This is not the time of MY life, muthafuckas

Dear People In Charge of Television Programming:

Hi. I know you're probably busy lining up next weekends infomercials and stuff, since everyone clearly needs a Magic Bullet to keep a 14 gallon supply of guacamole on hand at all times so lets make sure that you play that one at least 4 hours back-to-back on Sunday mornings as I really have nothing better to do with my time after the cat walks across my head at 5:45 a.m. and I'm fucking awake now and the only thing to do at that time of the morning is watch the idiot box and what better to see then that 15 minutes of fame chick from Three's Company who replaced the annoying blond who replaced Suzanne Somers when she got all full of herself and wanted a gazillion dollars to run around in Dolphin shorts and a tube top but you have to admit she had a great rack anyway but that third replacement chick now looks like a bullfrog in a wig and she freaks me out every time I see her giant mouth stretching across my entire screen sipping on a frucking fruit smoothie.

~huge inhale~

But I digress.

The point of my letter is to give you a suggestion. And I assure you, this will make all of our lives better. Like, microwave better. Hybrid engine better. Paris Hilton being shot into space better.

Is it not bad enough that there are eleventy million channels out there and it can take an entire day to find something decent to watch rendering my remote button pushing thumb stiff from overuse? Are we not being teased into a frenzy by HBO who insists on repeating the same 4 horrible flicks on their 8 channels, including the Spanish one and why am I paying extra for this crap? And do you not think some of us have caught onto your immense laziness in your telecasting when some of us who have spent at least 35 out of their 38 years sitting in front of the TV would notice that the endless supply of better theatrical endeavors are probably locked up tight in Michael Jackson's vault right next to the elephant man's bones and some classic all-male "erotica" art?

Well, let me tell you, I've had it. I cannot take it anymore and if the powers that be don't do something about this gross injustice to some of us who spend every waking moment at home viewing the boob tube well, I'm going to write a terse letter. OK, I can barely manage fluffing the pillow behind my head these days so I'm never writing a letter, but I'm surely gonna complain a lot! And yell. Really loud.

WHAT THE BLUE FUCK IS UP WITH PLAYING DIRTY DANCING 14 TIMES A DAY EVERY DAY AND I USED TO LOVE THIS MOVIE BUT NOW YOU'RE RUINING IT!!!

It started out as a lark. A mere "huh, will you look at that, it's on again". Then I started getting a little freaked out that I was managing to flip past Jennifer Grey pre nose-job in her white jeans being lifted over Patrick Swayze pre bad-brow-lift in what I can only surmise was a scummy pond in the Poconos and I'll never stop wondering if families really went away to some smarmy resort together all summer and danced the Cha-Cha with someone named Trixie and why didn't Johnny get arrested for statutory rape since Baby was what, 16 and he was 28 and I always think that dude is gonna drop those two watermelons but he doesn't and do the lift, Baby, come on, you can do the lift!!

BUT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SUSPEND MY BELIEF IN REALITY IF YOU PLAY THE FRIGGEN MOVIE ON A FRIGGEN LOOP EVERY FRIGGEN DAY?!?

Next you'll get all obsessed with Grease or something and you'll kill that one too. So quit it already and play something else! Gosh.

Sincerely,

Betty

Let's just get to the pie already

Lance Turdicken the Disco Pimp and I would like to wish you a Happy Thanksfuckinggiving.



I hope everyone celebrating today fills their belly's till the busting point, laughs until you pee a little, spends non-psychotic time with loved ones, and maybe even gets a little sumpin sumpin. When you come out of your tryptophan comas of course.

The color scheme has been chosen, the house is coming along nicely, the food preparations will begin shortly, Boo is feeling much better, I'm looking forward to spending the next 36 hours with the man I love so much it hurts and one of the most riteous bitches in the world, and I'm uncharacteristically calm and happy. Yes, I said happy. Shut up.

Tis not my nature to make a long list of things I'm thankful for, frankly I think it jinxes me, but I will say that I'm so f-ing grateful to have some of the most incredible friends a dumb, grumpy girl can have, for whoever stops by here and reads my ramblings and rants, and especially for those of you who honor me with comments because I love that so much you don't even know. I appreciate it more than this cranky Princess can ever express without getting all misty and embarrassed and then I'll have to punch you in the eye to even things out.

Have a good one people, and stay safe.

Love,

Betty

Martha Stewart, I smite thee

This is all her fault. Or my mother's fault. Or someone else's fault. But it's clearly not my fault because that would mean that I'm ~nervous laughter~ a little crazy and ~wild eyed grin~ we all know that I'm solid as a ~crossing fingers behind back~ fucking rock. Um. Yea. So, anyway...

I'm OBSESSED with Thanksgiving. Normally I wouldn't give a rats ass about a holiday because I've been around for awhile now and the charm of sitting around some table with a bunch of people you're going to get pissed at after bringing up for the millionth fucking time that dumb thing you did when you were ten ha ha yea it was so funny when I pooped my pants on the school field trip to the Museum of Natural History thanks for sharing that little ditty in front of my new boyfriend mother and wearing a pair of pants that get so tight by the time you finish your mashed potato volcano with the gravy lava that you can't breathe without severe chest pains is gone.

This year, for the first time in many, I'm having a guest. A real live house guest who will not only eat Thankgiving dinner with whitey and I, but will spend the night. In my house. And I'm freaking out. Obligatory GAH.

I would have been pulling out all the stops for my man if we hadn't been living together since June but the bloom was off that rose the minute he discovered I am indeed a slob of epic proportions and it was no use trying to fake it with fancy meals and tidy rooms since he's seen the hairballs on my bathroom floor and witnessed me eating spaghettios right out of the can. Sigh. Sorry, baby. My ruse was nice while it lasted.

On Thursday the lovely Ginny (write something already, bitch) is traveling down from the slight north to feast and frolic with us and I'm very much looking forward to it because she's so funny that you'd piss your pants if you didn't keep up with bathroom breaks while hanging with this riteous chick and she's easy on the eyes too. Rowr.

I'd invite more people but I don't like hardly anyone and the pressure of having just one person in my house is driving me batshit insane and I suspect whitey too since, and you men can all do a collective groan now, I've already made a big long list of shit to do, dragged him (not really he volunteered to go with me because he's awesome like that) to buy "prospective I'm not sure they're gonna work out lets take them home and see" placemats with matching cloth napkins, and he cleaned out the fridge. My blowjob tally is now gone into January.

I don't know what takes over my normally lackadaisical (piggish) persona when someone is coming over. I'm compelled to clean like the ghost of Joan Crawford, redecorate the entire house, spend exorbitant amounts of cash on high-brow treats like goat cheese and crackers hand molded by Italian virgins, buy enough liquor to keep Nick Nolte happy, and I clean stuff. This is perhaps the sickest transformation of them all. Right next to buying live plants for fucksake. I can barely keep myself alive. What on earth am I doing buying plants.

Yesterday I was so frazzled with the 40 hundred frillion things I need to do that I was caught imobile and only managed to push a candleholder an inch across a table with my pointer finger. But it's in the perfect spot, now. Sweet Jebus, what has happened to me? I've actually been looking for more perhaps perfecter placemats online. At work. For an hour.

Today's current infatuation is my color scheme. Should I go with an orangy thing or go back to my blue stuff because that matches my good china so much better but I really like the yummy pumpkin pie candles I bought and we can always use the everyday white plates but that sort of looks stark against a nice autumnal linen and what about the sterling silver my mother gave me no that needs to be polished and I'm not going to have the time what with the flower planting and the dusting and the laundry and the light demolition because holy shit my kitchen sucks and I CAN'T HAVE SOMEONE SEE MY CRAPPY COUNTERTOPS.

I need help. Please send medication.

Guess what I did today?

"Can you scoot down a little more? A little more? Just a little bit more? Thanks"

Yea, you know what I'm talkin' bout.

Gah.

My mind is like a steel sieve

I had a great post planned for today. It hit me while I was driving home last night and I jumped a little in my seat and I smiled and said to myself, yes, that is pure genius. I shall pen it after I wake and the people, they will laugh. And the ire, it will be clear. And I'll be adored. And envied. And loved.

I floated home on a cloud of stardust with the birds of brilliance gaily fluttering over my obviously talented head thinking, it will be the most clever thing anyone comes across today. Perhaps this week. Nay, the year.

The masses will smack their foreheads and think, "why am I such an enormous idiot? Curse the Gods and my inferior brain for never considering that". The children will print my pages and take them to their mummy's and tell them they want to be just like me when they grow up. Full of piss and vinegar and fabulous shoes.

The men will contemplate sending me steamy e-mails of invitation then dash the idea after they realize I am far to good for their common souls and they couldn't possibly measure up to the Princess and her needs. Conversely, the women will contact me with reverence and veneration and beg me to reveal just one small snippet of my personal wisdom so they may too someday be as dazzling and clever as I.

And so today I sat down in front of my computer, poised my dainty fingers over the keys, ready to share with the entire world the most intuitive, original, humorous, passionate, biting, shrewd, sassy, and life-changing thing anyone in the history of the world has ever written...


...and I fucking forgot what it was.

By Thursday she was better

Even I, Princess Crankypants ruler of Crabbytowne, her Royal Highness of Snippyville, and the raven-haired favorite daughter of Poutyburg, cannot be a depressed mess 24/7. The last couple of days have been relatively asshole-free, until this afternoon, but I'm only slightly warm over that one. One Ativan with a diet Dr. Pepper chaser and I'll be right as rain. And tonight is a fresh episode of Survivor, so I have that going for me. Not to mention I've been on fiah with the funny. Cracking my shit up, I is.
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After a retardedly disastrous appointment at my GP's office on Monday, I wanted nothing to do with anyone resembling anything in a white coat. Not a doctor. Not a gay mechanic. Not the cute butcher at my market. I know I was all bawling and shit but I was wearing a scratchy germ-infested blue gown open up the back and it barely fucking fit. Shoving more drugs down my gullet is not what I was after. And I meant it when I said no 15 fucking times in a row. Jaysus.

I managed to look beyond the idiots I keep encountering and took a gamble to find someone who might be able to help. Even just a little. I called my company's mental health line and got an authorization number for the whopping 3 free visits they allow. We're apparently on the sitcom plan for resolving problem's. All of your life's issues handled in 23 minutes plus commercials and a free laugh track. So. Stupid.

Anyway, I called the first name listed since he was close to my office, had expertise in my particular afflictions (being koo-koo), and answered the phone himself. He was cool and calm and could get me in this week. I went to his office yesterday and opened the door with trepidation. I think I've made a mistake by not talking to a professional about my adventures in cancer-land these last 2 years but I just couldn't handle one more commitment of the doctoring kind. Or the financial drain. But now it's time. Sigh.

There were 2 girls behind the glass and neither acknowledged my presence. Oh shit, I thought, here we go again. One finally turned towards me and I was quickly told to have a seat and my head shrinker would be out in a minute. I managed to not saying anything snotty after being ignored, although I really wanted to bean the smarmy girl who saw me walk in with a jolly rancher from the candy bowl.

Doc. G. appeared from the hallway with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. He looked sort of like a throw-back from the 70's, judging by his feathered hair and office decor, but no matter. If he can help me get my head straightened out I don't care if he lives in a van down by the river.

We spoke easily for an hour. Our conversation peppered with nonconsequential subjects having nothing to do with my constant and pending anxiety attacks or my general hate for everything, although that was covered too. Just wait until we talk about my mother!

He also mentioned that he's a puppy raiser for a local assistance dog program and could arrange things so I have appointments when the puppy is in the office, if that was OK with me. God damn, dude, why don't you just offer me a chocolate IV drip and Johnny Depps penis while you're at it. With this kind of therapy he won't even have to be in the damn room.

I was only able to briefly mention my idea of taking a leave from my job (he's familiar with my company and its uncanny ability to turn their employees into angry mutants), but we'll talk about it next week. Or at least I'll try to blurt a few words out inbetween kissing all over that puppy! He seemed supportive considering the stress I've been under and I think almost said "no shit" a couple of times, but not in the no shit I know that way but no shit you're stressed you poor girl let me call my old friend Johnny Depp right now!

I don't think I've given myself enough credit for spending the last 7 months walking around not knowing if I have cancer growing in my neck and what my fate will be. I nearly lost my mind waiting the 2 days for word after my biopsy in the beginning of all this mess, I guess I thought waiting for another scan 6 months after that bad scan last March wouldn't be a big deal. Um, yea, WRONG.

I compared being diagnosed with cancer to being an innocent victim in a bank robbery. The kind where the robber grabs you and holds the business end of a gun to your head for 3 days while his accomplice negotiates with authorities. You spend what seems like an eternity not knowing if your brains are going to become part of the industrial art on the walls or if you'll walk out fairly intact. Then left with the uncertainty that you might not ever again sleep through the night without a nightmare that wakes you up soaking wet and gasping for air.

These last 7 months have been more like being a prisoner in a third-world country. Or at least I keep picturing that bad movie with Clare Danes where she and her friend get popped for smuggling heroin and end up in a hell hole prison for women in Laos or somewhere. Sort of the same, sort of not. But the anxiety never ends.

But, but, but. I won't give up. Even when I want to. I won't. I might be at the end of my rope and someone's pissing down the threads, but I haven't dropped yet. And one day I'll figure out the right combination for the kind of catharses I need. And let's just keep Johnny Depp's penis on the list for now, alright? I know I can work that in somewhere.
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In order to keep myself from going fetal, I make an effort to let myself be entertained, spoil myself with certain luxuries, and take the time to have some quality me-time every day. Since my last post was such a fucking bummer, I thought I'd share. Maybe we can make this a regular thing. What do you think?


The Funny

Laughter is the best medicine, blah blah, yes we know. I think a big fat valium is the best medicine sometimes, but I must admit, I love to laugh and it does send out those good endorphins pumping through my brain. (See you stupid cunt doctor, I don't need more drugs I just need more funny. Stupid bitch). If you haven't caught any episodes of the American version of The Office, I highly recommend that you do that right damn now.

I simply adored the British version and a pox on those limey bastards for only churing out 2 season's worth. This shit is comedy gold. Both of them. Rent the DVD's for the episodes made over the big pond and please, I beg of you, start watching The Office on NBC, Tuesday nights, or fucking record it. I didn't have high hopes for a remake but I was wrong wrong wrong. This weeks episode had whitey and I laughing so hard last night (see, I recorded it) that we nearly choked on our burritos. Literal screaming occured.

Also, if you haven't caught onto this yet, please swing by stuffonmycat.com. I've mentioned it before and it's been on my side-bar for awhile now, but I just can't get enough. Watch your spleen, seriously, you might damage it from the laughing. And crap, I need to send my pictures in because you know I stacked some shit up on my cats for that site. Ha.

The Luxury

I'm a makeup freak. I'm a die-hard M.A.C. fan and only use a few different high-end brands for things. I'm not a slave to department store brands but after being on the planet for 38 years and spending a great deal of those buying crap at the drugstore, you have to admit, the nicer stuff is better. In most cases. And if you're anything like me, an oversensitive freak inside and out, you can't mess around with cheap shit when it comes to your skin.

One thing I'd heard about a long time ago but could never justify was this. We are all so bombarded with choices and choices and more choices. Who the hell knows what's the best of anything? But let me tell you, if you're one the majority that shaves your legs, and do not live in France, then I can't applaud this Sweet Satin Shave cream enough. It's pricey, but the jar is huge. You can make it last a loooooooooong time.

It doesn't smell the greatest, but the consistancy is nothing like I've ever put on my body before. It's not greasy but it moisturizes your legs better than any lotion I've tried, and I hate lotion. It makes your legs smooth as a baby's butt and I swear my leg hair doesn't grow back as fast. Go get some or order it online. The whole Benefit line is pretty cool too. Just spend the fucking money. You'll thank me.

The Me Time

Almost every night without fail, I turn off the TV and pick up a book. I do this for 3 reasons. To enjoy reading, which I do, to let my brain relax, and to fall asleep. It's about my favorite time of the day and I've found myself turning off the idiot box earlier and earlier so I can dive into one of my books. Problem is, I have reading narcolepsy and sometimes I can't get past 2 pages without snoring. Then I wake up at 4 in the morning. Wide awake. Fun!

I just finished a book that I was given a couple of years ago and now I'm positively kicking myself for not reading it sooner. I had no idea it was in the same genre of Sedaris and Burroughs. A Girl Named Zippy is another book of memoirs written with an artistic flare, sharp wit and incredible recall. I'll admit that when I've read all 3 of these authors I questioned their ability to remember whatever happened on the third Thursday in 1973, but if you can get beyond that then you'll really enjoy the read.

Zippy is a spitfire and the author manages to put an unexpected twist to her stories over and over. And her imagination is enviable. I was jealous and in awe of her writing talent and completely entertained throughout. She manages to write the entire book in a child's voice without being contrite. The style was a little quirky, but I always admire anyone who breaks the rules and gets away with it. This was a breath of fresh air and I suggest you put this one on your book list. Laugh outloud funny.
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OK, kids. That's all I've got today. Time to go home and squeeze the cats. And that's is not a euphemism for sex, although it would be funny. I'm on FIAH!

And my hair looks like shit too

Hello internet. How have you been? I've been slowly going insane, thanks for asking.

Thank you for the comments. It's nice to know people are thinking about me. Things have been pretty darn shitty for an extended period of time and I seem to be wearing a stink on me much like a dog in the rain after rolling in a pile of cat shit laced with hair perm solution and Texas road kill.

It's all gotten rather serious and I'm sort of hanging on by a thread. Shit is stressful, yo. Lot's of crying and hair pulling and feeling like a caged animal being poked by sticks through the bars. Bah. My faith in the human race is at an all-time low and my attitude matches. The lightbulb at the end of my tunnel burned out. Depressing, ain't it?

A short list of just some things that have happened to me in the last 4 weeks:

1. A jackhole fuckface apparently did a jig or sat their fat ass down on my brand new fucking hood and put a fresh dent in it.
2. I'm post-poning my scan because 99% of the medical field is employed by incompetent pricks who don't return calls, order the wrong tests, spell my name incorrectly, are frothing cunts, and fuck with my health.
3. I have to find new doctors, see #2.
4. I went to my GP begging for help and was pushed towards drugs, again.
5. My home PC was invaded by some new virus resistant to every spyware, ad-aware, anti-virus checker known to man and someone is probably now buying whores in Taiwan with my credit card and no I don't want to play that online fucking casino game, thank you.
6. I'm $1800 in the hole trying to fix my kitty with the mystery disease and one more trip to the vet's doesn't have us any closer to a reason why she's skin and bones and now I have to go back to shoving pills down her throat every day and it's broken my heart because she's my baby and how long will she hang on?
7. I might get fired because I pissed off a dick who treats everyone, especially women, like shit and I don't take kindly to misogynistic buttholes and mouthed off after he growled at me like a rabid dog but he's practically untouchable and has a very big title and my boss has let me dangle since last Thursday not knowing my fate and I'm an anxious mess.
8. My asshole hurts. Don't ask.
9. Number of migraines: approx. 5
10. Days feeling like broiled shit: every damn one.

I'm trying to get in as much appreciating the small things in as I can, but it's a daily struggle. Thank god for whitey and I managing to laugh at something every day. I just feel trapped and miserable and overwhelmed and am tired of being an over-sensitive pussy. Which has been a theme for me for far too long. I need a hug from Oprah.

I'm considering putting in a leave of absence with my job, but they don't have to hold my position for me. I could end up a janitor, or worse, a security guard. I'm considering quitting and taking some much-needed time off. But there goes my bank account. There's no guarantee I'll be approved for time off for my scan, that will hopefully happen in December, and it's pretty much a given that I'll need more radiation too. Suckfest.

And the questions that keep swirling in my addled brain are, how much of this can I control? Is it hormonal? Is it my attitude? Is this permanent? Will I be trapped in crappy jobs for the rest of my life because I'll never be able to get private fucking insurance ever again? Should I move out of state? Should I get a dog? How do I start over? Should I go to grad school. Am I qualified for anything? Is this all worth it? Am I worth it? WHAT. DO. I. DO?

Man, I wish I had something funny to write about, or even a good rant, but I'm drained to the last drop. Sorry. I'm sure everything will work itself out, but right now it's all in panic mode. And I apologize to my friends who shouldn't have to worry about anyone or anything this much.

I don't even want chocolate. And it has nothing to do with the 29 pieces I ate yesterday.