Where to start with this mess in my head.

Part of me is furious,part of me is in shock, part of me is thankful and yet another part of me is sad. That's alot of parts to be in one place.

The Crime: Saying "This fuckin sucks" to an assistant coach.
The Punishment: 14 days suspension from the team. At the conclusion of the 14 days if you choose to return to the team, there must be an apology to all and that apology must be acceptable in the eyes of the head coach. If the apology is not acceptable or you choose not to apologise and leave the team, you will be blacklisted from joining any other team within your current club.
The Lesson to be Learned: You are responsible for your own actions.

Events that lead to the crime:Saturday afternoon game. 5 minutes into this game, the score is 0-2 and not in your teams favor. You play offense, your objective is to get the ball and score points for your team. You had no part in the resulting 2 goals scored against your team. Yet for some reason, your team mates, who you consider your friends on and off the field, are yelling at you. Not so nice things either. Parents on the sidelines are yelling not so nice things as well. Now your ever so UN-wise mom has talked to you at great lengths about how you can't yell back at your team mates. How you have to stand there and take it and give nothing back. Because once you stoop to their level, you are no better then they are. You must shut off your passion, your feelings, the very things that drive you to be so damn great at this game you love. Just take it, at the age of 12. Not understanding why your friends would be mean to you like this. Why other parents who normally treat you as their own would critise you in front of God and everyone. But yet you stand there and say nothing. Trying to play your game. Trying to hold back the tears that burn your eyes, because you are a boy. A boy placed into an ugly situation and expected to not react. The words hurt worse then a fist in the gut. At the first subbing opportunity, who gets pulled? The kid yelling at his team mates? Nope. The keeper who has been yelling at the ref? Nope. The kid who doesn't work hard even when things are going well? Nope. You get pulled. And as your walking off the field with your head down, your best friend says to you "If she is pullign you, I am not even going to try, because your the only one who can make us win." As you approach the sideline, the assistant coach says something to you, you mumble, "this fuckin sucks" to which the coach then screams at you to sit on the bench that you are done for the rest of the game.

Upon hearing this, the ever UN-wise mom makes her way to the sidelines. Tells you to grab your bag we are gone. She is sick of watching you take this abuse. She is sick of keeping her mouth shut, doing the "right" thing and not sticking up for her boy.

Head down, you walk with her in silence. You know she is there to support you. You know she at least kinda understands. But your loyalty to the team takes over. You tell your mom that you can't leave your team like that. You bravely turn around and walk back. You apologise to the coach, who then makes you apologise to the team. Not understanding totally why, you do it anyway.

Who was wrong in all this? I currently think it is mom. For not pulling the plug sooner. For thinking that asking her son to turn into a robot to take the continual abuse was the right thing. It is obvious why you are so hard on yourself. Why you take every loss as your own personal failure. Is it any wonder? The world around you has basically helped you climb that ladder whether you wanted to jump or not.

After 3 years the coach has decided to put a foot down. And you are being used as the example. Will you suffer? I know you will miss attending practice. I know your disappointed about missing Region Cup competition. But you will pass the time fishing, swimming and playing pool with your neighborhood friends. You will be free of your responsibilities that you take so seriously.

The team will suffer. The other boys will learn the lesson thru your consequences. Maybe this is the start of your coach not tolerating the behavior anymore from anyone. He said they of course hope you decide to rejoin the team. To which your mom replied that if that is to happen things will have to change all around. Coach agreed. Mom will not willingly place you back into that situation. It has progressively gotten worse in the 3 years you have been involved. Mom wanted to pull you, but felt it wasn't fair to the team to do so right before the biggest tournament of the year. We were going to finish out the commitment and re-evaluate before joining next year. Apparently it wasn't such a big deal so it seems.

I can just imagine the drama this will create. Your best buddy already wants to quit because you got suspended. I doubt his mom will allow that.

Will the forces that spurred your outburst get a hint?? Ha not likely. No amount of talking in 3 years has changed that. A Leopard doesn't lose his spots.

Should there have been consequences for your comment? Yep. It didn't hurt anyone, wasn't directed to hurt anyone, but that doesn't make it right. You are responsible for your own actions, no matter the catalyst.

Do I feel the punishment out weighs the crime?? Yepper. But I think the punishment will be felt more on those not dunkin a worm in the pond next weekend. For that I am thankful.

It is my yearly February bout of Cooties.  Seems to go along with the territory.  My son is down bad.  3rd day of ugly fever.  Needless to say I am whooped and my brain is void of anything creative.  So, I received this awhile ago from a co-worker via e-mail.   Claimed to be a true story.    It is so good that I laughed again when I found it in my archives even though I knew the ending. 

 HAIR REMOVAL MADE EASY

All methods have tricked me with their promises of easy, painless removal - the Epilady, the standard razor, the scissors, the Nair, the EpilStop, and now ....The Wax.

My night began as any other normal weekday night. I came home from work, fixed dinner for my son and we played for a while. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next couple hours: maybe I should use that wax in my medicine cabinet. I set up my boy with a video and head to the site of my demise, um, I mean bathroom. It was one of those
cold wax kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the clear strips in your hand, peel them apart, press it on your leg (or wherever) and ignore the frantically rising crescendo of string instruments in the background. No muss, no fuss. How hard can this be? I mean, I'm not the girly-est of girls but I'm mechanically inclined so maybe I can figure out how this works.
Youda thunk.

So I pull one of the thin strips out. It's two strips facing each other, stuck together. I'm supposed to rub it in my hand to warm and soften the wax (I'm guessing). I go one better: I pull out the hair dryer! And heat the SOB
to ten thousand degrees. Cold wax, my ass. (Oh, how that phrase will come back to haunt me.)

I lay the strip across my thigh. I hold the skin around it and pull. OK, so it wasn't the best feeling in the world, but it wasn't bad. I can do this!
Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am Sheera, fighter of all wayward body hair and smooth skin extraordinaire!

With my next wax strip, I move north.

After checking on the boy and verifying that he was, in fact, becoming one with Bear and learning all about smells, I sneak into the bathroom for The Ultimate Hair Fighting Championship. I drop my panties and place one
foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I then apply the wax strip across the right side on my bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and
stretching up into the inside of the right ass cheek. (Yeah, it was a long strip.)

I inhale deeply. I brace myself.

RRRIIIIPPP!!!!

I'm blind! Blind from the pain! ....... Vision returning. Oh crap. I've managed to pull off half an inch of the strip. Another deep breath. And RIIIP! Everything is swirly and tie-dyed? Do I hear crashing drums?

OK, coming back to normal again. I want to see my trophy - my wax covered pelt that caused me so much agony. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold the wax strip like an Olympic gold
medallist.

But why is there no hair on it? Why is the wax mostly gone? Where Could the wax go, if not on the strip?

Slowly, I eased my head down, my foot still perched on the toilet. I see hair - the hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I feel. I am touching wax. I look to the ceiling and silently shout "nooooooo!!"

And realize I have just begun living my own personal version of "The Tar Baby."

I peel my fingers off the softest, most sensitive part of my body that is now covered in cold wax and matted hair, and make the next big mistake - up until this point, you'll remember, I've had my foot on the toilet.

I know I need to move, to do something. So I put my foot down on the floor. And then I hear the slamming of the cell door. Vagina? Sealed shut. Ass? Sealed shut.

A little voice in my head says "I hope you don't have to shit anytime soon. Your head just might pop off." I penguin walk around the bathroom trying desperately to figure out what I should do next.

Hot water! Hot water melts wax! I'll run the hottest water I can stand and get in - the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it away, right? Wrong.

I get in the tub - the water is slightly hotter than is used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment. And I sit.

Now the only thing worse than having your goodies glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of a tub. In scalding hot water. Which, by the way, does not melt the cold wax.

So now I'm stuck to the tub.

I call my friend, C, because she once dropped out of beauty school So surely she has some secret knowledge or trick to get wax off skin. It's ever good to start a conversation with "So my ass and vagina are stuck to the tub."

She doesn't have a trick. She does her best to suppress laughter. She wants to know exactly where the wax is on the ass. "Are we talking cheek or hole, here?" she asks. She isn't even trying to hide the giggles now.

I give her the run-down of the entire night. She tells me to call The number on the side of the box, but to have a good cover story for where the wax actually is. "You know that if we were working the help line at XX Wax
Co. and somebody called with their entire crack sealed shut we'd just put them on hold then record the conversation for everyone we know. You're going
to end up on a radio show or the internet if you tell them the truth."

While we go through various solutions, I have resorted to scraping the wax off with a razor. Boy, nothing feels better to the girly goodies than covering them in wax, sticking them to a tub in super hot water and THEN dry
shaving the sticky wax off!

In the middle of the conversation (which has inexplicably turned to Other subjects!) I find the little, beautiful saving grace that is the lotion provided with wax to remove the excess. I rub some in and start
screaming "It's working! It's working!" I get hearty congratulations from C and we hang up.

I successfully remove all the wax and notice, to my dismay, that the Hair is still there. So I shaved the damned stuff off. Hell, I was numb by that
point anyway. And then I put the box of wax back in my medicine cabinet.

Never know when a moustache might start to come in.

I have decided that I like this private sorta tucked away blog. I know of someone, actually a few someones who have lost jobs or been written up for blogging. Whether it is because their boss finds out they blog on the clock, or because they advertise their blog to their co-workers and then flame the hell out of their idiot boss. Freedom of speech reins until it falls upon the eyes of those in control of your paycheck!!

#1 Bitch: Why should I have to do my job TWICE, because people I deal with are irresponsible and disorganised?? It is royally pissing me off this week. I have had to take my free time to cover the asses of a few idiots. How do you misplace/lose/throw away something of importance withint 48 hours of obtaining it when you know it is essential??? And then...how do you have the nerve to try to blame ME for your stupidity??? If I choose to be a bitch and make a point by refusing to do this job again...the ones who suffer are a team of kids that won't be participating in a tournament because their coach has fewer brain cells then little Sally's hamster.

#2 Bitch: I have finally found out what they do with the people who can't hang as school bus drivers. They make them Supervisors!! And I got the worst of the lot! Mandatory meeting today. 45 minutes of useless babbling on how to read and follow simple directions on a task most of us have been doing for years! They will pay us all OT for a meeting of this caliber, but expect us to do our jobs for free on 2 hurricane make-up days because they paid us while we were out of work after Wilma!! 45 minutes of listening to a woman who has No Clue and just last week accused me of shoving 89 kids onto a 65 passenger bus because she thought I drove a regular size bus. Instead of going..."Oh her student count is 89 everyday...I must be mistaken on her bus size" Noooooo she pulls my keys calls me into the office and starts reaming me out for putting 89 kids on my 65 passenger bus! My response to her "OMG I'm sorry, wasn't I supposed to count the kids I stuff in the cargo hold???" She wasn't amused! I was. It is a sad state of being when your boss is a big moron.

#1 Moan: Nemo has gone Carnivore. One of my fish is eating it's own. (lately I can relate) I have a cute lil fishie missing an eyeball. Knowing he probably didn't pluck it out himself, I am on a mission to find the mean bastard who is probably responsible for this and also de-finning one of my other fish in that tank. Poor thing swam in circles at the bottom of the tank until I segragated him from the others and tried to nurse him along. He eventually lost the battle with the filtration system. I found him plastered to the nozzle of the filter tube. Apparently he didn't have enough fight in him. I felt guilty for days about his slow and traumatic death. I shoulda just flushed the poor thing. *sigh* I feel better now. Sharing the adventures of my neurotic aquaintances. I'm not perfect, but at least I can Count!!!