Thursday, June 30, 2005

Pass the Geritol, please

Sweet merciful crap.

I just agreed to go to my 20th High School reunion. On the 16th. Of July. Next month.

This means I have 16 days to lose the approximately 1.4 million pounds I've gained in the last 2 years and try not to feel 65 years old in the process.

And I swear on all that is holy, if that DJ does not play Kajagoogoo's Too Shy, I'll finish my wine cooler, tighten up my side ponytail, kick off my jelly's, straighten my white tights, push my orange neon bracelets past the 2 Swatch watches up my arm, put on my pink leather Member's Only jacket, climb into my maroon Datsun 210 SL hatchback wagon named Ferris with the broken headlight, light a Dajarum, and go home.

20 fricken years. Christ.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Whew - dodged another bullet


Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who sent good vibes and left comments yesterday. They worked! (So far. You know I'll be hitting you up for more in a few months. I'm still a hyperactive worrying baby, you know.)

I had the MRI today and it was a suckfest with a side of "eh". The IV was fucking brutal. Nurse Ratchet missed the vein and had to grind the needle around in my forearm a bit to puncture it, which then caused blood to go squirting out of the catheter and down my arm and me to squirm in my seat with tears squeezing out of my eyes while I chanted a mantra of "crap crap crap". Ow and fucking ow. My arm feels like it was run over by a car then injected with silly putty. But obviously I can still type. Har.

The scan itself wasn't that bad. I actually went into a zone and almost fell asleep, despite the constant jackhammering on my head. Seriously, I know they can put a camera the size of a mile-long thread up your ass to see your brain, and we had people playing golf on the moon 30+ years ago for fuckssake. They can't invent a scanner that doesn't require ear plugs? Yes, I'm serious, I had to wear ear plugs. The sucker was LOUD.

But the dudes were semi-cool and the whole ordeal was over in less than an hour. The headache I get every time I'm injected with crap never got that bad and thankfully I'm not the claustrophobic type since my head was locked into place with a helmet thing and I was inserted into one of those full body tube machines. Felt like a Thanksgiving turkey being put into the oven. Please baste every 30 minutes. Thank you.

I wasn't expecting a call with the results for at least 2 days but low and behold, they're already in! Thank you doctor man who read the results right away and saved me 48 hours of sharting my pants. All's good in the neck region. No new masses or obvious scar tissue that would require me to be split open and scooped out. Just some swollen lymph nodes, which didn't surprise me. Radiation jacks those up. They're a mess all over me. It's a wonder I don't look like a sack of grapes in a sweater.

Doc said that this was good news, when he could sense my trepidation over the phone. I'm relieved the MRI was clean, but that doesn't rule out possible thyroid cancer cells since an MRI can't see those nasty buggers and I generally feel poopy all the time, which is a fucking drag, but better than having a tumor in my head, I tell ya. So, I could still have some thryoid cancer floating about, but at least it looks like I've avoided more surgery for the time being.

I'll have to do another thyroid cancer scan in the fall to see what the next course of action will be. Dependent on those results, there could be radiation or another year of freedom until the next scan. So, sigh, more waiting. Fricken A. This shit will never be over. Something that I have yet to accept. Don't really have the key to that, but I'm trying.

And somehow I've managed to become iron deficient. So I have to go take those pills that turn your crap black. Weeeee.

I'm very glad this set of tests and sharp poking in my arms are over and I'll being doing my very best to back-shelf this shit for the summer, concentrate on taking better care of myself and having some fucking fun. And doing a good bit of writing.

For now, me and my limpdick arm are picking up some dinner with ice cream, going home to the best man on the planet and getting laid.

Monday, June 27, 2005

It's really not that bad, but...

I'm in a funk again. It's not a deep funk, more like the shallow end of the funk pool. Where your upper half gets fried in the sun but your lower half is safe and cool below the water. But a funk nonetheless.

To bring everyone up-to-date, and to compartmentalize some of this shit in my own brain, here's the deal. I'm a cancer patient. Hate it. Hate it a lot. I've been much more fortunate than some, but was handed the shit end of the stick and I'm still holding on. Boo hoo, I know.

I've already had the surgery and one round of radiation. I now have to be scanned for the rest of my life for possible recurrences and take medication every day or I croak, and just those 2 small things sometimes seem impossible to comprehend. I had a clean scan last year but the one this last March showed a "shadow" in my neck. I saw my doc June 17th and here's the deal.

There is no deal. I still don't know what's going to happen or what I'll have to do. And this has left me incresingly pissed off and deflated. I was ready for a game plan and I still don't have one. My doc rushed me through the appointment and I didn't get to ask all of the questions I wanted to. This is partly my fault. I didn't come with a list, although most of the time that doesn't matter because they'll scoff at you anyway and ignore it. I didn't speak up and make him listen. But when you're in that situation things turn all swirly and bewildering and before you know it you're back in your car saying, what the fuck just happened?

I have to have an MRI tomorrow to see if there's something wonky going on in my throat, since I'm having some trouble occasionally choking. More needles, more worry. I'm not claustrophobic, so having my head locked into the machine for an hour doesn't bother me, but the mere fact that these tests are meant to find things scares the piss out of me. It's hard to communicate just how stressful this is and how hard it is to keep a composed face. There are moments when I think I'm going to lose it for good.

If the MRI is fine, then I have another scan in October. If not, I have no idea. Surgery? I don't know, but god damn I hope not. If the scan in October is fine, then I wait another year and do it all over again. If not, then it looks like another round of radiation with med withdrawl and 6 months of feeling 10 times worse than I do now. But everything is dependent on everything else.

So, that's that. I'm keeping my smile in my back pocket because I can't seem to manage it today. I don't mean to splash anyone with my bummer, but this is how I feel. And of course this weight on my mind makes every little stinking problem seem as big as Mt. Everest. If I could ever fucking sleep I'd be doing that instead of trying to fake it through this week.

Wish me luck.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Fuck the reaper, Bozo is worse

Phobias. They're supposedly mostly irrational fears. This I can understand because, aww, how horrible it must be to freak out at the mere thought of the Dutch. Seriously. That's a real fear. Must be the ugly wooden shoes or those white-blond eyebrows that match their white-blond hair making them look like killer kids in a bad 70's horror movie.

Despite the lame fears some are entirely justified and entirely real and those who think they aren't can bite me. I have a few, and of course I think they are totally warranted and not as infantile as chasing a little, tiny spider around the kitchen sink trying to stab it with a steak knife. Not that anyone I know did that recently or anything. So yes, even though some are goofy, there are those aversions that are genuine and should be taken seriously and looked upon with coquettishly batting doe eyes and tender petting and not rude mocking and dismissal. Especially the ones I have. So, fuck you Freud, I'm not crazy. Much.

Don't like bugs or snakes. No way no how. They are nasty and creepy and icky. That damn Animal Planet is obsessed with them. Bugs and snakes. Bugs and snakes. Lion thwapping an antelope in the ass with a clawed paw. Bugs and Snakes. What is their deal? Can't those animal dudes go traipse through the desert looking for puppies instead of killer snakes and creepy demonic bugs of hell?

Hey, how about doing a show on what's the cutest furry thing that nuzzles your cheek with love instead of the eel-like fish that crawls up your hoo-ha if you pee in the river and latches onto your tingly parts with head spikes and sucks your blood dry. I'm forever turning to that channel hoping to see a special on furry mammal babies only to have a giant 4 foot wide cobra spitting venom at my screen or a 20 pound flying cockroach devouring a small village. Christalmighty. It's enough to give a delicate girl like me a heart attack.

I also don't like hair. Which is the dumbest thing if you knew me, since my hair has grown past my waist and is now in danger of getting caught in my crack. It needs a trim, I'm not aiming to be the next Crystal Gale or anything. When hair is at risk of being flushed down the toilet, it's too damn long. Hair is OK if it's attached to your head, but once it leaves, all bets are off. I completely gag if I see a stray follicle on a sink somewhere. God forbid I find one in my food. Gack. I have to stop now or I'll have to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon.

Flying. Need I say more?

Also, clowns. I blame my mother for this one. It's one of my strongest revulsions. Some might call it a phobia, but it's not like I avert my eyes when seeing an image of this particular thing. It's not as if I shudder at the mere thought of Ronald McDonald. It isn't something that I spend much time thinking about! OK. Those are lies. It's pretty much exactly like that. But it's not my fault!

When I was a kid I had this Jack-in-the-Box toy, but instead of having a friendly little Jack inside, it had a fucking clown. A googly-eyed sneering-smile possessed clown. Here I am, an innocent (stop laughing) little girl, playing with her innocent little toy unaware at the carnage coming my way.

If the whole clown thing wasn't bad enough, it didn't work right. I'd slowly turn the little metal crank and it would play that creepy plinkity-plinkity-plink-plink song but the damn thing wouldn't pop up. Until you were staring at it real close for a second going hmf, what's up with this, and then WHAM! Right in your face. No warning plinks or anything. Just the fucking clown popping out trying to scare the shit out of me, and succeeding.

After the Attack-in-the-box met it's ultimate doom, I received another gift from my mother that planted yet another seed for my collection of fears. Mom was an abuser of the sewing machine. You know, one of those kooky mothers who had the philosophy that you could make anything you wanted or needed with a needle and thread. She was wrong. Thanks for those polyester home-made bikini's from extra upholstry fabric mom! They were SWELL!.

For one of my early birthdays, 11 perhaps, mom had gotten the bright idea to make me a gift. I've been nutso crazy about stuffed animals my whole life, still am and probably always will be. Instead of buying me a snuggly, fuzzy Gund teddy bear, my mom decided to make me a new friend to cuddle with. As I unwrapped my squishy treasure, I quickly realized this was no fucking teddy bear. It was a clown! And not just any clown. It was almost a direct copy of that psychotic killer clown from Poltergeist. Jesus, Mom, where you find this? Fun Patterns for the Possessed? Like I'm gonna love up something that's gonna kill me in my sleep and make my braces grow 100 feet long. Don't think so.

Apparently my mother didn't get the hint after I gave Bozo the Cursed an obligatory position among my non-possessed animals for a short time then stuffed him into the back of my closet. A few years later she was struck with yet another great plan that involved her beloved sewing machine and what I suspect was a devilish sense of humor, since I never did figure out just what the hell she was thinking with this one.

I was about 14 and it was Christmastime. I still hunted the house for my gifts, not yet affected by the spoiling of the prize knowing ahead of time what I was getting. My parents were off playing tennis or something and I was home alone. It was a pretty big house, but you can't hide anything from me. I can turn any amount of square footage inside out and put it back exactly as I found it.

I figured the best place to start was my parents bedroom. I poked around in their closets for a bit and found nothing. The dresser was also a zero. Next stop, under the bed. I got down on my belly and scooted myself to the edge of the bedskirt. My face jammed up against the frame. Excitement growing as I had a feeling I was getting closer to breaking the case and finding my loot. I was giggling with anticipation and filled with the naughty. I lifted the material and suddenly found myself nose-to-nose with a face starting back at me with vacant eyes and a maniacal blood-red smile.

Holy Christ! I flew backwards screaming, smashing my head in the process. When I retrieved my heart from the ceiling I tentatively went back under the bed to find out what the fuck that thing was.

My mother had sewn me a boy. A life-sized freaky-assed button-nosed boy. Complete with red string hair and patches on his knees. It looked like Richie Cunningham on crack with long skinny spindly arms and legs and a frozen sneer. Now what the fuck am I'm going to do with this thing? And just what the blue hell did she think I was going to do with this thing? And how the heck am I going to open that package on Christmas morning knowing that it contains a demonic Opie? What. Was. She. Thinking.

I managed to compose myself and pretend I wasn't home alone with an undoubtedly demented Chucky and faked my happiness at this bizarre gift on Christmas morning. The boy eventually was the recipient of many drunken teenage pornish pranks, and one day he just up and disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, but I like to think he went back to his own dimension. The one Tom Cruise apparently escaped from.

The most recent cherry on my paranoia cake came around Halloween a couple of years ago. I had joined some friends and their kids for dinner and a trek through one of those haunted house things that crop up everywhere. It was at Balboa Park in San Diego, which is spooky enough by itself, but outfitted for the season with a creepshow called The Haunted Trails.

Those things really don't scare me but it was fun to watch the four 15 year-old boys with us try to be tough while they're screaming like little girls and grabbing onto you for protection. Big tough boys, indeed. I was totally making fun of them and acting like the cool bitch I am, but revenge would be all theirs soon enough.

We were almost at the end of this thing and we came upon an outdoor "room" fashioned out of tall plywood walls. There was no way around it and we were forced to enter in order to exit. I hadn't thought anything about it since nothing had phased me so far. I stepped one foot inside the flashing neon-lit room with the deafening music when I realized I was indubitably fucked. This place was not inhabited by zombies. There were no giant rats or Freddie Krugers trying to suck us into the ceiling. This nightmare was swarming with Killer Clowns From Outer Space ghouls. And this is where I lost my shit.

I immediately flung myself over into a fetal position, covered my face with my hands and started yelling "I don't do clowns, I don't do clowns"!!! I was not going to get sympathy or help from my crew of friends and they immediately stepped away from me like I'd just peed in the pool. Leaving me alone in the middle of the floor being pounced upon on all sides by fucking psychotic clowns with jagged teeth and red eyes. At least I'm sure that's what they looked like because I was still hunched over covering my face and screaming "I don't do clowns"!!

Then one of my brilliant friends yells my name laughing hysterically so this one evil clown comes running over to me, bends down trying to get his face in my face and starts growling in this scary voice, "come on Betttttyyyyyyy, look at meeeeeee Betttttyyyyyyyyyy, ahhhhh Betttttyyyyy, loooooook Bettttyyyy". Nearly peed my pants. Clowns are the minions of the devil, I say. THE DEVIL.

And don't even get me started on that god damn Grinch.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Happy Birthday, Baby

san fran 060

30 years ago today you came into the world and made it a better place. I think I felt the earth shift on that Summer Saturday, since I was practically in high school when you were born, and I'm sure when you entered this realm it changed the atmosphere. Your presence on this big blue bean is large and your mark indelible. No one who crosses your path does so without taking notice.

I'd written a story of our short history, but it was getting rather long-winded so I'll save it for another time. What I want to say is simple:

You are so beautiful it's hard to put it all into words without cheating and using a thesaurus. Your talents are awe-inspiring and never cease to amaze me. You are loving and thoughtful. Accepting and discering. White-hot smart and a great kisser. You're funny as shit and sexy as hell. And I love you more than chocolate.

I looked at you last weekend while you were sleeping and had to choke back tears. Sometimes my feelings for you crush me under their weight. I knew people like you existed in the world, I just didn't know I'd be lucky enough to have one in my life. Here's to the future, baby. May it bring you everything you desire and more.

You are the noxema on my sunburn.

You are the vodka in my koolaid.

You are the love of my life.

Happy Birthday, baby. I love you!

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

You can't order courage on the internet

With yet another celebrity trial over and done with, we the public are left to scratch our heads and ponder just what the fuck happened. Again. I know we weren't in the courtroom, and our information is gathered from outside sources and shoved down our throats with news bias. But you have to admit, this is not a human being behaving normally. And more importantly, in my opinion, are these parents who are handing over their children on a silver platter. WTF?

Oh, by the way, I'm talking about Michael Jackson, just in case you haven't been saturated with that shit show enough.

Since I'm sure the blogosphere, TV, papers, ad naseum, are inundated with Whacko Jacko right now, the specifics of the case are not what I'm intending to comment on today. I'm not the political sort. It's not something I get into or enjoy discussing, nor do I have much knowledge in that area so I'm a smartypants and keep my mouth shut.

I picked up on something after hearing the jury speak the other day and it struck a nerve. A very important nerve. One that I'm sure we all deal with in a plethora of situations all the time. Keep in mind that these are my opinions, and I welcome feedback, since I think this is a very important multi-faceted subject and I'll fully admit I could possibly be narrowly sighted about it.

Juries in America, as a whole, are not qualified to judge anyone. Plain and simple. If you've ever served on a jury, which I have, you've probably experienced the frustration, change of beliefs and personal agendas found among your supposed peers. People who answered all of the lawyers questions then switched gears in the deliberation room. People who promised to listen to the evidence then discarded it all and went by feelings and their own past experiences. These people are not qualified to hold someone's life, future, and well being in their hands, whether guilty or innocent.

The Jackson jury solidified my bitter opinions on the matter. I heard them all say, over and over, that they decided in the very beginning that there wouldn't be any arguing among them. No disagreements. No strife. That seemed to be their main focus and goal. Not the evidence but their relationships to each other. It would be heavy on the bonding, amiability and sunshine enemas.

They mentioned again and again how they hoped to stay in touch and how close they've all gotten. They had many negative attributes to mention about the victim's crazy mother. How they didn't like her finger pointing and eye contact, never saying a word about this young boy with the fucked up parents and the crap end of the stick constantly handed to him. Yea, the mother is a nutball, but did you vote against her or for MJ?

And guess what fuckers? It's not about YOU. It's not about your feelings and it certainly isn't about how you all get along. It's about the case and the defendant and the witnesses and in this situation, little boys who were probably fucking ruined for life. It's not about forged friendships and getting together for bar-b-que's and backrubs.

I know some people can't stand confrontation of any kind. But there is a time and place for it and one of those is a deliberation room. I'm not talking about climbing over the table and punching someone in the face if you disagree, but for someone to change their vote because they don't want to hurt someone else's feelings, or go against the tide, or for fuckssake, because they don't have the balls to stand tall for their own convictions, then we might as well become a Stepford society and not bother with this ridiculous jury system we have now.

If I was on trial I'd want opposing viewpoints and people who are willing to challenge each other and use their fucking heads. To think that a guilty person got off because 12 people were too wimpy to butt heads or speak up makes me want to puke. And I'm sorry, but I did enough of that last weekend. We need professional jurors. Now.

I post on a couple of message boards. Well, one now, but I can tell you one thing that drive me shithouse batty. And I'll try to do in the hopes that I'm not insulting anyone I'm personal friend with because that is not my intention. I share cyber space with some very good people whom I adore even though I'm not afraid to disagree with them, which is what this is all about.

One thing that I cannot stomach is people afraid to offer their honest opinions and individual thoughts because it's going go against some false grain of lubricated affinity. When every conversation relegates into 50 threads of "I like you" "I like you too" I can barely stand it. There is a balance to everything and when something is lopsided it gets boring real fast. Conversely, constant crap and unvarying venom is no fun either. Trust me, I don't support that for a minute.

When someone is purposefully being an asshole, ignoring isn't always the best approach. If you had a turd floating in your punchbowl would you scoop around it or fish it out and flush it?

Debate is healthy. I'm not talking about arguing for the sake of fighting. Devil's advocates are usually annoying merely offering an opposing view just to be a stinker or get a rise out of someone or whatever their reason is. It's usually coming from a place of complacency and not sincerity. Usually, not always. But when someone is legitimately giving another side of the coin, it can open your eyes when you didn't even realize they were closed.

There are delicate lines everywhere. We must tread carefully every step of the way. But when you see something that is glaringly wrong, when someone is poisoning the waters with intent and malice, it's our obligation to do something about it. And you bet your ass I'll go right down to your level to do it. I don't have a problem with that.

Life is riddled with uncomfortable moments and we can't be afraid to burst through them for what is right. There is no pill for apathy and a select few should not be saddled with the burden of action. So the next time you see some jackhole giving someone a rash of shit they don't deserve, do something. Say something. At least once. Don't let another fucker get away with it, again.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Hey! I didn't order the side of splooge!

This always fucking happens to me. Try to do something right and blammo, blows up in my face. Why do I even bother? Pft and Oi!

Much drama will now commence.

Once again I wake up feeling like I haven't slept in 47 million years and drag myself through the rituals of morning. Shower, shampoo, try and get the cat hair off of my entire black wardrobe, give up and leave the house looking like a lint trap. And of course, I have no food to bring with me because I'm lazy and hate to cook. Therefore I have nothing to eat at work unless I'm craving a frozen raw chickencicle. Which I was not.

I decide that although the thought of anything prepared with even a hint of oil makes me want to poke hot needles in my eyes after our grease-fest on Sunday, I must get something to nosh or I'll turn into the hypoglycemia monster and kill someone whilst falling down the stairs faintly mumbling for cookies.

I figure those miniature, microscopic burritos from McDonald's can't be that bad, and I'll break my nothing good for you goes in my body if it isn't crammed with preservatives I don't want it why isn't this dipped in chocolate rule and get that new cut up apple thing with the walnuts. Imagine, me, eating an apple. The horror.

I get in the drive-thru line and order the burritos and the apple thingy with the nuts, which is exactly what I said because I don't know what the fuck it's called. At first the dude tried to give me an apple pie but sweet jesus, please don't make me eat anything deep fried unless you want me to ralph into your hairnet. I corrected my fast food engineer, got my breakfast and was on my way.

The burritos were just fine. Even though they contain some unidentifiable creamy substance, lets just pretend it's melted cheese, shall we? They were actually good. And crap, I think I have a new addiction. About 2 hours later I thought I'd take a peek at the fruit. It looked decent! 2 different types of apples, a few purple grapes thrown in, a little package of candied walnuts and some vanilla yogurt, that I only ate a little of cause, uh oh, lactose intolerant. I have NO tolerance for lactose. Or side ponytails, but I digress.

I ate a couple of grapes and they weren't so sour as to make my mouth pucker into a cramp, which is what I hate about grapes and the excuse why I don't eat those. But look at me, being all healthy. I grabbed a green apple slice and took a bite. It was crunchy, just the way I like it, so far so good. But wait. OMG! YUK! NOT SWEET. NOT APPLEISH. It was rank.

So I tried the reddish apple. That one wasn't so bad. I dipped a corner into the yogurt, again, not the greatest aftertaste in the world, but I haven't had an apple in a long time and thought maybe it was my jacked up tasted buds. I munched a bit more then saved the rest for later.

A couple of hours after lunch I was getting my afternoon sweet craving and thought I'd go back to the good stuff before I eventually went down to the candy machine because hell, I'm not giving up chocolate just because I ate a microgram of fruit. I decided to avoid the apples because I gave it like 6 tries and they all tasted like shit. I had a few grapes left and started popping them in my mouth. 1, 2, 3, 4, chew chew swallow. Darn, only 1 left.

I grab the last one. It's big and looks juicy. I'm so proud of myself. Maybe this can become a trend that will become a habit that will become a lifestyle. Go me!

For some reason, I twisted my little grape around to inspect the whole thing. More importantly, the side that had been nestled between the apple slices all snug and happy. And that's when I saw it...


Grey fucking fuzz all over my grape. It was hairy. With mold. A moldy thing that I almost ate. And what are the odds it was the only fouled thing in the bowl? Not good my friends, not good at all! How much fungi did I ingest?? No wonder it all tasted like crap. Now I'm queasy and pissed.

God damn fruit. I'm going back to pop tarts.

Monday, June 13, 2005

I'd like my Karma points in diamonds, thank you

Going to be tooting my own horn today. Not loudly mind you, but I went above and beyond this weekend and damn, I need to share. There was grossness and sadness and hilarityness. I'm a relatively unselfish person by nature, albeit totally self-centered (yes, it is all about me, duh), but I am a giver. Experiencing pain is no exception. I'm like napalm. I'll get it all over ya.

Friday was a typical day, not so bad and the work tards had left me alone. I was picking up whitey at the mall by work since he car is still broken. (God damn Budget). We were planning on getting some sundries at Trader Joe's, going home and making dinner. Spending the rest of the night lounging and snogging on the couch. This was SO far from what happened.

After being stuck in traffic for a million and a half years, we decided we were starving and needed food before getting food. We piled at Olive Garden and were sufficiently stuffed. Went to TJ's and waddled our way through the store getting supplies and made our way home, skipping one last errand because my stomach was about to split and I was whining. I unpacked and put away our groceries and flopped onto the bed. As I tried to decide if I wanted to take a nice relaxing shower or never get up again, my cell phone rang. Uh oh...

It was my best friend Shawna and she was hysterical. I could barely understand a word she was saying, but I got enough to know that she was horribly ill, in pain, and was alone with her youngest son. I went through the obligatory questions of what can I bring and realizing my presence was the only thing necessary, rinsed my work stank off and flew over to her apartment.

I found her doubled over and sobbing with pain and frustration. I quickly assessed that this was not a normal range of symptoms and there was nothing I could do for her. We needed pro's. As she was trying to get ready to go, and I was stuffing diapers and toys into a miniature backpack, I heard the barfing. Oh christ. My kryptonite. Now, let me just say, I know I wasn't the sick one here but this is my blog and my story and we should all keep our focus on me. Heh.

I ran into the bathroom (she's going to kill me for this) and found the poor thing heaving red jello into the bathtub. Sorry for the graphics, people, but it's gonna get worse. We got her up and I threw everyone into her car and we took off. Half way to the hospital her son, who was directly behind me, rocket launches something yellow and cheesy practically onto the back of my head. Twice. Now I know I'm doomed. That's it. Point of no return.

The smell hit me and I lurched forward, trying to concentrate on not killing us all in a puke-filled car accident. We made it to the ER and I dropped them off at the doors while I tried to park the car. I was doing that whole self-talk chant. "You won't throw up. You won't throw up. You won't throw up". And I really thought I had it too. But, not so much. I'd only pushed in the emergency brake when it hit me. I flew out of the car and hurled in the parking lot. Twice.

I gathered our two tons of shit together and slunked my way into the ER where we all tried not to blow again. Shawna and I were successful, her son was not. They were both treated for a nasty virus and Shawna had gotten so dehydrated she required 2 bags of IV juice. The doc said we made the right decision to come in because drinking fluids would not have helped, she needed more.

Here's another lesson to listen to your instincts. I took one look at her and new it was bad. Her son's little contribution to the crap was an unpleasant surprise, however, and nearly put me off cheese for the rest of my life. But I am strong and will not give up my dairy delights, although I never, ever want to see a fucking goldfish cracker again. Ever.

But the point was, we could have tried to pour gatorade down her gullet all night and it wouldn't have done a thing, sometimes you need help and it's OK to go get it. I'm a firm believer that ER's should not be used as anyone's doctors office. I have very strong opinions on that and could do an ace rant, but it was late and if not a 911 emergency, definitely a situation where professional intervention was needed. Aren't I smart?

We rolled in at 9:00 and rolled out about 1:30. After getting them re-settled I didn't get home until 2:30 and needed another shower to wash the hospital off of me. Whitey was a doll and gave me extra hugs for not letting anyone puke alone. I was queasy for 24 whole hours too and was worried I'd get whatever crud they had, but so far so good.

I managed to make it for my early riding lesson the next morning where I learned a sick pony, that we thought was going to be OK, had actually taken a turn for the worse and had to be put to sleep. It was heartbreakingly sad. Her empty stall with bouquets of flowers in front. Her uneaten hay on the ground. It was awful. There's nothing you can do in a situation like that so I donated a hefty wad of cash to a memorial tribute being run in a local paper and a plaque to be displayed. Tough for everyone. Even tougher life lesson for the pony's 10 year-old owner.

By the time I got home on Saturday I was physically and mentally done. Whitey totally understood and had no problem with me turning into a slug for the rest of the night. I barely remember being vertical for more than a few minutes. I slept forever. Riddled with bad dreams, but I felt like I caught up as much as possible. A bit of a bummer, but I was needed the night before and there are lots of Saturday nights for fuckery.

Sunday we both woke up before 9, a miracle for me sleeping past 6, and sprang out of bed. Our plan was to go the local county fair that's in San Diego every summer. We got ready, coffeed up and headed over. Where we ran into the 100 thousand other people who had the same idea. Seriously, it was that crowded.

Whitey tried to make me take odds on how quickly I'd freak out at the throngs of buttmunches, but ha ha on you Mr. Funnypants, I did not freak out once. OK, I called that one little girl ugly but we both yelled at the kid in our way and made fun of the overly-loud obnoxious lady with the microphone. Actually, this place was rife with freaks and I'm not talking about the carnies who were surprisingly clean and toothfull.

We had such a great time I'm still smiling and laughing outloud today. We walked until our feet were dead, we ate so much greasy food we could wring oil out of our skin, and we laughed so hard it hurt. We saw just about everything, at least what we wanted to, and were blown away at the photography exhibit. Talk about inspiration. There was picture after picture more amazing than the next. I can't wait to start taking photog classes and really get into it.

To my complete delight, we got to pet a brand-new baby horse and watch it spaz out, testing its long legs and new ability to run and jump. It went off the cute charts and was all I could do not to climb into the ring and squeeze it. We pet a bunch of goats that were actually not very stinky and some were pretty cool, almost dog-like. They'd make good pets if they didn't shit all over your house. One took a nibble on my knuckle but it wasn't as bad as the cow who licked me. Ick. One warning, never go into the chicken house. It smells just like what that kid threw up in the car. Almost ruined me. Bleh.

When we were almost out of steam we headed for the Midway. Unfortunately, in my ripe old of age of 30flingenshmidlysomething, I've lost my ability to be spun upside down in a metal cage hooked together by rubberbands and super glue. Sorry, babe, no crap rides for you. And when I admitted that no past boyfriend had ever won me something at a fair I was met with shock and disbelief and a promise that that would be remedied post-haste.

And it was! My man was a stud and promply won me a big orange Nemo fish. On his first try! And so what if he had to kick that little kid's ass to do it. Suck it Beaver! That fish was mine! Then I threw a bunch of germ-infested ping-pong balls at floating bowls and won myself a Madagascar zebra to scare the cats with. Whitey was not done, however, and threw darts at balloons while I screamed and clapped and the carnie double talked us both into confusion and ended up with a lot of whitey's money. But I walked away with a white tiger and I was happy.

We got home a decent hour, washed off the goats and deep-fried sweat, and cuddled in front of the TV. Whitey was gratefully rewarded for his most excellent boyfriending and I went to sleep with a smile on my sun-burned face. It was a great, great day. And I didn't freak out once!

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber

Are alive and well...

I swear to all that is pure and holy, the average IQ of the average jacktwat I encounter on a frighteningly frequent basis is somewhere between a flatworm and a box of hair. It disturbs me greatly that such a large majority of the human race, we are at the mercy of in our daily lives, conduct themselves as adeptly as a dog with two dicks. This is scary. Pisses me off to high hell and scary. I shall illustrate for you now. Several fucking times.

I have tolerance for many things. Yes, it's true. Stop shaking your head at your screen. I do. Now stop laughing. There are pa-lenty of situations where I let the sphincter standing before me being a retarded tool flex and fart without batting an eye. I eat more shit sandwiches then fat Jared at Subway. But, it seems like there's something every damn day, and sometimes more than one something, and I for one think we who use more than .0135826% of our brains should revolt. With sharp sticks. For poking. Poking stupid people. Poke. Poke.

There are, of course, asinine situations that we can't do anything about and must wash down that crapadilla with a refreshing diet crap. It would be stupid to take that bait dangling before us, no matter how satisfying it would be to thrash it back-and-forth in our gnashing teeth until all that is left is a crimson wad. For instance, not that this is based on any kind of truth whatsoever because I love my job and don't want to get dooced so just indulge my totally fabricated (wink wink) example please.

Say you go to your awesome and highly intelligent boss with some real-life pressing issues, looking for advice and guidance. The most important being your health & welfare and the toll your soul-crushing commute and long hours are having on your less-than-perfect over-taxed system, worn-out body and questionable mental state.

Hoping that he'll...ah...she'll (ha ha, I don't have a male boss, noooooo) get the hint and perchance offer a reasonable compromise of maybe a few hours a week telecommuting since half of what you do can be done from home anyway and it's a proven fact that telecommuting saves companies money and for everyone's safety it might be better if I was self-contained away from the office. But all the brilliant micromanagers are too busy patting their own backs to implement that.

You pray that he, I mean, she thinks it's her idea because we all know that when you're dealing with a supervisor who's not the sharpest tool in the shed they have to be the originator of any great idea or it's shot down. In my case? Not f'ing likely.

My "hypothetical" dilemma was pondered for a moment, my boss looked at me with furrowed brow and concern, or was it constipation, I don't know, and started with a"hrm"...then suggested with a big bright smile that why don't I sell my house and move closer to work. Um, what? Sell my...WHAT? Are you seriously suggesting that I SELL my HOME and move? Into one of the top two highest priced areas in the entire city? Where my two bedroom condo would be the equivalent of a trash dumpster behind the local Starbucks and no free coffee? O.K. thanks! I'll get right on that! Moving is totally not stressful at all! That's a great idea! Idiot. (I totally said inside my own head as I smiled and chewed my torpooper).

Morons are everywhere. And I'm not just talking about those born with half a brain. I'm talking about lazy, useless nitwits that don't give a dink about doing anything the right way. Or they are blatantly trying to fuck you over and treating you like you're completely taking it wrong and you don't have the smarts or the cajones to keep up with their bullshit.

Take this stupid fender bender for instance. That dumb accident was 6 weeks ago and my insurance company has screwed up about 20 hundred times and have become completely pointless in the whole ordeal. Thanks for the back-up dicks!The other insurance company, of the kid that hit me, has tried to bend me over and force me to take it up the ying-yang about 50 times with a rusty fender. They lie, cheat and steal. I've gotten some letter or another from one of the two companies almost every day. And some days I'm extra lucky and I get 3! Woo hoo!

I've got claim #'s coming out of my ass, I've made 6 recorded statements. They decided that they'd only pay for 7 days of my 16 day rental car then the nastytude bitch had the balls to ask me why I had the rental car for that long. Oh, I don't know you stupid frothing cunt, because I wanted to drive a white non-discript Chrysler for more than 2 weeks instead of my OWN car. Or was it because it was not fixed yet you filthy puerile conniving ho-bag!

And now they've determined that I couldn't possibly have been hurt because their "accident reconstructionist" said so. Like I'm buying that one. This all causes my face to turn red and my butthole to twitch. It makes me so mad. So help me, I'd like to find one of these bastard scammers and ram them with my car until they proclaimed that I'm right and deserving and pretty and would write me a check from their own personal bank account with their bloodied fingers. But that would totally fuck up my new bumper and I'd have to put in another fucking claim!!

And as I briefly mentioned yesterday, my own personal health insurance woes are too gnarly to go in to. I'm past my eyeballs in debt and got some REALLY BIG bills on Monday. Bills I wasn't expecting. Bills that I'm not sure how I can pay for without selling a kidney and I can't even do that because mine is all defective from radiation (I had to take my organ donor sticker off of my license. How sad is that?). The thought of how much any impending treatments are going to cost me has me in a sincere panic. Like, I might have to sell my damn house to pay for this shit afterall. It's that bad. So, I hope there's a nugget of humor still leaking out of me because everything is as serious as a heart-attack right now and my panties are permanently twisted.

And we move on.

If you really think about it, these mental midgets aren't just working the drive-thru at Burger King where they forget your cheese and gyp you on the ice. They're in your payroll departments who don't bother to read your 2 sentence e-mail and hose up your paycheck that takes 4 weeks to fix. These botards are "repairing" our dishwashers, our cars, our airplanes. They're running our schools and passing laws.

They're the morons standing lazily behind the check-out counters in department stores and the health professionals casually mentioning that your scan was clean a week after telling you it wasn't then acting flustered and non-apologetic when corrected blaming the load of paperwork in their hands. They're ALL OVER THE ROADS.

I understand being overwhelmed. I get that our brains are not always going to work at maximum capacity. I sympathize that everyone has a weak area and an off day. The most brilliant and lovely man I know would lose his wallet if it wasn't attached to his butt with a chain. (Not that you heard that from me). And I've been known to spout some really ace things like walking into a library and telling the counter lady that I'm looking for "a book". Not my best moment, yo.

Intelligence doesn't necessarily equal self-awareness. But at least try to be cognizant of your surroundings and loosen up that tunnel vision. At least attempt to put a coherent string of thoughts together. I'm only asking for a marginal effort here. Not Ms. Perfect and Mr. Overenthusiastic. You know we all want to titty twist those people.

But sweet fancy Moses, use the four synapses managing to fire in your big dumb melon and think. And for the love of Jebus, quite being such an apathetic fuckface so those of us who aren't complete dumbasses don't have to do our jobs and all of yours. And then you just might avoid a hearty POKE. Cuz I'm seriously gonna get that stick.

Dear Employee; please burn in hell

Just received via Internal Corporate Slavery e-mail system:

This message is written to inform you of a planned Building G evacuation drill that will be taking place on the morning of Friday, June 10, 2005. The drill is currently expected to commence sometime between 8:00am - 11:30am. (rain cancels).

Wait. What? Rain cancels? Well isn't that just super!! The Southern California hysterics that lose their minds at the first sight of mist will bail on the disaster practice and I'll not know what to do in the event of an emergency!! Like, do I find the stairs and walk out? Or bang on a window, that doesn't open, hoping someone will cut a hole and save me? Or I know, I'll assume the position under my desk and wait for authorities to rush in and hoist me over their shoulders to safety!

When they pull my charred corpse from the remains of the building it will be all their fault. I Just. Couldn't. Figure. Out. What. To. Do.

Because, you know, it's not like I didn't learn how to do this...IN SECOND GRADE!!

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

God damn health insurance needs

Bad. Oh so very bad.


I would have traded with that chick in a second after the crap I put up with today.

Lucky slut.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Beware my kitchen

I got home from work last night and after recovering from the shock and awe of whitey’s broken car (god damn stupid people from Budget), I immediately launched into a whiny fit about how tired and hungry I was and how there’s no food in the house. We meandered into the kitchen where I proceeded to open the fridge and commence being grumbly about the empty shelves and Just. What. Are. We. Going. To. Do. Wah.

Whitey then admitted that he’d eaten the rest of my frozen taquito’s earlier in the day and I quickly snapped my head around in horror and proclaimed, “OMG! Those weren’t meat!! They were SOY!!”

His eyes immediately widened, his spine snapped straight, mouth dropped open, and he let out an audible gasp.

Ha Ha. Mr. Doesn’t Eat Green Things Vegetarians are Gay Kill it Grill it and Feed it to Me Carnivore ate soy.

Hope he’s still alive.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

This just in: I did not fall off the planet

I'm a dick. I know it. You know it. My cats know it. Now that we have that established, I've been really crappy about reading, posting and commenting. I apologize. I grovel. I bribe with cookies.

I'm just chock-full of excuses, aren't I? It's one of my many talents. Right up there with growing mold in the refrigerator and ignoring the cat puke behind the sofa. Princess indeed. I don't mean to be a dick. And despite my renewed burst of happiness and peace mentioned in my last entry, I've caught a bad case of writers constipation and mental melancholy. There are blocks of ice attached to my feet and it doesn't take much to slip and break my crown.

Stress, thou art not my friend and press upon my shoulders thus making me wish to turn inside-out like a hedgehog and hide away in my own ass.

God. I wish I could really do that. But since I'm a homosapien and not a little furry animal with cool tricks and a built-in duvet cover, turning me inside out would be rather, uh, unsightly. Hi! Here's my ovaries! And lord knows someone would grab me while I was taking a nap or something and put me on display in a museum with those other gross fleshless people.

Yes, I know hedgehogs don't actually turn inside out and it's more of a tight roll up maneuver but I couldn't do that on account of my gut and my boobs and I'd be more of a lump with my ass in the air than a ball. Also, these people are WAY into hedgehogs. Like, scary into it. And I quote, "It has been said that no other exotic animal has caught the attention of the public quite like hedgehogs have." Um, where? At the hedgehog convention with a bunch of freaks sporting animals in their pants? Riiiiight. And we move on.

I was hoping this week would have been a tad bit more manageable than last week. I was tired for days on end after my long weekend up North and there have been several really crappy things going on that took the wind right out of my sails and no amount of fluffing is getting them puffed all the way back up. They're better than they were a few days ago, but still, bleh.

Let me just say one thing that will make you understand one component of crap on my plate at the moment, Insurance Companies. See, needn't say more. I also don't want to go into all of it right now since there's one situation in particular where I've promised to keep my big yapper closed, but most of it is one of those, OK, if certain people don't keep their cryholes shut I will disappear for goddamn good and I'm not kidding.

Without giving too much away or confusing anyone further, someone said something to me within the last week that I'm sure they didn't intend to be incredibly hurtful nor did they understand the impact of the statement. But please, when someone has gone through a life-altering experience or illness, or is still in the grips of a shit-storm, please, please don't ever tell that person that you want the "old Betty" back. Or whatever.

It's an extremely damaging thing to say and I can tell you, plunged me into days of unable-to-lift-my-head depression. Yea, no shit, I'd like the old Betty back too. I cry for her too. But she's gone forever. I'm changed, forever, and it's not my fault. Doesn't mean I won't recover most of her when I do just that, recover, but right now I'm covered in poo and until it's all gone, things are not going to be the same. There are much better ways of communicating to someone than that. I'm just sayin'.

My desire for invisibility is also not an issue of not letting certain people get to me, because there are some who totally don't matter but think they do so save it ya'll cuz I have a healthy "whatever, ya crazy coont" on about that. It's an issue of not having the mental fortitude to spread around and handle my impending cancer treatments, tests, appointments, etc, daily shit we all have to deal with that sucks, and dickwads. I'm a'scarit and that takes a lot of energy.

And there's an element of, I totally suck and oh shit, I think I totally suck. Which sucks. So, there's been some crying. Suck.

Therefore, in my downtime when I'm being Miss Avoidance of All, and since all decent evening television has ended and we're left with some reality dance-a-thon with old has-beens and reruns of Reba, I've turned to my new obsessive compulsive disorder, JT's Blocks. This little exercise in torture and frustration can be found on Yahoo Games and is a constant taunting of my spatial skills, or lack thereof. Hours and hours of blocks. I'm dreaming of blocks. Blooooooocccccckkkkksssssssss.

Yahoo, unlike it's gentler and kinder counterpart Google, forces you to see the other shmucks wasting their life in front of a computer screen and lists the scores of other players. So, while I watch my game pause, mock my incompetence and flash "GAME OVER. YOUR SCORE IS 2" I can see the cyber geeks laughing at me while they furiously play to beat their own high score of 125,400,995. But I get offered lots of free porn, so I guess it's all good. Hey Jennifer! You're tits were not so tr00.

So...........I'm about ready to unravel and emerge from my self-imposed cocoon. About. Not yet. I'm stung all over like I was attacked by a swarm of angry ants and don't feel like jumping back into the cyber-fray today. Sometimes the internets is just too much to take and you have to check out for awhile. But I miss a bunch of awesome peeps and hope they understand. And they'd better fucking miss me too, dammit.

My rain cloud isn't covering my entire head, however. The bestest thing happened, finally, and I am very, very happy about that (at least). Whitey arrived promptly at 8 o'clock last night, safe and sound and sexy. I think we're both slightly stunned that this move has actually come to fruition. It's a lot to process and I'm looking forward to getting into a groove and letting it soak in that neither of us has to say goodbye to the other in 3 short days. But sweet Mary, he's finally here! FULL-TIME SNOGGING! How awesome is that? Let me represent my happiness in picture.



Also, to a very special friend of mine (who I've also been hiding from and occasionally reads this drivel), super hugs and squeezes to you. She had a very painful and scary boob episode last year and endured many awful tests and one fucked up biopsy. Thank god everything came out OK and I have a good idea how terrifying and grueling the whole ordeal was. She had her follow-up tit-smashing today and got another all-clear. I choked up with relief and wanted to give her a shout-out. Get those digital mammograms girls and don't let any fucking doctor intimidate you, ever. 35 is sometimes too late. I give this news 2 smiling dogs. Love ya, babe.

Next up: One gnarly rant and a tale of childhood trauma. Should be fun. :)