Surrender, Dorothy

This Week in Hell

This has been a horrible week.  It kicked off with the jury duty, then it spun into a major work crisis that had me popping Exedrin like candy, followed up by evenings spent reworking the book.  I sent the book revisions in yesterday, and last night stage 1 of the Hell Project at work was complete. 

This morning, we had a meltdown over the complete lack of winter twirly dresses in the little angel's closet.  And really, I had no patience for it.  I have no patience for anything at this point, which makes me feel guilty, but really, all I want is a jacuzzi, some wine that is not Franzia Chablis ($7.99 for the whole box!) and NO PEOPLE.  Also, I would've liked Grey's Anatomy to have been on last night. It was what I was looking forward to all week, and I got football instead. 

GRRR.

WHINE< WHINE<WHINE<WHINE

Tired of that?  I have a post on writing letters to Santa today over at BlogHer, and a review of spiffy remote-control fire trucks over at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.  I'm flummoxed by the plethora of deserving yam haiku, therefore I'll pick the winner of the digital camera next week, when I'm not so grumpy. (Trust me, you'd prefer that.)  Also, Mir tells me I may be giving away a giant Miffy soon.  The hits just keep on coming.

A Hell of a Deal on Milk

I'm not really sure how to follow up last night's post, except to say that I've wallowed, and I've stuck that memory back in the Al Gore LOCKBOX that lives in my head.  It's crowded in there, and I had to sit on it to get it closed.

But life just kept happening.

After a hellacious day at work (they all seem to be that way lately - must be the holidays), my beloved and I went to pick the little angel up from daycare, making a stop off at the grocery store on the way home.  I HATE grocery shopping with my husband, who doesn't see the irony in being stingy about saving 30 cents on green beans and begging me to check my e-mail today to see if we won a chance to buy a flatscreen TV for half-price.  (AS IF I'D LET HIM.)

I like to buy the Shatto milk. It's hormone-free. I don't force organic. I don't shop at Whole Foods. I don't insist we use dye-free shampoo. I just want the one thing I know she's going to have every day be as pure as possible. It's all I ask.

Every single time we go to the grocery store and I buy that milk (which requires a $1.50 deposit because it comes in glass bottles, which we always return), he bitches about the price.

Yes, it's expensive. I'm sorry, but this is the ONE THING I ask (well, okay, I also ask for 2% cheese, even in macaroni) that Mr. "I Want to Save 60 Cents to Save Up for My Lottery Ticket" can't handle. So there we are, arguing in the milk aisle.

Him:  "Why do you think they charge for the deposit? They've already totally built the price into the milk."

Me: "It's not that much more.  The growth hormones increase milk production. They are getting less milk per cow."

Him:  "So that's a good thing?"

Me:  "I don't want tricked-out cows making my child's milk."

Him:  "It's like twice the price for half the amount."

Me:  "JUST GIVE ME MY FUCKING COWS AND I'LL IGNORE YOUR LOTTERY TICKETS."

Him:  "If I win, I'm buying you your own damn cow."

What I Had to Remember Yesterday at Jury Selection

So, I didn't get picked for jury duty.  I did find out what the trial was for:  sodomy, rape and assault.

I didn't get picked because I was raped in college, and had to volunteer that information under oath to truthfully answer the lawyer's questions.

I already told 60 strangers. 

I already felt totally humiliated, again, fourteen years later.

I already remembered accepting my boyfriend's fraternity brother's offer of a walk home "for protection" and passing out only to wake up with someone on top of me, my pants around my ankles. 

I already remembered waking up my four roommates and having them help me throw him out of our apartment.

I already remembered him coming back for two nights in a row, pounding on the windows about how I was "remembering it wrong" and how he'd ruin my reputation if I presented my side of the story.

I already remembered telling his girlfriend, my friend, what had happened.

They asked me if I ever pressed charges. 

I didn't.

Neither did the seven other women and one man who admitted they'd been sexually assaulted or raped in the past when questioned by the attorneys.

What kind of fucking world do we live in? 

I already remembered thinking it would do no good to press charges. It would be my word against his. I had no bruises. I already remembered thinking the best thing to do would be to take a shower and move on.

And I did move on.  Pretty well. Until yesterday.

When I had to remember it all over again.