Jeff isn’t my real name, and none of the other names are, either. You’ll see why. Usually, I keep my mouth shut tight about my work, but I’m stuck in something way out of my depth and need help. If any of you can tell me how to get out this alive and in one piece, I’d be greatly in your debt. Here’s the situation.
I hadn’t had a job in a little over a month. My last score had actually been pretty good, but I’d paid for too many rounds and hadn’t had the best luck at craps. I was down to my last five hundred bucks, so a couple of weeks ago, I quietly started getting the word out that I was available to work again.
I’m not a heavy. I don’t carry a gun, and I don’t rough people up. I’m a safecracker. I used to be an honest locksmith years ago, but that’s a 50-hour-a-week drudge. Nowadays, I put in eight or nine hours on a job, and the rest of the month is mine.
Anyway, last week, I was enjoying a pint with a few of the boys at an Irish pub downtown. Ben, the bartender, gave me a look when he poured my second pint, and I knew what that meant. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and saw that Ben was already in the back alley.
“How badly do you want to work?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I could use a job. What’s the problem?”
“There’s a guy I know. Friend of a friend. I can’t vouch for him personally, and, to be honest, he’s weird. But my friend says he’s solid. Always pays well. Jobs go off without a hitch.”
“Weird how?”
Ben looked away from me and pursed his lips. He shook his head. “I don’t know. He just gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Really?” I smirked. “The heebie-jeebies?”
“Hey, fuck you. See for yourself. He’s looking for a good safecracker, and he’s sitting in the corner alone. Orange hoodie. Can’t miss him. If it goes bad, don’t blame me. I warned you.”
He opened the door to the bar. “And I’d better get my finder’s fee.” Ben shut the door, hard.
Just as Ben said, he was hard to miss. Bright orange hoodie, dirty jeans, and a Tampa Bay Buccaneers baseball cap. He was chubby, and wore an ugly class ring with a false ruby on his left hand. I sat down.
“You’re the guy, huh?” he said.
“Ben said you need a locksmith.”
“That I do. He said you’re skilled, you keep your mouth shut, and you follow directions. Is that right?”
I was beginning to understand what Ben meant. I couldn’t tell you why I felt the way I did, but the more he spoke, the more I felt my skin crawl.
“That’s right. What have you got in mind?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
I did not want to be alone with this guy. But I also knew that I was going to run out of money in about a week, and I didn’t have any other prospects. So, I stood up and left the bar with him, shooting a look at my buddies to come look for me if I wasn’t back soon. We walked down a nearly deserted side street, and he gave me the details.
It was crazy. The joint he had in mind was a jewelry store downtown. I knew it. Nothing too pricy, but they didn’t sell zircons, either. He wanted me to put a black bag over my head and walk inside during business hours. A black bag with no eyeholes. He said that once I was inside, he’d tell me the rest.
“This is your plan?” I said, quietly. “You and Ben can go fuck yourselves. I’m a professional, and I don’t put up with practical jokes.”
He gave me a shit-eating grin while he reached into the pocket of his hoodie. For a second, I thought he was going to knife me, so I backed away. But it was just a lighter.
Then he was gone. Vanished.
A light tap on my shoulder nearly made me cry out. It was him. Behind me.
“You need me to show you anything else? I’m not sure you’d like it, but I can be more impressive if you still need convincing.”
I was too rattled to do anything but shake my head.
“Tomorrow at noon, then. The park across the street from the store?”
I stammered a yes.
“Good. I’ll bring the bag. You bring your tools. You’ll like the split.” And he named a figure so large it just about made me choke.
He continued down the street, while I doubled back for another round of beers. I gave Ben a wad of cash for his trouble.
“What the fuck did you get me into, Ben?”
He just shrugged and went back to polishing pint glasses.
The next morning, I examined and cleaned my tools, though they didn’t really need cleaning, and triple checked that I had everything I’d need. Satisfied, I put on my lucky shirt, a genuine Sandy Koufax jersey from his 1965 season. Years ago, we hit some rich douchebag who was into sports memorabilia, and I took it as part of my share. It hasn’t failed me yet. I put a jacket on over the jersey, grabbed my tools and left to go meet Mr. Black Bag.
He was sitting on a bench in a small park cattycorner from the jewelry store, wearing the same clothes as the day before. I sat down next to him and opened a newspaper I’d bought on the way over. For a few minutes, we said nothing. Then, he placed a large black bag and an old-fashioned key beside him. Without looking at me, he began to speak.
“I’m going to get up and go into the store,” he said, calmly and deliberately. “When I enter, count to 20, walk briskly to the entrance, and pull the bag over your head. Bring the key. I’ll direct you verbally to the safe when you’re inside.”
With that, he got up and crossed the street, as casually as a man going out for coffee and a bun.
I didn’t see him put on a mask before he entered, which worried me, because I knew there were guards and cameras inside. A couple of years ago, I’d cased this place myself, and security was tight. Without someone on the inside, we didn’t see how it could work, so we abandoned the idea.
I started counting. Every bone in my body wanted to ditch this job, but Ben had vouched for this creep, mostly, and he’d never steered me wrong before. Besides, if I left, my reputation would be trashed, and it wasn’t out of the question I’d get two behind the ear. And with this head case? Maybe worse than that. In any case, I didn’t hear any alarms or commotion, and it was too late to pull out now.
I reached twenty, took a deep breath and crossed the street. I glanced furtively to my left and right. It didn’t seem that anyone was paying attention to me, so I pulled the bag over my head – it was made of rough cotton and smelled like old socks – and slipped inside.
The store was deathly silent. I could feel the presence of other people, but they didn’t seem to be moving and certainly weren’t making any noise. I’m not even sure they were breathing, but that might be because my own breath was so loud inside the bag. It was hot, and I felt gooseflesh rising on my arms and neck.
“Four steps forward, turn to your right 90 degrees, and straight ahead for 12 more paces. That will bring you to the counter. Take your time. There’s no hurry.”
I tried not to piss myself and cautiously did as he said. I hated walking blind, but his directions were good. I could feel the gate that led behind the counter.
“Open it. Three paces forward and you’ll be at the door to the back office. It will be empty. Close the door behind you, and remove the bag. You’ll see the safe. Make sure the key is touching your skin the entire time while you open it.”
As I opened the gate and walked to the door, he continued to give instructions.
“Take only the purple sack, and close the safe back up. Do not open the sack. Make sure you do not open the door or even look through the window to the showroom without the bag covering your head again.”
As soon as I closed the office door behind me, I took that god-awful bag off my head and took a deep breath of clean air.
The office was small and sparsely furnished. A wooden desk with a landline phone, a floor lamp that was turned on, and a bookshelf packed with gemology references decades out of date.
Plus, a safe. A large top-of-the-line safe.
I couldn’t crack a safe with one hand, so I shoved the key into my sock. Crazy, I know, but with this guy, I wasn’t going to take any chances. Not yet, anyway. Someone had doodled all around the dial with a permanent marker, which was strange, but it was easier to open than I’d expected. It took just ten minutes. The safe didn’t make a sound as I opened it.
For a moment, I couldn’t do anything but stare. I’d expected to see jewelry, cash, loose stones, maybe even drugs or a few guns. But there wasn’t any of that.
The safe was full of junk. I didn’t look through it all, but what I saw made me uneasy: Monopoly pieces carved out of bone, sepia prints of children with their mouths open far too wide, what looked like an Elvis Presley death mask, a stack of quarters with Washington’s eyes scratched out ... you get the idea. The worst, though? The worst was a pile of crayon drawings of the 9/11 attacks. Even though they were clearly done by kindergartners, they felt more vivid and horrible than actual photos from the scene.
After a couple of minutes of searching, I found it: a purple Crown Royal sack with the cords cinched shut. I closed the safe and glanced toward the door. It was on the right-hand wall, so I couldn’t see into the showroom, but a sickly glow shone in through the window in the door. It made me feel lightheaded.
Maybe it was the light that made me do it, or maybe I just wanted to see how far this freak show went. Either way, I know what gemstones feel like, and this sack wasn’t filled with jewels.
“Fuck it,” I said and sat down at the desk to open the sack.
I can still hardly believe what was inside. The sack was full of colorless glass marbles, and each one contained the roughly sawed-off head of an action figure: GI Joe, My Little Pony, Star Wars and a bunch of others I didn’t recognize.
I couldn’t imagine he was going to all this trouble for flea-market garbage, so I looked closer, figuring this had to be some kind of a scheme for smuggling. Maybe the marbles melted down into drugs? Or were some kind of explosive? Some kind of spy shit, maybe?
That’s when I started and almost tipped over the desk chair. Every single one of those sawed-off doll heads was facing up. I’d swear I’d seen those heads turn to stare directly at me.
I closed the sack, went to the door, and pulled the black bag over my head, my heart pounding. When I entered the showroom, the guy asked if I’d gotten it, and I nodded. He directed me to the front door, and told me to remove the black bag without turning around. He’d meet me in the park shortly.
Five minutes after I sat down on the bench, he joined me.
“You got it?”
I handed him the Crown Royal sack, the black bag and the key.
“You didn’t open it, did you?”
“Of course not. When do I get my end?”
“Right now,” and he handed me a manila envelope stuffed with enough cash to last me at least six months. I couldn’t believe he’d do this out in public, but no one paid us any mind. I stashed it in my tool bag.
“You did well. If I need you again, I’ll let Ben know.”
And with that, he stood up and walked away.
It was nearly 12:30 pm, and I needed a beer and a burger. Several beers, actually. On my way out of the park, I glanced back at the jewelry store. Customers were going in and out of the front door as if nothing had happened.
I sat down at my favorite bar and grill and tried to catch the bartender’s attention, but she was with another customer. I dug in my pocket to find my phone while I waited.
Instead of pulling out my phone, though, I pulled out one of those marbles. Embedded in its center was the head of some weird Japanese manga character. Huge eyes with a little grin on its face. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl.
I knew I had left every one of those marbles in the sack. I’d never even picked any up. I stepped outside, dropped it down a sewer gate, and took my seat again, wiping the cold sweat off my forehead.
The bartender was standing directly in front of me.
“You look nervous, honey. Something wrong?”
“Just hungry. Probably coming down with something. Give me a burger and whatever’s good on tap.”
She didn’t move.
“What are you looking at? I said a burger and a beer.”
She smiled, and said, “What’s your name again?”
“Jane, I’ve been in here twice a week for years. What kind of game are you playing?”
“Just feeling flirty,” she said, not flirty at all.
I ate the burger and drank the beer, but everything had felt so wrong today, including Jane, I decided to skip a second beer and go home. I had beer in my fridge.
When Jane brought the tab, I laid down a twenty, and she glared at me.
“Not paying with a card?”
“Jane, what the fuck? I always pay cash. What do you care?”
Her face turned mean, and she grabbed my wrist with a strength I didn’t expect.
“Why did you steal from me?’ she hissed, so close to my face, I could feel the spittle hitting my cheeks. “You do not want me to visit you in person. Give me your name.”
I broke away and ran out into the street, knocking down an old man with a cane. I apologized, profusely, and helped steady him with my arm. But as I brought him to his feet, he grabbed my neck, choking me.
“Who hired you? I will have the flesh chewed off your bones if you do not tell me. I couldn’t see your master, but I know someone with power was there.”
I kneed the old man in the groin, and he doubled over in pain. People on the sidewalk gasped. One young guy tried to be a hero, chasing after me, but I’ve been chased before and lost him after a couple of blocks. Thankfully, we didn’t run into any cops. I chalked that up to my lucky jersey.
I had a nasty bruise on my neck and didn’t want to see anyone else at this point, so I took back alleys and crossed a vacant lot to my building. When I reached my floor, my mobile started ringing. I stepped inside my apartment and answered. It was Ben.
“That guy called. He sounds pissed off. The fuck did you do?”
“I did the job. He paid me. It’s done.”
“Well, he’s shitting a brick. Said that you’d better call him or he’d take it out on me. Call him. Now.”
Ben gave me a number and hung up before I could say anything more.
What could I do? I called him.
“You looked, you idiot. You opened the bag! There’s only 39 marbles, and there’s supposed to be 40. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Marbles? What are you talking about? I didn’t look. It was none of my business.”
“You’re a terrible liar. Look, we can work this out. Tell me where you live and what it looks like.”
“What do you mean what it …”
“The face. Tell me what the face in the marble looks like. Give me your address, and I can take care of it.”
“Are you crazy? A face? What the hell did you have me steal?”
He went quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, it was in a different tone. Friendly, almost.
“Ok, fine. Maybe there were just 39 in the sack. Tell me what else was in the safe.”
I was a little shaken by the sudden change of tone, but I started to tell him anyway. The Monopoly pieces, the mask, the photos, the drawings … and then I shut up, because I suddenly knew what he was up to.
That weirdo was tracing my location. I opened the back of my mobile and removed the battery.
I was just thinking what a chore it would be to circulate a new number when I heard, “C’mon my lovely little locksmith. Did you think you’d get rid of me that easily? It’ll be easier for you if you stay put.”
The battery was in my right hand and the phone was in my left, but he was still talking to me through the device. Without hesitation, I opened the window and dropped both of them four stories to the concrete. I didn’t wait to see them smash before I started packing a bag.
As I packed, I noticed a bulge in the outer pocket of my suitcase. Thinking I might have forgotten some toiletries from my last trip, I unzipped it up and reached inside. It wasn’t soap or a mini-bottle of shampoo. It was the marble. Again.
As I held it, those huge manga eyes turned slowly in their non-existent sockets to stare at me. It was no longer smiling.
I got a mallet and pounded the marble on a cutting board until it shattered. I flushed the glass down the toilet and melted the plastic head in a cast iron pan. It smelled horrible. As I jogged to my car, I tossed the pan in a sidewalk garbage can.
Ten hours later, I was in a room at a Motel 6 in the middle of nowhere, playing solitaire on a wobbly desk in the corner. The TV was on, but I wasn’t watching. I just wanted the white noise.
I heard something clank and looked up. The door latch had flipped open, and the doorknob was turning. I stood up and grabbed the desk lamp. Not much of a weapon, but it’d have to do.
He walked inside, still wearing that hideous orange hoodie, and closed the door as if the room belonged to him. The television made a popping sound and went black. The overhead light faded to nothing. I felt my stomach drop and muttered curses under my breath.
“I’m sorry to do this. Really, I am. But you opened yourself up to her by opening that bag, and she can get to me through you. It won’t hurt, though. I promise you that. You won’t feel a thing.”
As he spoke, he removed things from his pockets. In his right fist, he held a lighter. In the other, a gnarled human hand with wicks coming out of each of the fingers and the thumb. They were melted halfway down. I don’t know how, but I was certain this wasn’t a replica. It was real or, at least, it had been, once.
As he lit it, a pale light painted the room the color of bile, growing stronger as each wick caught fire. Once his grisly candelabra was fully illuminated, he put the lighter away and, with a look of disgust on his face, drew a large knife. I stood, frozen.
He walked towards me, but stopped abruptly a couple of feet from where I stood, grimacing. He tried to walk forward again, but was stopped a second time, as if he’d run into a wall of glass. I think it was then he realized that the sickly light from his candle didn’t quite fill the room. It stopped at the edge of a circle made of sand.
You see, about nine hours earlier, I’d stopped at a McDonald’s off the highway for some coffee and decided to look through my old road atlas while I waited in line at the drive-thru. But instead of grabbing the atlas from the glove box, I brought back that same marble for a third time. The manga head looked like it was snarling at me, and I could see fangs in its mouth.
I wanted to cry, but after a minute of pounding on the steering wheel while screaming, I regained my composure and accepted that running was pointless. One of these two freaks would find me eventually.
When the garbled voice from the drive-thru speaker gave me one last chance to tell her who had hired me, the choice was simple. She wanted him, and he almost certainly wanted me dead. I came clean and made a deal with her.
She told me the words I needed, and I stopped at a Kmart to buy the materials. A 25-pound bag of play sand was all they had, but the Elmo doll on the endcap told me it would work just fine.
Continuing the circle under the bed and the other furniture was a pain in the ass, and I was terrified that he would break it when he entered the room, but he didn’t. Just as she instructed, I’d left the marble on the desk so she could find him.
He begged me to free him as I shimmied around the edge of the motel room, careful to stay outside the circle. As I climbed over the bed with my back against the wall, he pleaded with me not to leave him there for her, but I ignored him. I knew that even if he screamed, she’d make sure no one did anything before she arrived, and she’d said she’d clean up once she was finished. Nothing would be traced back to me. Besides, I was 100 percent certain he’d still kill me if I let him go.
This morning, I received a box in the mail, no return address. Inside was a bright orange hoodie that looked as if it had been half devoured by moth larvae. It was covered in rusty stains. I put on a pair of gloves and dropped the hoodie in the trash. I’ll burn it later.
Underneath were two more objects. The first was a waxy, severed hand with unburnt wicks sticking out of each digit. An ugly class ring burrowed deep into one of the fingers. I guess she couldn’t get it off.
The other was a handwritten note on flowered stationary. It smelled faintly of lilac.
“I’ll be in touch. We have so much work to do.”

A pile of Christmas trash

I want to share a slightly lighter, comical story about my utterly batshit crazy mother and my family's holiday experience at her house.
As a background, we have in the past been NC or VLC and currently riding at low-ish contact and mostly faked friendliness. I stay in touch because she's the only link I have to my low-functioning autistic brother and she isn't actively hurting me or my loved ones -- right now. But she has always hated my now husband and has only very recently regularly acknowledged that he or my stepchildren exist and aren't going away. This probably has something to do with the fact that we are now married and expecting our first child, and my mother's first grandchild.
So I threw her a bone and offered to do a belated christmas at her place with my whole little family and my brother. She was so excited and asked what she should get for the kids. I said, you know mom... presents. Just go to Kmart and get a few trucks and books and puzzles, they'll be happy. I could tell she was already pawing through boxes in her basement in excitement for what she could pass along.
I'm wondering if this is a narcissistic trait or just a trait of my crazy baby boomer generation mother. But my ENTIRE life she has been incredibly attached to THINGS. She isn't quite a hoarder but her home looks like a museum dedicated to our family history. She has weird oriental art, mismatched 1800s furniture, oriental rugs in every room, and every odd and end from whatever family member you can name. All these sets of china, silver she is always polishing, old clothes. She saved her mother's wedding dress and tried to get me to wear it at my wedding. It was atrocious. And my entire life she has expected me to inherit both her love of old shit and all of the old shit during her lifetime or when she dies. Before I broke my ties with her one of the many times, she had already managed to pass along a number of basement furniture items that I was being forced to move from place to place for pretty much no reason. When I got married, I said no more and started moving/dumping/selling everything we didn't want or need.
When she found out she was FURIOUS. Her main dumping ground, her only adult child with a home big enough to store the shit SHE didn't want to store, was getting rid of her precious things. The fundamental concept that if you give someone a gift, they can do whatever they want with it is lost on her.
And yet, more shit kept coming. Every phone call was "Oh you said you guys are looking for a bunk bed for the kids? I have the queen bed you were conceived in in the basement, you can have that! It's very nice it was made by the Amish... what do you mean you don't want it?? It's very nice! We paid a lot of money for it!" This would inevitably lead to anger and a pouting fit from her for a while.
So our Christmas rolls around. I drag my poor nervous family over to her house/museum. The kids are confused that they can't touch the giant marble elephants on the tables. They have to use coasters or get dirty looks. She's put the youngest toddler in a high chair from the 1800s that looks like it's about to knock him over and he's terrified. She draped a towel over the 8-year-old's dining room chair to protect the sacred chair and caused much offense in the process. I'm having flashbacks to my own childhood where I could never put my feet up on the sofa, the area under my dining chair would be inspected for crumbs, and I could only use certain towels in the bathroom because most of them were "decorative" only.
But then ladies and gentlemen, it's time for presents. We gave her nice, thoughtful gifts. An ornament with our baby's ultrasound image. A fancy sous vide. And she has given us enormous piles of garbage. My stepdaughter was such a trooper. She put on her sunniest face and performed the best display of acting I have ever fucking seen. Upon receiving my 30 year old American girl doll with raggedy hair and a dirty face she grinned and pretended to love it. The creepy paper dolls my grandmother painted decades ago, squirreled away in a corner of my mom's basement, now wrapped and presented to this poor child. An Operation game with a taped up box that my mom admitted "has a lot of missing pieces". More creepy dolls, where in god's name has she been keeping all these creepy dolls? My stepdaughter hasn't touched a doll in years and these little horrors certainly aren't going to get her back into the doll game.
For my three year old stepson? Old, stinky books with old stinky book smell. Piles of them. It could be worse, I suppose.
For me: baby clothes. Oh, that's nice, you might think. Maybe she actually went to a baby store and picked out some cute onesies for her new grandson? That's what my in-laws did. But of COURSE NOT. She gave me multiple sealed plastic packs of my brother's baby clothes from the 1980s. 30 year old baby clothes. Not just one or two special items, but nearly ALL of his baby clothes. So if I ever want to dress my son in a vintage sailor apron with matching hat, I have that covered. Oh wait, I don't, because we tossed them in a dumpster on the way home. And if she ever finds out there will be hell to pay.
But the crowning jewel this whole evening is what she gifted my husband. We have been together 5 years. In that time his parents have showered me with thousand dollar vacations, piles of holiday presents with everything I could have ever asked for, and more dinners out and in than I can possibly count. My mother has never given my life partner a damn fucking thing. His first EVER gift from her was... a used mini refrigerator. She bought it 11 years ago, used it for a bit, stuck it back in its box in a corner of her basement and then finally thought yes, that would be an adequate gift for my only son-in-law as he prepares to be the father to my only grandchild. She even bothered to wrap it and put a bow on it. Isn't that incredible?

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[Kindle] Nightingale by Amy Lukavics

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Details of Book
Author : Amy Lukavics
Language : English
ISBN : 1335012346
Number of pages : 352 pages
Editor : Harlequin Teen; Original edition
Date of Publication : September 25th 2018

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At seventeen, June Hardie is everything a young woman in 1951 shouldn't be--independent, rebellious, a dreamer. June longs to travel, to attend college and to write the dark science fiction stories that consume her waking hours. But her parents only care about making June a better young woman. Her mother grooms her to be a perfect little homemaker while her father pushes her to marry his business partner's domineering son. When June resists, her whole world is shattered--suburbia isn't the only prison for different women.
June's parents commit her to Burrow Place Asylum, aka the Institution. With its sickening conditions, terrifying staff and brutal "medical treatments," the Institution preys on June's darkest secrets and deepest fears. And she's not alone. The Institution terrorizes June's fragile roommate, Eleanor, and the other women locked away within its crumbling walls. Those who dare speak up disappear...or worse. Trapped between a gruesome reality and increasingly sinister hallucinations, June isn't sure where her nightmares end and real life begins. But she does know one thing: in order to survive, she must destroy the Institution before it finally claims them all.

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Story of son's 8/27 birth with some pics and tips

At my 39W5D appointment, my midwife said I was 50% effaced and 2 cm dilated. My next appointment was at 40W0D, on a Wednesday at 10:30. My Ob-Gyn said that I was closer to 75% effaced and 2.5 cm dilated. She offered to strip my membranes and I accepted. It was uncomfortable but not painful. She said based on how I handled it (that I could talk through it with her) that she doubted I would last the weekend and volunteered to set an induction date of 41W0D.
On the way home from my appointment, I experienced a new sensation, but wasn’t sure what it was – a cramp, a contraction? I felt one more about each hour until my husband texted me at 2:00 PM to see how I was doing. I told him that I was fine.
By 2:30, I called him back and told him he should probably come home because I had had three of those sensations again since we last spoke. I had Googled what a contraction felt like and I wasn’t convinced I was having them based on all the descriptions found online. Mine were centered deep in my pelvis, like right above where I imagine my cervix is and felt like a twisting, tightening with no mercy. There was no sensation of starting low and moving high or vice versa that so many sites used to describe contractions.
I started timing on an app, and alternated every 30 minutes from bouncing on my ball to walking to hanging over my ball. I tried to keep drinking to encourage me to keep moving for purposes of going to the bathroom frequently. Breathing helped me get through them until 7:50 PM or so when I started a bath. I got until about 9:00 before they were getting painful and about 5 minutes apart. I decided to get out of the tub then (so I would be able to get out when it came time to go!) and took a shower. As I was headed back downstairs around 9:30, I had one so painful that I knew it was time to call L&D. They said to come on in.
Husband loaded up car by 10:00 and we drove the 20 minutes to the hospital. I had three contractions in the car that were super painful. Getting out of the car I had another that was so painful that I couldn’t walk through it. My husband got the wheel chair and rolled me to L&D. I was taken into triage and told I was 100% effaced and at 3.5 cm at 10:30 PM – I was able to deal with the contractions through breathing at this time because I was laying down. They admitted me and I requested an epidural.
They rolled me to my room and put me on the epidural list since there were a few people ahead of me. My nurse poked her head in and said she’d be right back. Not even five minutes later I was yelling my head off; I’m pretty sure I was screaming like a banshee and woke up the whole floor because I felt like I was being torn in half from the inside.
Within five minutes of sustained screaming at such a loud volume, my room was full of eight nurses and the anesthesiologist. My poor husband could hardly stand to watch me writhe around in such pain that one of the nurses kindly distracted him, handing him some water and telling him to sit down, that everything would be okay. The team of nurses worked together to prep my entire room for delivery within 10 minutes; half left to attend to their own patients and the rest remained to help me receive my epidural because I could hardly sit still through the contractions to get it.
After the third attempt, he got it in me and I felt some relief. They decided to check me again and I had gone from 3.5 to 8 cm in 30 minutes; no wonder I felt such intensity. My husband left to go get our stuff. When he came back I was doing better, but not by much. Around 11:30, my nurse noticed how hard I was still breathing and checked my epidural, to see that it had been leaking! They called the anesthesiologist back in, and he fixed the cap so it would stop leaking. They checked me immediately after and said I was fully dilated. The anesthesiologist said I could legitimately say I labored to full dilation with no pain meds because of the unfortunate leak – hurrah :\
They let baby move further down into the pelvis until they encouraged “practice” pushes at 02:57 AM. My bag of waters was still bulging about an inch above the vaginal entrance, so they broke it and it was the weirdest sensation of warm liquid that trickled out. The nurse put two fingers low on my vaginal entrance (think six o clock if it’s the face of a clock) for me to feel where I should be pushing and put a mirror at my feet to see how effectively I was pushing. It took about three or four contractions for me to learn how to push effectively; my nurse told me to wait until I was “on top” of the contraction to push, because pushing when I first felt the sensation of one wouldn’t be as effective and I would tire myself out.
I was numb so I couldn’t really do the curl up position I’d read about here, so instead during a contraction I would grip just behind my knees and try to curl around my bump that way. After a few more contractions I could feel his head hitting my pubic bone, because pushing wasn’t as effective. He was definitely wanting to get out though, because before I would start pushing at the “peak” of my contraction, he would start moving down.
Around 3:30 AM they called the midwife and she arrived about 15 minutes later. She helped me push effectively with the last few contractions, then when she knew I was close turned to move the mirror out of the way and baby shot out of me. In that instant a nurse said “he’s here” and I felt a strong painful burning sensation. The midwife laughed and plopped baby on my chest. He was born at 4:01 am, after roughly 14 hours of labor. He weighed 8 lbs 6 oz and was 21.5” long with a 14” head.
They stitched up my second degree tear and I could feel every needle prick so I asked if I could take another dose of the epidural. In hindsight this meant I was pretty numb for three to four hours after he was born – which made moving around difficult but kept my pain levels minimal.
Some tips: Our nursing journey has been long and painful and I’ll write that up another day. I have good friends who gave birth a week before me and their journeys have been equally difficult with their own kiddos. I would strongly recommend looking up lactation consultants in your area NOW if this is something you feel strongly about. Bring them into the hospital, schedule for them to be at your home when you get discharged. My hospital had them, but there were two for all the women on the floor. They were doing their best with the time they had.
My hospital bed was SO uncomfortable. I had major hemorrhoids from pushing, was using those giant ice pads to help with swelling, and was sitting on the thinnest mattress ever. If possible, I would ask your partner or a family member to bring some of the padsicles to you and keep them in an icechest after the first 24 hours of birth. I felt like I was bruising my bottom from sitting on such a hard pack of… stuff.
Make padsicles. Aloe and witchhazel were on my undercarriage for for the week immediately after birth and I am convinced it is why I am feeling so good now about three weeks out.
The Medela version of lanolin was so much nicer for me than the Lansinoh; Medela’s is thinner, more like an ointment than a thick cream. The Ameda gel soothies were so much better than the Lansinoh – they could be rinsed off better and dried better.
Trust your instincts. I wish I had pushed for his tongue to be inspected earlier – instead I wound up with blood blisters and compressions bands on my nipple from his latch. They sent me home with a hospital grade pump that was broken, but it took me a while to realize that just because I was a first time mom didn’t mean I was dumb – the suction was clearly uneven on both sides.
I had no interest in wearing the clothes I brought for the recovery time. When I was constantly trying to work with the nurses and lactation consultants, I was pretty much bare chested which my own pajamas wouldn’t have allowed as easily. Plus I was still bleeding pretty heavily for about two days after and didn’t want to stain anything – even the ten dollar nighties I bought at Kmart.
I packed everything into one big suitcase – our labor supplies, our recovery supplies, our snacks – because I thought the wheels would be easier for my husband to manage by himself. The problem was that our room was the smallest single room on the floor, and there wasn’t a whole lot of space for it. I should have done two carryons and kept the recovery supplies in the car until we were settled in our room.
Buy a big box of Chucks/puppy pads. We’ve been using them to make sure I don’t stain furniture or leak milk everywhere at night in addition to lining the changing pads. Minimize your laundry now!
Some pics because they were often what made my own bad pregnancy days tolerable.

Re-locating: Furniture for sale

AURAS

AURAS
The dark blue ink stamped my fingerprint stained white timecard at 2230 hours exactly. I headed for the locker room and spun the dial of the aged Master combination lock that secured my twelve by fourteen by twenty-four-inch World War II vintage locker, theoretically preventing access on a good day to all but six or seven other people of my personal belongings while I was on duty.
Day to day, those belongings consisted of my lunch; usually three peanut butter, salami, tomato and mustard sandwiches, a zip-lock baggie of six Lorna Doones, a quart of milk and three bottles of orange Gatorade, all tucked safely inside a black nylon off-brand backpack I got on sale for twenty-one ninety-five during a Blue-Light-Special at KMart last October, which, if it lasts through the end of next week will have made it to the end of my Department of Corrections six-month probation.
Woodford Detention Center, while recently re-landscaped thanks to a property tax levy passed in November, is as bleak and foreboding inside as a MAX-SEC prison might be imagined. Most of the interior of cell-block R is concrete gray. The furniture in and around the control rooms came in one of two designer-free colors: standard military olive drab, and Samsonite beige. The doors to the inmate quarters are flat-black as are all door and window frames, tier-railings and ventilation ductwork. The only colors in the cell-block are the round blue-gray steel tables bolted securely to the floors in the community areas where checkerboards are engraved and epoxied into place with their traditional red and black squares and a thin gold border on the outside edge. The intentionally insipid visual properties of the block were offset only by the brightness of the recently upgraded LED lighting system, thanks to the same gift-horse as the landscaping. While otherwise as boring as hell, we could see everything that was going on.
Well, almost everything.
Every third Thursday of the month, I reported to the Sally-Port where I manned the intake desk and oversaw the transfer of prisoners both in to, and out of Woodford. The best part of Sally-Port duty was also the worst part: the paperwork. The process of transferring inmates was exhaustive and time consuming. Each incoming prisoner wristband had to be removed and replaced. Once completed, they became inmates. Each inmate had to have his wristband photo and thumbprint image matched to the image on file in the CLINCHER Inmate Identification system. Each inmate transfer then required a FBOP-A0399 form completed and signed by the OOD. The three-ninety nines are short, critical and detailed forms. For the past two months, each three-ninety-nine had to be completed on a manual typewriter due to a persistent glitch in the computer system, disallowing that part of the data entry to be properly recorded.
This made for a very busy evening and the shift passed quickly.
At 0248 hours, a call was patched through to the phone at my desk. It was the pilot of the JPATS flight from Soledad reporting their aircraft, and my prisoner were stuck on the tarmac and running about half an hour behind schedule. I reported this to the OOD and requested a few minutes to slip to the break-room and hit the vending machine for a cup of coffee.
Returning to my desk, I was greeted by Stoltz and Cotnick, two detectives I knew from 1PP. They had a federal guest from Rikers who was headed to FCC Pollock to await trial on charges of trafficking in young women and drugs. I began the paperwork and called the desk sergeant:
“Frank, yeah, it’s Dawson. Listen, I’m gonna’ need two escorts for inmate Jekubiaz. He’s on hold for a medical-eval scheduled for tomorrow night prior to his transfer to Louisiana.”
“I’ll have’em there in twenty minutes.” Ortiz barked. “Anything else?”
“Copy that, Sarge. Naw, that’s it. Thanks.”
I put down the phone and told inmate Jekubiaz to stand and turn to his right, so I could scan and replace his wristband. Jekubiaz moved slower than Stoltz thought was indicated by my request, and grabbed him just above his left elbow, yanked him up from his seat, then spun him hard to his right.
“Next time when the man asks you to get up and turn, …” Stoltz didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Jekubiaz, now only ten inches or so from my face, looked into my eyes and smiled as I reached for his left wrist and scanned the barcode ID embedded in the wristband.
That brief physical contact I established with Jekubiaz while scanning his wrist ID, provided me all the necessary details a jury would need to convict him of everything he was suspected of. His dark-brown aura, tinged with black revealed to me his core: he was a man filled with deceit, selfishness, and a bad quick temper. More than a few of the traits innate to a person accused of such crimes. This gift, as my mother described my ability to see these aura’s, often revealed information I never wanted to know. But I’ve learned to live with it, and could frequently ignore it.
But not always.
Jekubiaz’s escorts appeared at my window into the hallway of the Sally-Port. I hit the buzzer and they entered pushing an Emergency Restraint Chair. They immediately took custody from Stoltz and Cotnick, and pushed Jekubiaz into the chair, securing quickly his head, wrists and ankles. I handed them the paperwork Sergeant Ortiz would need.
“Thanks guys. Have a nice trip Mr. Jekubiaz. Hope you enjoy the weather in Louisiana” I said, finally returning his smile.
I turned to shake hands with Cotnick, and nodded goodbye to Stoltz, already standing at the door.
“Stay safe and say hello to Drazdick when you see him.”
“And hey, remind him of the corned beef from Nick’s he still owes me” I griped, knowing the only way that I’d ever really get that sandwich would be to drive across town and buy it myself.
I glanced at the clock. It was 0328 hours and I wondered where my JPAT prisoner was. Just as I dropped my ass into the chair behind my desk, the yellow alert beacon in concert with the claxon brought my attention to the fact that the inmate from Soledad was en route from the front gate. Officer’s Schmidt, Osgood and Kretchmeier focused their attention on the arriving prisoner. As soon as the van stopped between the wide yellow painted lines on the concrete floor of the Sally-Port, three armed guards exited the van and ran to the passenger side. The doors opened from the inside, and the ramp lowered. Two additional guards pushed the gurney out of the van and down the ramp. The prisoner, was strapped to the gurney, head hands waist and feet with two-inch-wide yellow nylon webbing, secured with stainless pinned buckles. I’d not been, nor was anyone else on my end given any information regarding this prisoner’s background prior to his arrival.
Schmidt and Osgood reported the Sally-Port was secure. Kretchmeier and I rolled up the armored security door and the armed guards rolled in the prisoner.
FBI Special Agent Kirkpatrick introduced himself and handed me a black briefcase. From his inside coat pocket, he brought out a key and opened the case. He handed me one of two envelopes contained inside. I opened the envelope and removed the paperwork. The prisoner on the gurney was known as John Alexander Orminster. I could not imagine the crimes this man committed to demand such precautionary levels of security. The paperwork stated his age at seventy-three years four months. He looked every bit of it. I completed the paperwork as it was handed to me and prepared a new CLINCHER ID for former prisoner now inmate Orminster, and returned the resealed envelope to Agent Kirkpatrick.
I stepped towards the gurney with my scanner and the wristband. It became obvious that the prisoners left arm required release from the gurney restraint so that I could properly attach it. I grasped the prisoners forearm and was immediately overcome, as if by an abyss. I remained aware of what I was doing and the people around me, though profoundly aware of a building darkness that saturated my mind, the Sally-Port and everyone in it.
I glanced at Special Agent Kirkpatrick, and then the sidearm holstered at his waist. Resisting with all my effort the incredible urge to reach for it, I instead snapped the CLINCHER ID to Orminster’s wrist, grabbed the scanner and copied the data into the system. The scanner beeped, and completed its process, sending the information to the printer which I could hear turning the data into a hard copy for agent Kirkpatrick, and our records. Next, I had to type the FBOP-A0399 form and take it to the OOD for his signature. Again, my attention focused on the Glock on Kirkpatrick’s waist as the darkness became thicker, thinning my desire to resist. When I looked up, I was emotionally seized by the malignant penetrating eyes of prisoner Orminster. His willful gaze proffered me a dare, in the form of a terse snarl from his gaunt, thin-lipped face.
Asserting my will, I restrapped the prisoner’s wrist to the gurney and forced myself to the desk to complete the A0399, after which I stood and removed the form from the typewriter. I walked around my desk, and passed directly behind Agent Kirkpatrick, with the intention of having the OOD sign it, as required.
The darkness however, sucked my intention dry. I threw the scanner against the wall, and distracted Agent Kirkpatrick just enough to provide me with momentary access to his Glock, which I unhesitatingly grabbed, chambered, and kneecapped him with from behind. I then turned and placed two rounds directly into the forehead of that evil rat-bastard, inmate Orminster.
In the same instant, my right shoulder exploded in pain as I was thrown backwards hard against the wall from the impact of an opposing Glock round. A wet red smear followed me to the floor, where I traded the darkness for unconsciousness.
“And that’s how it happened in the wee hours of 20 April 2017” I painfully recounted from my bed in the Bellvue prison ward.
“Eight days short of making my probation. Ain’t that a bitch” I winced. Stoltz and Cotnick listened to all of it, looked at me, and then each other shaking their heads.
A ringing phone broke the uneasy silence. Cotnick reached into his coat and retrieved his cell; “Cotnick” he huffed.
“Got it, we’re on our way.” He looked at Stoltz. “We got a body.”
Cotnick flicked his head and right thumb at Stoltz towards the door. They nodded to the patrolman as they passed.
“Hey” I groaned. They stopped just outside the door, and gave me a quarter turn of their heads. “remind Drazdick he still owes me a corned beef from Nick’s.”

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Bad First Guest Experience, what should we do?

Blue. I HATE blue. I have a project and I need another person's insight.... cuz I have a navy blue rug I can't afford to remove.

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Last jewelry heist went very wrong – need help