World's Ugliest Birthday Cake.

Brodie, the baby of the family is turning six. My gorgeous boy that started off life with a full head of fluffy white angel hair and a personality to match.
He has turned into a Star Wars loving, snowmachine riding, snowboarding daredevil. He prefers to sleep at night with his "fuzzy". A fleece blanket that has been around for the last 6.5 years. A gift from my Mom, prior to his birth. Even the most hardened of children can cling to their simple pleasures.

So, the child wants a Yoda cake for his birthday. Honey I say, Mommy isn't sure she can make a Yoda cake, but I will try. How could I deny my gorgeous boy this simple request? Hells bells, what was I thinking?

Online research will help and lots of cake. Screw up, start over. Screw up more, make more cake. I know this routine.

Five boxes of cake are made and chilling in the freezer. Homemade strawberry whipping cream is holding the rounds together. The glue of cake. All should be well.
Until the cakes come out of the freezer and I now have to carve Yoda's face out of a 10 inch tall stack of unstable cakes. What the hell. I am not a carver. My artistic ability goes as far as trying to neatly sign my name to a check.
I am officially hosed and the party is 10 hours away. My husband is the support group. Staying away if cursing is heard, but at the ready if something is needed from the pantry downstairs. Good thing we took marriage vows or I am sure he'd be long gone, years ago.

Bizarre looking cake carved. Rice Krispy treat ears covered in yoda green fondant and stuck with wooden chinese take out chopsticks. Kind of like Area 51 parts laying on the table, that no one should really see.

It's now midnight. The kitchen is trashed with pink cake(Brodie wanted it to look like blood), every bowl and both Kitchenaids are out and covered in splattered frosting. I am going to bed.

Tomorrow is my baby's birthday and by golly it's going to be fun. Ugliest cake on the planet be damned.

A big thank you to Emily for making the spun sugar for Yoda's fuzzy head. Only my Yoda is so disturbing, he now looks like Swamp Thing George Washington risen from the Potomac.

Happy Birthday Brodie

Love, Mom

Deadliest Catch. Fair or Farce?

Breezing past the Pain in the Ass fiascoes, or the I am too dumb to make money in the real world praise the lord Gold Rush people.

My problem lies in the crabbers. There is a boat on Deadliest Catch, a VERY popular boat. This boat for many years and many years ago(same 0wner) was known through out the entire Bering Sea crabber fleet as a SCAB. A picket line crosser.

People outside of the Bering Sea fisheries world probably don't realize that just a few years ago this fishery was controlled by a catch based on predicted bio mass. A free for all until the mass was caught.

But, canneries(the buyers of the crab) would often times low ball the price of crab, before the opening. The majority of boats would sit in the harbors, as designated negotiators would meet with cannery CEO's and hammer out an equitable price for the crabbers. This would make the biomass catch fair and equitable to everyone, catching, buying and selling wholesale.

Unfortunately, a few crabbers. One of which is VERY popular on Deadliest Catch, did not abide by the crabber strikes. They did not care that all crabbers should receive a fair price for their king crab. THEY broke the picket line. THEY did not care about their fellow fisherman and fairness to all.

When they crossed the imaginary picket line and began dropping crab pots on the grounds, they took away from every other crab captain, crew member, deck boss and engineer. There was no code of crabber respect. They got the higher price. They took away from the quota. They got more, while their fellow crabbers worked harder and received less.

Why? Not all crabbers or crab boats owners have respect for their fellow crabbers. Especially, in Homer.

Pizza Parlor Storm

With the in-laws ready to head back to sunny Arizona we decided to go out for a casual pizza dinner the other night. I warned them, but not myself, that with two weeks in Maui under their belt and one day back to school, their sweet grandchildren may not fare so well. Boy howdy!

With our seven year old having been diagnosed about two years ago with Aspberger's, we are more understanding of his quirks and sometime outbursts. With a year of occupational therapy and two years of counseling, he is doing kind of better. I still am not equipped mentally for some of the things he does. His meltdown on this particular occasion was hotter than the mozzarella on the pie.

Simple questions from the very nice server "what can I get you to drink"? Was the start of a thirty minute tirade. He was overcome with the decision of choosing one drink. This resorted in hitting the table, tossing silverware, throwing himself under the table, throwing himself onto the bench seat, occasional yelling and basically being miserable. We all remained calm during the pizza parlor tirade,thankful we were in the back room, in a corner booth.
We couldn't order for him. That lesson was learned last summer over lemonade in a burger joint. It will never, ever be what he wants.

I took his littler brother to the restroom. When I returned, I was picking up more of Jack's silverware and his snowboots. These were all about five feet from our table. I didn't even ask how they got there, I already knew.

Unfortunately the family across the room knew nothing of Jacks's brainwaves. They glared the entire time. Scowling, wanting to shoot daggers at the distraught little boy or his Mother. Thinking he was a brat. I calmly went up to them, leaned down and whispered "he has Aspberger's". They all smiled and nodded! What the hell is smiling and nodding? Assholes, I said under my breath as I walked away.

The food came. Spaghetti for him, his favorite and a hawaiian to share with his brother. He refused to eat, said take it away. He couldn't possibly eat it without a drink.

So, we all started eating and he continued to whine, but the yelling and tossing of tableware was over.

Then, his epiphany hit. "A root beer, where is the lady, I want a root beer". Oh good heavens don't let them be out of root beer and please nice lady server person, don't ask him if he's sure. Please just get the kid his root beer. We can't take it anymore. She came, nodded and one minute later the perfect soda had arrived.
He sipped. That was it. Then he sat and ate an entire plate of spaghetti, garlic bread and pizza. The perfect pizza parlor storm was over, as fast as it had begun.

My head is now crammed into another book on Aspberger's. Not what it is, but how in the hell do we help a young child get through life's most simple of tasks.

I am also thinking kids have too many options. When I was a kid, Coke, Sprite or water? No,f'n lemonade, chocolate milk, Vita water, coke, sprite, root beer, orange, apple juice, cranberry. Hell. It makes my head spin and my son's seemingly detaches from his neck and flies around a room.

Eyewear Hell

I really dislike buying new glasses. I shouldn't. This cycle of eye doctor to glasses store has been going on since my first pair of ultra large frames at the tender age of 12. Having a complete stranger tell me how cute I looked and aren't those just darling, stunted any joy of eye glass shopping out of me for all eternity.

So it was with a slightly bad attitude that I trudged to the mall and schlepped into LenCrafters. There are a few small boutique eyewear shops in town, but I can't justify $800 smackeroos just for frames that I may break or drop into Prince William Sound, step on getting out of bed, etc. I have a very poor track record with glasses and in my 20s became really good with clear tape, super glue and silly putty. The two latter, I do not recommend, but will work in a pinch. No photos please.

I don't wear contacts, so trying on frames is a ridiculous dance of finding a frame, standing in front the store mirror, taking of old glasses, putting on new found frame and putting my head no more than five inches from the mirror. Thus looking like a complete middle aged Mr.Magoo moron.

So, today, I start the dance. I am greeted at the entrance of eyewear hell by a way to perky Adele wannabe. "How's it going for ya today, can I help you find anything amazing"? Crap. I already don't like this person. No I say, just looking. I feel I am safe from perky banter for a few minutes and can continue my dance in quiet.

She comes back often. "Aren't these Dolce Gabbana just amazing"? No, I am not paying to be their walking advertisement. Oh, she says, I totallllyyyy understand. These Tiffany frames are just toooo cute, don't you think? If I don't want D&G plastered on my temple, why would I want Tiffany? No, not for me I say. She walks away.

The dance is nearing it's end. After numerous frames and nose bashing against the mirror, I think that a decent frame has been found. A simple gold and cream Ralph Lauren. Nothing flashy, no rhinestones or giant logo. I like these.

Adele Wannabe swoops in for the sale. After gushing how amazingly fab they are, she looks at them and says "I am not sure these will take a multi-lens". I look at her quizzically, with absolutely no idea what she is talking about.
"Oh"! She says. You don't wear bifocals do you?

I now hate her and buying glasses has taken me to a new level of purgatory.

A vent to my beloved.

Dear Husband,
My car won't start. Even though at 10pm last night, when it was -17 out, the neighbor put the battery charger on and I plugged in the block heater, twelve hours later, it is still a no go.

I made my way to your truck. There it sat, cold, covered in 12 inches of hardening snow. I opened the door. I am now covered in 4 cubic feet of snow. Apparently, it followed the door from the roof. I climb in, dumping snow all over your cold leather seats. Ha ha.
With fingers crossed, I put the key in the ignition. Good news, it's dinging. I wait for the engine light to turn off. Diesels and their start procedures, must not disregard the start procedure. It's a go. I turn the key. NOTHING! I have nothing. This is akin to sitting on the shuttle pad waiting to launch only to hear that it's to cold. No go. The launch has been scrapped.

Disappointment and the not so good feeling of knowing you don't have any wheels has set in.

I trudge past the boat. The boat that sits in front of the fence that is sheltering the four wheeler with it's plow. The plow I could have used during the last few weeks of heavy snow fall. The plow I can't get to. The now unused plow covered in snow. So close, yet completely unattainable for me to get out.

I then walk past the Excursion, my beastly car for the last 7.5 years. The giant paperweight. Lifeless, heartless, hunk of cold steel.

There is sits. In front of the garage. Why in front and not in? It's a garage. A heated, large garage. Large enough to fit my car. To house it from the cold Alaskan winters and keep it snow free. Why then does my car sit dead outside? Unable to move your wife and children. No movie theater today. No grocery shopping.

The day is a complete No Go.

Patience no more, part deaux.

Ten days ago I called Dr.K's office and requested my knee x-rays and cd. I spoke with a fairly confident woman in the records department. She put me on hold to double check that they had them. Oh yes, they are here. They will be ready Friday. I tell her no hurry, I can't get there to pick them up until Monday at the earliest.
Wrong thing to say.

Today, with John driving and Jack hacking in the back of the car(sick day for him) we headed to Anchorage and Dr.K's mega office. I tell John not to bother parking, the packet has been there for days. "Are you sure" he asks, Oh yes I say, no problems now.

Hahahah, jokes on me!

I step off the elevator and a nice young lady asks if she can help me. This is promising. No 25 minute wait, to be told it will be another 50.
I tell her why I am there. Oh just one minute, I'll get them. Several minutes later I am handed a tiny manilla envelope. Uh, this isn't my cd and x-rays, I say. She is dumbfounded. Let me explain, my x-rays are in an x-ray type gigantic envelope. It is marked X-RAY.
What is in the mystery envelope? Nothing but paper saying what kind of goo was shot into my knee. This does me no good. I know what kind of goo it was and which knee it went into. I need my cd and x-rays.

She asks several kind of useless questions. Who did I speak with? When did I speak with them? Were they in records? Don't know, ten days ago, yes.
She leaves me again.

She returns. We don't know where they are, it could take awhile to find them. No, I say. I need them now. I can talk rude because I left my regular glasses in the car and I am inside an office building wearing dark Jackie O glasses. I am incognito.

She leaves again, another woman returns and asks the same dumb questions. I tell her nicely, but firmly. "I need my x-rays now. My appointment with my NEW doctor is tomorrow".
She leaves.

Six minutes later a very nice woman hands me a very large envelope marked X-RAY with my name on it. She says the cd is there too and walks away.

Note to self. Self, dark glasses inside can be a good thing.

Patience no more.

I am done, fed up, cooked to seething.

Six times in the last twelve months I have had doctors or dentists keep me waiting. Not the usual, ten or fifteen minutes. Even though keeping anyone waiting should never, ever be the norm. With health care providers it is. It never used to be like this.
I am talking twenty, thirty or the occasional seventy-five minutes!

The boys dentist kept us waiting 30 minutes the last two visits, I only gently complained. Before it got out of hand at the third appointment, 10 minutes I chimed in. Only to be apologized to, led into the back rooms and left to wait another fifteen.

My dentist, left me waiting 20 minutes. On my way out I received a coupon for a loaf of free bread from the nice bakery in town. Note. If your health care provider has free bread cards on hand, you are probably in for a wait at least once. It's hard not to tell some one where they can put their loaves. But my teeth were shiny and I was out the door, so I say "oh thank you" and bend over.

Two months ago I was left to wait in the small exam room of a doctor I had seen previously.
At thirty minutes I stepped out and asked when the doctor would be in. Oh, just a few more minutes, I was told.
At 45 minutes, I grabbed my coat and purse and headed down the hall. Oh, it will be just a few more minutes, please have a seat, can I get you anything, "Yes, I said my lost time". Ha ha.
Sixty minutes, I am again, walking out the door. This time a new person stops me, apologizing, he hands me a five dollar coffee card. Wow, awesome! Thanks, now I have something to drink with my bread.
Seventy five minutes, my coat is on, purse in hand. Doctor walks in. Apologizes and let's me know I am his last patient since it's now his lunch time and I can have him for however long I need. REALLY! How about you keep your crappy coffee card and give me back the last 75 minutes of my life!

What I need is a doctor that cares about their patients and not just their MB car payments and spousal support for trophy wife number three.

Today, I walked out.
A doctor whom I had seen three previous times before let me down.
At twenty five minutes past my appointment time I asked the nice girls at the counter when I might get in. Just one minute, we'll check. One is now scanning the computer, they give each other the look. One goes down the hall I won't get to see today. She comes over to me. I am really sorry she says, Dr. K is in with a patient and there is another patient in front of you. What the hell! So, I calmly ask "so about how long do you think"? Probably, maybe, another fifty minutes, she says. Are you F'n kidding me I yell into my own brain. Well I say, I can't wait that long, I have to go.
Then I am let in on a little tid bit. This yahoo, has the receptionists overbook him on purpose. I am quietly told that out of all the doctors, he demands to see the most patients.

Well, Sir, as I am out of patience and you are now one less patient.