What happens next?

So I just finished watching a movie called "Fireproof".  I remember watching it before a few years ago, but this time when it was done, I felt pretty angry.  Why is that?  Who gets mad about that movie?

It brought back a flood of feelings from my failed marriage.  I've been holding onto this anger and dislike for my Ex for so long now, but this movie reminded me of some of the good things.  It reminded me that at one point I was in love with her.  I loved her with all of my heart and gave up everything that was important in my life for her.  I have ragged on her quite a bit in some of my posts, and I don't really think that is right.  It's always easy to look back in hindsight and reflect on what you should or should not have done.  Perhaps I should have listened to my friends and family about her.  But where would I be now if I had done that?

Despite all of her flaws, and so many of them are on the surface and plain as the sun for most people to see, she did still have a lot of good qualities.  Throughout her life, she has experienced a lot of adversity and things that would leave most people floored.  She has always been a fighter though.  She fought through those things, and deep down in her heart, way deep down in there, she has had a desire to do what she thinks is right.  Not just what is right for her, but what is right for her kids.  Does this mean that she is good at it?  Absolutely not.  One of the things that I loved the most about her, was her silliness.  She was always good at making me laugh.  Which was not always easy to do, trust me.  I am Captain Serious and can be quite grumpy at times.

What I loved the most about her, is ultimately what I have come to hate her for the most as well.  When I was with her, I felt like I could be and do anything.  I felt invincible.  I felt like the world was on my side, and the sky was the limit for me.  I genuinely wanted to be a better man, and strived each and every day to be just that.  I put away childish things so to speak, and became a man.  I became a husband.  And I also became a father.  She definitely played a part in that.  I felt like she gave me the world.

And that is what brings me to the next part.  She took my world away from me.  Or at least that is how it felt initially when we were going through our divorce.  I completely lost myself and my identity when my marriage fell apart.  I had devoted everything that I was to my family.  My life completely revolved around my job and my family.  I gave up so many things when I got married.  I gave up my band and playing music in general.  I gave up a lot of friends.  I gave up my family who did not agree with my decisions.  I gave up  my money.  I gave up my soul.

When the divorce happened, I felt completely lost.  I felt a lot of things, but none of them were good.  I was forced to rediscover and reinvent myself as well.  I had no idea who I was without my kids and my family.  I didn't know how to be anymore.  I felt like a failure and didn't know how I would be able to go on.  I felt like I didn't have any reason to try anymore.  Like it didn't really matter what kind of person I was anymore.  I felt like garbage, and wanted to disappear from the world.  Luckily, I did not do that.  I tried to drink myself numb for a while there, but can't say that it helped very much.

How could one person give a man everything, and then reduce him to nothing?

Watching that movie reminded me a lot of failed efforts, and rejected feelings.  There is almost nothing else as bad as feeling completely exposed and vulnerable, and then being rejected.

But that was not the end for me.  Luckily enough, I have a smart, beautiful, and amazing little Daughter who has kept me afloat.  She has truly been the light in the darkness for me.  There have been times when I've completely wanted to give up, but she has kept me going.  I am so thankful for her.

I am also extremely glad that she looks so much like me.  If I had to look at a little mini-Mandie all this time, I think I might have cracked.  I do have to give her some credit though, because Preslie definitely has her silliness.  She has a few of her Mom's qualities, which I love and also some that drive me absolutely nuts at the same time.

So why was I angry after watching that movie you might ask?  I was angry because the movie actually made me cry.  If any of you actually know me, you will know that I am not a cryer, and that I kind of hate it when anyone cries.  The movie made me cry, and then I got really mad and angry at myself for having those feelings.  Men don't cry.

Wanna know how I got these scars?

Racism has been a hot topic on the news recently.  I have seen a lot of posts from friends and acquaintances, and it seems that everyone has an opinion.  A lot of people have been up in arms about racism and prejudices that are going on in our country.  My question is, how many of you have actually experienced real racism?  I'm talking first hand.  How many of you have actually been put down, either verbally or physically because of your race?  For being a certain color?  For being a minority?  I don't think very many of you can honestly say that you have, yet I keep reading an awful lot of really strong words and opinions on the matter. 

I have been subjected to racism, and I'm white.  I grew up in Corona, California.  In a little community called Home Gardens to be exact.  My parents moved into our home in Home Gardens when I was about 3, and we lived there until I was 12 years old.  I hear that when our family first moved in there, it was a nice, and respectable neighborhood.  Over the years, the neighborhood went from being a good mix of White and Hispanic families, to mostly Hispanic.  Before long, there really weren't any other White kids my age in the entire area, besides myself and my little brother Steve.  As I grew up, myself, and the other kids my age who lived on our Street played together.  We had sleep overs, played football, baseball, traded cards, and knew nothing of racism whatsoever.  My friend Rique 2 houses down was Hawaiian, and Peter and Junior were Hispanic.  I loved those guys.  We had a blast and I was treated like family anytime I went over to any of their houses. 

One of our favorite things to do was walk to the Circle K convenience store, which was about 1/2 a mile away to spend our allowances on candy and play the arcade games there.  Around the time I was about 10 years old, things were starting to change around the neighborhood.  By then, several gangs had established themselves in Home Gardens, and the violence was getting worse.  There were shootings, drug deals, and drive-by's.  Gang fights were getting more and more common.  Some of the guys who lived right across the street from us had started a gang, and fights, drug deals, and shootings were getting to be a normal thing.  It was around this time, I started having trouble with other kids in the neighborhood.  Not any of the guys on our street, of course.  We all grew up together and "had each others backs", or whatever we thought that meant back then.  Problems occurred when I would leave my street.  I started hearing words like "Cracker", stupid White Boy, Whitey, and a slew of derogatory things in Spanish anytime I passed them.  I was made to feel unwelcome, and told that I didn't belong there.  At first, the problems were just verbal and intimidation.  It wasn't long before the fighting started though.  Getting "jumped" became a regular thing.  Getting into fights because I was White in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood turned into the norm.  Sometimes fights were fair, and it was just between 2 guys.  Usually one of them would come and initiate the fight, start pushing while the others encircled, and egged the aggressor on, and it would be fairly simple.  Just 2 guys who would push each other until one eventually hit the other.  Sometimes a few blows would fly, but these fights were usually over fairly quickly.  I usually took my beatings, and that was the end of that. 

I remember being scared to leave my street.  I remember trying to hide bruises from my parents.  I remember a lot of pent up anger building up inside of me, because I didn't understand why these other kids hated me so bad.  I didn't know them, and they didn't know me.  Why did they want to hurt me so bad, all of the time? 

There was one particular beating that stood out from the rest, however.  I believe I was either 10 or 11 years old at the time.  It was a hot Sunday afternoon, and my best friend Rod, my little Brother Steve, and I had decided to walk to the Circle K to spend our allowance.  I was wearing these black overalls that were shorts, instead of pants that I really liked.  We were bored and wanted to go get some candy and snacks to munch on for the rest of the day.  I should mention that we had been having some trouble with a particular little gang of Hispanic kids that lived somewhere in the neighborhood around this time as well.  Anytime they saw us, harassment would ensue.  Typically it was just verbal, and then we might get shoved around a little bit as well, but that was about it.  This day would be different.  We were inside the Circle K, Rod and I were checking out what candy we wanted to get, while Steve was playing an arcade game.  I heard the door bell rattle and noticed that these guys had come in.  There was somewhere between 8-12 of them altogether, including a couple of girls.  They were pretty loud as they entered, and immediately took notice of Steve playing his game, and proceeded to surround him and start picking on him.  Rod and I walked over and tried to stand close to him, as I'm sure we felt some sort of obligation to protect the little Brother in some way.  One of the girls in particular had singled Steve out, and was hitting the buttons while he was playing his game, until he lost and his game was over.  Steve was around 8-9 at the time, so he was pretty little.  These kids ranged from early to mid teenagers.  I am guessing because I remember they all had facial hair, and that made them seem a lot older to me back then.  Once Steve had lost his game, he was pretty mad, and the group of them were laughing and making a lot of ignorant comments about him and us.  While Steve was standing there fuming about his lost game, apparently he had clenched his fist at his side in anger, and one of the older guys had taken notice.  He immediately became more aggressive and started yelling and swearing and saying, "What white boy, you gonna hit my Sister..?"  He was right in Steve's face, so I stepped between them, and told Steve and Rod that we should go.  All this time, the Clerk did nothing to intervene.  As we started to walk outside, I felt a hard shove from behind, but continued to walk out the door, making sure to keep Steve and Rod in front of me, between these guys.  They followed us, loud and still swearing.  As we got out the door, my heart was pounding, and I knew a fight was inevitable.  Just then I felt someone slap the back of my head.  Without thinking anything else, I turned around and took a nice hard swing at the closest person to me, and clocked the kid right in the jaw.  Apparently this kid was the leader of their little gang, which meant my fate had been sealed.  I looked up just in time to see the tallest of the guys, who was a good foot and a half taller than me, take a swing at me.  I remember his fist coming down and connecting with my my mouth, and it was hard enough to knock me back into the wall of the Circle K, where my head whipped back and bounced off the wall.  I saw stars, and stumbled forward, only to apparently catch another hard punch to the side of my head and I was out.  Next thing I knew, I was being kicked repeatedly by a crowd of these guys, and I was trying to cover my face and head.  I started to push myself up off the gravel, only to be picked up and thrown across the parking lot.  Meanwhile, Rod had run back inside the store and was asking the Clerk for help.  This was all taking place directly in front of the store, and right outside the door.  The clerk did not call the police, or do anything from what I know.  After I got tossed across the parking lot, I lay there for a minute, until Rod came over and tried to help me up.  My lip was split from the first punch, my nose was bleeding, I had a small cut above my left eye, and my hands, elbows and knees were tore up and bleeding as well.  I remember that it hurt to breathe, and my stomach and chest hurt pretty bad.  With Rod's help I hopped as far as I could and we started to head home.  I remember blood dripping from my face and running down my legs.  Several times, I had to stop and sit down, but the gang of kids weren't too far behind us and continued to follow us all the home until we got to our street.  At some points I remember crawling because it hurt too much to walk.  Lots of cars passed, but no one stopped to help us.  I remember by then we were all crying as well.  It took us a while to get home, as it was about 1/2 a mile away, and when you are young, that seems a lot farther.

As soon as we walked into my house, my Mom heard us crying and came around the kitchen corner.  She took a look at me, and her eyes got REALLY big.  She was like a big pissed off Mama Bear, and I knew she wanted blood.  She told us all to get in our mini-van, and went looking to find these guys.  I had a rag pressed on my lip, to try to stop the bleeding, which I remember stung pretty bad.  Also my hands were shaking pretty bad, so it was hard to hold it there.  It wasn't long before she found them, since apparently they lived right a block away from our street, and were all outside in one of the guys front yard.  I saw them, and instantly had this fear that my Mom was going to go piss them off even more, and another beating would follow.  As my Mom screeched up in front of their house, I dropped down to the floor of the mini-van, in an effort to hide.  Also, I remember being a bit embarrassed, because it was a pretty terrible thing to be a snitch.  From the inside of the van, I could hear her yelling, and then a minute or two later, suddenly the van door swung open.  My Mom was standing there with what appeared to be another Mom, and the whole group of these guys.  My Mom pointed down to me with an angry finger, and declared,"Look what your boys did to my son!"  The other Mom looked down at my with big eyes and a look of shock.  I heard the one boy who was the leader kid I had punched start to say something in Spanish, and his Mom turned a strange color of red, then spun around and slapped him across the face harder than I have ever seen someone get slapped to this day.  He instantly shut up, then turned and walked away into his house.  We left and a little bit later I was taken to the Doctor, who stitched my lip, picked all the little pieces of gravel out of my hands, elbows, and knees, X-rayed my ribs, which weren't broken but apparently several of them were bruised.  He also said I had a mild concussion, which I assume was when my head bounced off the wall at the Circle K. 

I never saw or was troubled by that group of guys again.

Later the next day, I remember one of our neighbors, an older Hispanic man named Bob call me over to his garage where he was sitting.  He said he wanted to see what had happened to me.  As I walked up closer, he saw the damage and I remember him saying, "Damnit Cracker Boy!  What is your name Son?"  I told him it was James, to which he replied, "I am going to have to teach you how to fight back so that I don't have to keep seeing you bleed all over.  It ain't right."  Apparently Bob was a retired boxing couch, and he had some gloves and a couple of boxing bags set up in his garage.  After that, he taught me some basics of how to punch, and how to "work a bag".  From then on, things were a little different.

I still got in fights.  The difference was that now I could at least defend myself a little better.  From then on, I never fought the same guy twice.  Bob's philosophy was that if I was going to fight, I needed to make the other guy so sorry during the process that he never wanted to do it again.  It wasn't about winning or losing.  It was about defending myself, and not being the neighborhood punching bag anymore.  I remember quite a few trips to the Doctors, for sprained and broken fingers.  If you look at my fingers, you will see that nearly all of them are crooked.  All of my knuckles have scars, from getting cut on guys teeth or otherwise sharp facial features.  The thing about punching someone, is that it hurts.  It is not cool, like you see in the movies.  Fights typically didn't last long, and usually didn't last longer than a few punches thrown.  All it took was a good solid punch to the nose, and a fight was usually over. 

Eventually, the violence grew too much, and the shootings in our neighborhood, on our street, and directly in front of our house, persuaded my Mom to want to move elsewhere.  By then, my parents had separated, and were in the process of a divorce.  One particular incident involved a crazy guy who had bought my Dog.  Apparently he bought the dog to breed with his 2 females, and then tried to bring the dog back and demanded his money back.  My Mom had already spent the money, and explained to him that she couldn't do that right then.  He started screaming obscenities and pounding on our metal screen door saying how he was going to kill all of us and rape her.  Yes, I remember that.  I remember being scared, and getting my baseball bat, just in case he the door didn't keep him out.  Later that night, he came back, while we were all asleep.  Our neighbor Rudy saw him trying to climb through the front window of our house, which happened to be my bedroom.  He got his handgun, and then fired a shot to scare the guy off.  It wasn't long after that, that my parents agreed it just wasn't a safe neighborhood anymore, and in December of 1993, I moved with my Mom, Brother Steve, and little Sister Angie to Utah. 

I have personally experienced real racism.  Let me clarify though, and say that I am NOT racist.  I do not hate or have any bad feelings toward Hispanics.  Some of my best friends growing up were Hispanic or Latino.  What I don't like, are ignorant people who go out of their way to hurt other people.  After moving to Utah, I got in one more fight, while I was in 7th grade, and have never fought since.  I hate fighting.  I do not understand why people do it, and why people feel the need to put anyone else down for being different.  We are all different.  We are all unique.  Variety is what makes us unique and different.  No two people are the same.  What I have experienced first hand, is what some people refer to as "reverse racism".  There is so much hate and intolerance in the world today, and I see people lashing out at nearly any excuse that comes their way. 

A lot of my White friends who I grew up with in Corona, grew up and became skinheads.  I can understand why and what made them go that way, but it still makes me sad to see that cycle continue.  I am glad and thankful that I was able to escape that.  Apparently the year after we moved, a rival gang came through and executed all of the guys who were in the gang that lived on my street.  Even members of their families were killed. 

Do I have any reason to have "racist" feelings towards certain people because of what happened to me growing up?  Sure I do.  But I don't.  Like I've said,  some of the worst people that I've ever met are White.   Some are Hispanic.  Who cares what color your skin is?  Does it define who you are and what kind of person you are going to be?  I don't think so.  Our actions do that.  Our choices define what type of person we are choosing to be.  We all have the capacity to change.  My wish is that we would all stop judging each other.  Especially people we have never met, and know nothing about.  Just because I got cut off by an Asian guy, doesn't mean that all Asian's are bad drivers, or bad people.  Maybe he was just having a bad day.  I don't know what he had going on, and why he was in such a hurry.  Perhaps he had a very good reason for doing so, I will never know.  None of us will except for him.  Why does it have to be "the Asian guy" anyways?  Why not just the guy? 

Recently, I saw an interview of Morgan Freeman.  The interviewer was asking him his views on racism in America, and what should be done about it.  His response was perfect.  He simply said, "Stop talking about it."  The more we continue to make an issue of it, and talking about it, the longer it will stay an issue.  Why do we call Black people "African-Americans"?  Why not just call them Americans?  If you are a citizen of this country, then why is it important what color your skin is, or what gender you are, or what your preferences are?  Do those things define you?  I don't think so.  It should be your actions that define your character. 

Let's grow up America.

To spank or not to spank.

Today has been a rough day, to say the least.  Each day this week, Preslie has decided to be testy and do something naughty to get in trouble, which just isn't like her.  She has always been such an obedient, and good little girl.  I've always kind of imagined that it would happen sooner or later, but have been lucky thus far and blessed with a little angel.  The problem with this though, is that she has never really been in trouble, so I've never really had to punish her for anything. 

Earlier this week on Tuesday, I got off work and then went to pick her up from my Mom's house.  I told her that I wanted to take her to do something fun before it was bedtime, but we had to go to the store first.  When I pulled up at Costco, she got mad and said, "I don't want to go to the store!"  I told her we just had to pick one thing up really quick, and then would go do something fun afterwards.  She instantly went into a pout and told me that she wasn't going to go inside.  After I got out of the car, I walked over and opened her door, but she was still refusing to get out of the car.  Now let me mention right now, that if there is anything I REALLY don't like in this world, it is when a child talks back to their parents.  I stood there and told her she needed to get out of the car right now, to which she still sat defiantly and said NO, so I started to count to 3, which I also hate doing, and never really have to do with her.  When I got to 2, she said with a nice little sassy voice, "What are you gonna do?"

My eyes almost popped out of my head and I nearly slapped her little mouth.  No joke.  By the look of my face she knew that she went to far, and then instantly started to unbuckle herself and get out, but it was too late, I was nearly yelling at that point and telling her how I was going to spank her little butt if she ever talked back to me like that again.  Let me also interject here, and explain that I am not a pro-spanking parent.  I personally was never really spanked as a child, and don't think it should be necessary. 

Up until today, I have never spanked her.

When I got off work, I headed over to my Mom's as usual to pick up Preslie.  When I arrived, I walked into a situation where apparently Preslie had asked her Grandma to get her a roll with some butter, and then after she got it, decided that it tasted funny and wasn't going to eat it.  This may sound a bit silly, but apparently it wasn't the first time today that she had asked for something specific to eat, and then didn't want to eat it afterwards, so my Mom was a little mad at this point.  Grandma decided that to make a point, Preslie wasn't allowed to leave the table until she had finished eating this roll.  Meanwhile, I had had an especially long day at work today, and was anxious to get home.  I sat down at the table, and it took Preslie 1/2 an hour to finish eating this little roll, I kid you not.  Worst of all, she was totally being sassy about it and throwing a fit about it the entire time, which was just really making me more mad, as I was embarrassed to see her act that way, especially towards her Grandma.  Finally, she finished eating it, and then stormed off down the hall, still full of attitude. 

I got up from the table and went to find her so I could sit her down and have a talk with her about it, but then I couldn't find her.  I looked EVERYWHERE in the house, and still couldn't find her.  Finally, myself, my Mom, and my Grandpa were all running around the house calling for her and still couldn't find her, so I looked outside.  First the backyard, then the Front yard.  My Mom was outside asking the neighbor if he had seen her come outside, and when I still couldn't find her, I panicked and started walking up the street to see if she had ran off. 

Finally, my Grandpa found her hiding behind one of the couches, and signalled for me to come back.  By then, I was seeing red, and was SO angry, that I knew I was going to spank her.  When I went inside, I found her still hiding behind the couch, so I yelled at her to come out, and then picked her up and carried her downstairs.  By then she was already crying, because I'm sure she knew that she was in serious trouble and was scared.  When I got downstairs, I put her down and gave her a really quick spank on the butt, but it was certainly not a soft spank.  By then she was in full blown tears and sniffles, and just stood there crying and looking at me in disbelief. I was a little surprised myself.  At that point, I took her and put her in the car, and then drove home.  Upon arriving, I told her that she was going straight to bed.  I walked her inside and then made her put on her pajamas, and then brush her teeth, and then had her get into her bed. 



I really hope that she has learned her lesson, and that I don't have to spank her again.  I hated the way it made me feel, and I hated seeing her that sad.  Ugh.  Worst parenting day ever.  :(

It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted a motorcycle.  Not just any motorcycle of course, but a Harley Davidson.  I will go out on a limb and say that my obsessions came about with the movie Terminator II.  Anyone who has seen the movie, knows exactly what I'm talking about.  I believe the bike that Arnold rides in that movie was a Softail Fatboy.  It was glorious. 

To make it worse, my Dad has always talked about them.  To be more specific, he has always wanted one as well.  When my parents divorced, I was about 12 years old, and I moved with my Mom, younger Brother, and younger Sister to Utah.  We had just come from Southern California, and it was a rough move for me to say the least.  I left everything that I knew behind me.  Around this time, my Dad had started sending me post cards with a letter / message on the back.  These post cards, of course, were Harley Davidson post cards.  Each one I received was a different year or model of a Harley.  This sealed my infatuation and love for these bikes. 

Over the next decade or so of my teenage years, I grew to love the "Bobber" style motorcycles.  There was a number of different times in my life that I put serious thought into buying a bike, but the timing was never right.  I almost even bought one while I was married and living in Idaho.  It wasn't a Harley, but I still thought it was a hot bike.  But yet again, the timing wasn't right.  It didn't happen. 

Like my Dad, I always tended to have a nagging sense of what was practical and what wasn't.  Being married, I always felt like buying a motorcycle just wasn't practical.  It always seemed that I had more important things that I needed to do with my money, and so, it never happened. 

Things have changed.  I'm not married anymore.  I'm single, I have a great job and am making decent money, and now I have a lot more free time on my hands.  Over the past couple of years, a lot has changed in my life, and I've had to sort of reinvent myself.  I've had to do a lot of soul searching, and in a sense, feel like I've started over in life.  At times, this has been pretty disappointing.  I've felt like I sacrificed everything for my family previously, and now, I don't really have anything to show for it.  I have my Daughter, of course, but I don't have anything else to show for all my hard work.  I want to do something for myself finally, and make that dream a reality. 

Why shouldn't I have a bike?  I can't think of any reason why at this point.  I've heard the arguments about how safe motorcycles are, or aren't for that matter.  I'm not looking for danger necessarily, but I am OK with it.  Come what may.  I figure that if it's my time to go, then it's my time to go.  There are plenty of other "unsafe" things we expose ourselves to in life.  I am not going to let that kind of fear stop me.

The next issue has been, not finding the right bike.  I recently fell in love with a particular Harley, and have lusted after it ever since.  This bike is the Iron 883, Harley Davidson Sportster.  Matte Black.  It's the new hotness.  I went down to the Timpanogos Harley Davidson store recently to take a better look, and still loved it.  The only real issue was that at 6 ft. tall, and weighing in around 210 lbs, I am a little too big for that model.  The bike is just a little too small for me.  It's still pretty powerful, but it is just physically too small for me.  It really bummed me out too, because I absolutely loved the look of the bike.

Recently, I started looking at different bikes again, and finally found one that I think fits me better, and I still really love.  It's still a Sportster, but not the Iron 883 model.  This one is called the Nightster.  It's basically the same body as the Iron 883, but on a 1200 engine.  There are of course other differences, but all in all, I really love it.  It will be mine.  Oh yes, it will be mine.  Again, it is all about timing.  I would love to get it this year, but it's just not in the cards.  I've got a few other things to take care of and resolve first.  But next year will be my year.  This is of course barring any unforeseen travesties that will require better application of my budget.  I am crossing my fingers that things finally pan out this year, and that I am able to pull it off and finally get my bike. 

These are of course just a few examples of course of some different custom options for the Nightster.  I seriously LOVE this bike though.  Next year will be my year.  :)



Spiders.....

I am not afraid of spiders.  I can't say that I really care for them at all though either.  I say, as long as they stay out of my things and away from me, the two of us can get along just fine.  Just a few weeks ago, I had a fairly unpleasant experience with a particularly ambitious spider.

So a few weeks back, I woke up around the same usual time, and went to do the same thing I usually do when I first roll out of bed.  Piss.  Now, I'm sure that any guy can appreciate this next Q&A.

One of two things happens every time I wake up and head into the bathroom.  I realize that only #1 is sending alerts, and then proceed to lift toilet seat and stand there while I release the Kraken.

The other possibility is that you realize #1 and #2 are staking claims, and then take a seat to relieve both at the same time. 

Now, as fate would have it on this cold and semi-dark morning, only #1 was required, so I lifted the seat, and then proceeded to engage.  Not a second after I had a full stream going, I noticed with sleepy crusty eyes a spider the size of a quarter drop down directly in front of my face.  It bungee'd right on down and landed right on the top underside of the upturned toilet seat.  If I had sat down for that particular mornings ritual, that bloody spider would have been right on my head, and possibly even my lap. 

My suspicion is that this spider had waited all night long for my return, and it was fate that kept us apart on that fine morning. 

James 1......Spiders 0.

It was a close call, but I have to admit that now, I find myself looking up at the ceiling every time I am about to take care of business in the bathroom.

Just a few things to laugh at...

My nerdy coworkers have ruined me.  Never before would I have ever laughed at the majority of these.  But now, they provide endless laughter and amusement.  Today, I really needed a good laugh, and stumbled on to some of these and had to share. 

Outlook.......dismal.

So I read through this book about Low Back Pain published by the Harvard Medical School over the weekend.  It goes into detail about herniated discs, how they happen, what they are exactly, and possible things you can do to treat them and or prevent them.

I'm a little bit past the preventing part, so we'll move along to the treatment part.

It goes into detail about the different surgical options you have, depending on the type and severity of your herniated disc and location.  My Dr. had mentioned that they would probably need to remove the entire affected disc and then fuse those 2 vertebrae together.  I thought it would be good to find out a little more about that.  There is definitely a lot of risk involved with the procedure, and it says to expect to lose approximately 20-30% of your range of spinal motion.  Outlook = Bad.  It also goes on to say that depending on which method is used for the spinal fusion process, that it can take about 6 months for the fusion to become complete.  Typically you're looking at 4-9 months of total recovery time. 

FML

Reading this has definitely ruined any kind of positive attitude I had remaining at this point.  I have no idea how things are going to turn out now long term based on this new information.

What I do know is that the pain has steadily increased and come back full force within a few days of my last epidural shot that I had about a week and a half ago.  I'm supposed to go back for a followup visit with that Dr this Friday, where he will determine if they will do another epidural shot or schedule a surgery consultation and move towards that route.  It's definitely looking like the surgery is going to happen, as I don't feel like any progress is being made thus far. 

It feels about as awesome as this picture looks.  Besides the whole muscle pain in my lower back, I also have this awesome nerve pain starting in my left butt cheek and extending all the way down nearly into my foot on the left side.  Pain is also starting to move into the right side as well.  It's really awesome.  It's not the kind of pain that dulls out either, it stays constant and is distracting to say the least.  So far I have refused any heavy pain killers, and just kept with the muscle relaxer 3 times a day, and Ibuprofen. 

To say that this is stressing me out right now is an understatement.  I am totally freaked out about all of this and my stress levels are peaked.  I just wish that Friday would hurry and come and that perhaps some miracle will present itself and the Dr. will decide that I don't need the surgery after all.  Crossing my fingers.