I'm always making deals with God: "Lord, I don't care what you do to me, but please, keep my son safe and free from tribulation. If someone if my family must die, make it me. If someone in my family must be sick, make it me. If someone in my family must suffer frustration and disruption, let it me me."

Last night, my son got into a car accident, his first in five years. A girl abruptly stopped short on an exit ramp and he plowed into her. "Oops!" was all she had to say about her sudden stop. She was driving something large and bulky, he was driving a Honda Civic. She barely realized anything had happened, he had no doubt at all. They decided not to bring the cops into it, civilly exchanged names and insurance info, and went on their way. When my son called, Dan took the call, and I could tell by his voice it was bad news. I lowered the TV and demanded, "WHAT HAPPENED?" "It was your fault," I heard my husband say, "all your fault for tailgating." Did he even ask if Brad was all right? I wondered. Dan kept asking Brad to come home, but our son belongs to a bowling league and wanted to finish up the night to be fair to his teammates.

I called Brad make to make sure he was all right. He bitterly said his father seemed more concerned about blame and damage than whether or not HE had suffered any damage. I made lame excuses. Sometimes people just don't do or say the right thing, even those who love us the most.

When Brad got home, he spent a long time on the phone with a customer service rep from GEICO, providing not only his information, but the information he'd gotten from the girl earlier that evening. Both kids have GEICO insurance, which I guess makes things easier.

They're going to see an adjuster at GEICO this morning, then continue on to an auto body shop, then probably to rent a car for as many days as it takes to fix Brad's car. While Brad slept and Dan ran out to run a few errands and buy breakfast sandwiches this morning (his version of "making breakfast"), I received a call from the father of the girl who had been in last night's accident with Brad. He asked if Brad had told us about the accident, which struck me as odd. Does his daughter normally hide such things from her parents? We assured each other that our kids were fine, commiserated over the fact that they hadn't called a cop to the scene, comforted each other, "What're ya gonna do?--kids are kids!" He said he would also call their insurance company and we heartily agreed it was good that there were no injuries in either car. Of course, I was trying to gauge his voice to figure out if his daughter and her passengers are going to claim whiplash in a few days and try to sue us. Hopefully not. But unfortunately, such things happen. The fact that he was only following up on the accident this morning when Brad called our insurance company last night tells me it wasn't a big deal to his daughter.

Brad is upset because he's missing his usual basketball game with his friends this morning and had to pass on a birthday party last night. Dan and I told him, "Shit happens." He doesn't seem to like that response. I told him I don't like the giant rack of pimples on my ass. He suggested it was a family thing. "No," I assured him, "it's a happens-to-everyone thing."

Sigh.

Everyone is telling me that it would really help me get rid of my shingles if I get rid of my stress.

Now, my friends, how the hell do I get rid of my stress?????????

Love, Robin

PS - God, I said no disruption in my son's life! Which word didn't you understand?

Last week, I was told I had anemia. Yesterday, the doctor examined the back and front of me and said, "You have shingles."

"SHINGLES?" I cried. "Isn't that like. . .adult chicken pox? I never had chicken pox as a kid."

"Well, you've sort of got them now," she said.

"Aw shit," I said, thinking, why me??

She gave me an anti-viral prescription, apparently made just for shingles, and told me what to do about the painful, ugly pustules that had formed on my left ass cheek and trailed down the back of my left thigh. Sitting was becoming downright impossible, and even the touch of my panties against those grotesque eruptions hurt like a bitch. She assured me the condition wasn't contagious and warned me that, even after the illness and pustules had disappeared, nerve pain might linger--for months. Oh, frabjous joy, what MIGHT happen to others almost ALWAYS happens to me. I'm just unlucky that way!

I stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home to get my prescription filled and to pick up a few groceries. I wasn't feeling well at all, and just wanted to go home and rest.

Once home, my dogs rallied round, as they always do, and I let them out to do their business in our backyard. The mail was heavy, but I only gave it a cursory glance. I made phone calls to work, to Dan, and spread the bad news. I didn't take one sick day all last year, and yesterday I took two hours sick leave and eight more today. If I don't feel well Monday, I'll take that day off, too. I have the sick leave built up to over 1500 hours; why not use it if I need it? I have a doctor's note, right? I know a chicken pox vaccine came out in the mid 90's, and wish someone had told me to take it. I don't know if it would have prevented this, but I sure would have been willing to try. This is the herpes zoster virus, much like a cold sore, and it haunts you for the remainder of your life. That's what I need, a virus that sticks around in my system and periodically comes out to play. What did I do in a previous life that was so terrible, anyway?

Hope your week is going better than mine, folks, I really do!

Love, Robin

If disgusting images disturb you, you might want to skip this entry. For the past week, I've endured a rapidly-growing, ugly rash on my womanly mound and on my left buttock. Only my left ass cheek, God knows why. The mound rash itches; the other one hurts. Sitting is painful, so I'm tilting to the right, listing like a sinking ship.

Now what?

I visited my doctor less than a week ago, and had to call today to make another appointment. She isn't available, however; she's leaving at 1 PM and has a full calendar of appointments, so I'm seeing a different doctor, another woman. That's good, since I'm going to be exposing my vagina and huge ass to this stranger. It's easier to do that with a female. I don't know who she is, but I'll bet she's skinny and will make me feel like a rhino to her ballerina.

Sigh.

First it's anemia, now it's a rash. What is the matter with me? I know this rash started BEFORE I started taking iron pills (which I've taken without difficulty before) and a new drug, Topamax, prescribed for me by a neurologist, but which my PCP just gave her OK for me to take. I started both the iron and Topamax on the same day, but I felt these pustules, or whatever is growing on my ass, when I was sitting and talking to my PCP last Friday, which means they were already in progress before any of the drugs entered my system. Is this connected to the anemia? Did I eat something I'm allergic to?

Now I have to see a doctor who doesn't know my history. I'm not thrilled about that. I guess I'll just have to fill her in.

I can't wait to leave. Whatever this is on my left cheek really hurts, pressed against my chair.

Later!

A postal employee shot and killed five co-workers, then turned the gun on herself--six dead. A man allowed a dog he had adopted at a shelter to starve to death. Both headlines upset me, but the the latter is the one haunting me. Yes, I work for the Postal Service, but I grieve more for a dog than I do for six people. Why? Because, as I've mentioned before, I prefer animals to people.

I'm sorry of I offend anyone. Of course, I felt terrible for Nixzmary, the poor little girl tortured and murdered by her parents a couple of weeks ago. I feel sorry for all children who die dreadful, needless deaths. Nixzmary should have been protected by SOMEONE in her world, but everyone--relatives, agencies, her school--dropped the ball.

That dog died by starvation. Adopted by this man as a gift for his daughter, it was penned up, starved, given no water. I think of that poor, helpless creature being consumed by its own body, slowly, in agony. Did anyone try to come to its aid? Why didn't anyone intervene until the poor thing was already dead?

Crime and punishment:

Let this man, this dog-killer, be starved to death, too. Let him know how it feels to have the outside of his body be eaten by his insides, desperately searching for nourishment, for water, for any sustenance to stay alive.

Let Nixzmary's parents, child-murderers, be starved and tortured to death, as their daughter was. Let them feel pain ripping through their bodies, blood pouring from their wounds.

I feel so sick inside. I want to cry in rage at people who do not revere life in any of its forms, who toss it away without care or love.

I don't have the entire story, yet, on what happened at that California postal facility. I've worked for the USPS for 26 years, and while I've felt frustrated and angry at times, I've never wanted to kill. One has to ask: Does the Postal Service create killers, or just bring out killing instincts in already-unstable individuals?

Don't tell me it's cruel to treat these killers as they have treated others. I don't agree. An eye for an eye might just make others think before repeating such crimes.

I can only hope.

I've been married to Dan for 27 years. For as long as I've known him, two things have been evident--he expects excellent customer service and his nickname is "Coupon King."

We use coupons as often as possible. If I suggest a restaurant, he'll ask, "Do we have a coupon?", and if the answer is no, even if that meal will cost 99 cents, he still hesitates about going there. He prefers free food, as in buy one get one free, or just walk in and get a freebie.

We recently purchased a laptop computer for our son for his college graduation, birthday (the next several), Groundhog Day, Memorial Day, July 4th present (it was quite expensive). Armed with every possible bell and whistle, he was promised half a dozen rebates with those very expensive purchases. The instructions for GETTING those rebates were as complex as the US Constitution with all addendums, and I now know exactly why--THEY DON'T WANT TO SEND YOU THE DAMN REBATES!!

First, they claim the US Postal Service didn't get these rebate forms to them (unwise, since I work for the PO and know friggin' well we don't lose as much mail as everyone gives us credit for). Little do they know that Dan keeps copies of EVERYTHING, so he can send it all again, with tracking and return receipt requested, just so they can't claim not to have received it again! Then, however, they insist Dan didn't order his item from "the proper web site." Given that no web site was indicated on any of the paperwork, this excuse doesn't hold up, either! Time will go by, no check will be forthcoming, and Dan will call. . .and call. . .and call. He will speak to peons, and when they yammer away about incorrect web sites and postal errors, Dan will demand supervisors. . .higher up supervisors. . .managers. . .company presidents. . .George Bush himself. . .

Because, you see, my husband is relentless, and when he believes he is being screwed over, he gets angry, and he will not give up his quest to get his rebate, whether it is a dollar, 10 dollars or 60 dollars. So, if any of you folks from Toshiba are reading this, you have been warned--Dan will NOT stop until you are a blubbering mass of humanity. Give him his rebate check, now. It will be so much easier on all of us.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I have something else to tell you about Dan--his poop kills toilets. Not only that, he's PROUD that his poop kills toilets. He likes to stuff up plumbing, stink up bathrooms, turn strange bathrooms into toxic dump sites. It's frightening. But I'm saving that scary tale for another entry. Get your clothespins and gather 'round.

Love, Robin