mike’s sister had a webpage, and by golly she does, with a blog. My investigative reporting skills came in handy this time. I was mainly looking for information to find out if I am ever going to see my nephew again. Keep in mind, all that crap happened a week ago, and here I am still thinking insanely about it. The thought has been consuming me to be perfectly honest. It’s oddly coincidental that I posted the last part yesterday and came across this information the same day.

I found her MySpace and saw the little girl I used to know, was long gone. She has turned to drugs and alcohol. She parties with men and women much older than she is. They enable her and from what I can gather, use her for sex.

It was a sad realization for me that good kids can turn that bad. In her own writings I could feel her pain. She beats around the bush but is saying she doesn’t even like the person she has become. I also read that her mother kicked her out of the house. I’m sure she had her reasons, which of course the kid didn’t bother to mention. In her writings she was asking for someone, anyone, to offer her a place to stay.

She had a handful of comments from some older men. My internal mother-alert-system started beeping inside. I looked at my cell phone and realized I never deleted her number. I called. I told her that I read her blog and was worried about her. She sounded shocked. I told her I searched for her because I was worried. I knew something wasn’t right when she blew off her brother and that bad feeling just hasn’t gone away all week. She apologized and started making excuses for not being there to pick up her brother. I told her I wasn’t mad anymore and if it ever happens again to just call. I offered her a place to stay and said it wasn’t safe to ask strangers on the internet to be roommates. She sounded like she really appreciated the offer.

After we kibitzed for a few more minutes, she said her dad wanted to talk to me. I had no idea she was with him. He was wondering why I was calling his daughter, who is of no relation to me. He didn’t have that dickish sound but was just really curious. So I told him that I’ve been worried about her and just wanted to make sure she was okay. I told him that I found her blog online and read her mother kicked her out, so I wanted to let her know if she needed a place to stay, she has one here. I thought that guy was going to cry. He was so thankful that I took the time to call his daughter and show genuine concern for her safety.

Even thought I wasn’t calling her to get in good with her father, that’s what happened. I’m much less worried about not having my nephew here next summer than I was yesterday.

I asked to talk to his daughter again. She got back on the phone and told me that her father was taking her to rehab. She’ll be there for a week, at least. She didn’t sound angry or sad about the situation. I’d guess it was embarrassment I was hearing in her tone. I suggested this could be the best thing to happen to her before life takes a dangerous turn. And then I said I was proud of her for taking this step in her own recovery. I also let her know my door is always open. She thanked me and then we got off of the phone.

That was more good news. I’m certainly not a detox center and all I could really offer her was a place to sleep and food to eat. Their dad taking her to a clinic to dry out was more proof for me that he is a good dad. As good as he knows how to be.