Bathroom Bullshit

OK. I can't take it anymore. What is wrong with people?!? Why do people lose all sense of personal hygiene and feel compelled to violate unwritten washroom codes in shared lavatories? Not to mention the visual and olfactoral assaults being inflicted on their fellow man. Or in my case, their fellow wo-man. If I am going to be forced to share a communal bathroom with countless coworkers in my office building, the LEAST everyone could do is be fucking courteous to others. Seriously, it's really is the least anyone can do.

Come on sistahs! Work with me here. Because I am a ticking time bomb, and your asses are in jeopardy, literally.

First off, what's with the talking? I don't know you. I don't want to talk to you. I especially don't want to make eye contact when I'm attempting to sneak into the powder room like the demure, fucking lady I am and drop the kids off at the pool. This is a sacred moment and I do not wish my anus to be disturbed by a stranger who feels the need to say hello to me inside those tiled walls. Outside in the hallway, no problem. Well, actually, please don't talk to me unless you know me. A half-hearted, closed-mouth smile will do just fine. I don't need anyone actually saying "hi" to me. OK?

And never, ever, did I mention ever?, talk to me through the doors. Unless you need some TP, or you've accidentally shat your liver into the terlet and need me to dial 911 and get you a ziplock bag, never strike up a convo with a stranger while seated on your respective cans in the stall. The gentle tinkle of my pee doesn't need the companion of your astute observation that it stopped raining. And don't you know that if my feet are firmly planted in front of me and there are NO sounds coming from my stall that I might be busy with other things? Alone-time things that I'd rather be doing alone? Negatory. Nine. Non. DON'T DO IT. YOU FREAK.

Now, let's talk about inside the actual commode. Always make sure whatever you have just put into the porcelain pot actually plummets down the pipe. Completely. I do not, let me repeat that for some of you ladies who might be a little slow today, DO NOT want to see your colon crumbs playing swirly swirl at the bottom of the bowl. I do not want to spend one single solitary moment wondering if that is indeed a remnant of green pepper ingested the previous night on your thin crust, low carb, non-fat cheese, veggie supreme pizza.

I do not want to contemplate if you've been getting enough god damn ruffage after witnessing the crap carnage you've left for me. I do not want to see the skid marks left by your nervous stomach. I do not want to examine your stinking urine to determine if you've had one too many packets of sugar in your coffee this morning.

Secondly, we'll cover the seat, so to speak. I do not want to have to maneuver my foot, or my $100 calf-skin boots, into the gaping mouth of the toilet to get your insufficiently disposed-of, soiled, ass gasket to sink into the water so I can finish the sub-standard job YOU started and flush it all down. I do not want to have to waste any of my precious bodily function time dealing with your slovenly potty behavior.

Nor do I want to be forced to clean your pee-pee drips off what should be my pristine seat. If you're going to attempt the hover, you'd better damn well be doing some serious squat work at the gym and have well-honed aim, because I do not want to sit down with an unsuspecting dry bottom and end up with that paper stuck to my ass soaking in your piss. That's enough to make me want to hunt you down and slip a few hundred Immodium AD's into your venti carmel macchiato.

And if you happen to leave some watch springs behind, bend over like a good girl and somehow flick them away. I don't care where, just away. Far far away to pube land so they can frolick with the other hairs I pretend never detach themselves from anyone's body, especially their ho-ha's. It's my little fantasy and I'd like to keep it that way.

And C, let's cover the air we share. I understand there are those who partake in some rather exotic culinary dishes from time to time, or you simply have an unfortunate lower-intestine limbo going on that's out of your control. But you do have control over what stench you leave behind for those poor unsuspecting fools who saunter into el baño innocent to the foul anal napalm aftermath you've dispensed from your gut.

For fuckssake, don't suck the oxygen out of this already dicey enclosed space. Strike a fekking match, spritz a little perfume, light your hair on fire, just DO SOMETHING that will cover up the heinous filth that was expelled from your ass. Our company supplies us with air fresheners. Depress the fucking button already. It's not that hard. Jebus.

And finally, I feel the need to complete this diatribe by addressing a topic most people don't want to talk about, but it needs to be done and I will not apologize for the following public service broadcast. Girls, we all know what we're up against by owning and operating the delicate female equipment we have. Call it a blessing or a curse. Call it whatever you will, but we all know what it's like to have that not-so-fresh-feeling. If you can smell you, then I can smell you. Get my drift? Wink wink, you stink. Either you need some quality time with a garden hose, or you require medical intervention. Either way, take care of it. We've all been there, I understand, but none of us should be victims to the rotting trout residing between your thighs.

We all know that it takes the dexterity of a surgeon and the talents of a circus juggler to work with tampons, pads, legs, cooters, toilet paper rolls, feminine product depositories that will take off a digit if you get too close, toilet seat covers that stick to your bum or plunge into the toilet before you have a chance to spin around, pantyhose that are twisted one and-a-half times around your thighs, etc., ad naseum.

I'm fully aware that it requires the limber spine of an Olympic gymnast and an extra hand we don't have to traverse all that encompasses the lavatory, but please, I implore you, please get rid of any and all evidence that you are currently hemorrhaging like a stuck pig. Wrap it, flush it, stuff it in your crack, but get rid of it. Safely and cleanly. Really, it's the least you can do. Thank you.

A very special P.S.

For the multiple (can you BELIEVE there are more than one?) women on my floor that leave the crapper without washing your hands, we know what you're doing and we will catch you. Oh yes we will. I've seen your clunky matronly shoes and witnessed your flowered coffee cups on the counter. You are disgusting and should be shunned in public, flogged with a box of Stayfree Maxi Pads with Wings and forced to relieve yourselves in the bushes down the hill. Marked with a scarlet P for Putrid Potty Pooper, for the duration of your employment here.

You are deplorable and putting the rest of us at risk for disease and major oogies. Is it not bad enough we eat off the lunch truck? We also have to manuever the restroom like anti-gravity CSI examiners? You are sick sick sick and we will catch you germ-handed one of these days. Mark my ass. We will catch you.

Weekend Movie Reviews

I'm a total movie hound. One of my very favorite things is spending quantity time on my big comfy couch watching flicks. The kitchen stocked with provisions, me draped in yoga pants, braless (ah, the splendor of tits unleashed) and wasting the day away turning my brain to mush. I used to love going to the theater too. Before it cost the equivalent of a black-market kidney and you had to share personal space with humans.

Therefore, I subscribe to Netflix. I'm a supreme golden medallion member who pays for the privilege of viewing 5 whole movies at a time. Jealous yet? Best invention ever. Whoever came up with that idea deserves to be wiping their ass with 20 dollar bills. This affords me the pleasure of seeing all the movies, TV shows and documentaries my heart desires. That and I don’t have a fucking life so it keeps me from spending money I don’t have at Target on my 457th pair of clearance sweats and spending endless, obsessive hours opening and closing the fridge waiting for something edible to magically appear.

Therefore, I thought I would grace everyone with my astute ascertations and reviews of the movies I enjoyed, endured or loathed, over my semi-boring weekend. Warning: I give away spoilers. So if you don’t want to know details, endings and stupid secrets, skip these posts. And don’t e-mail me crying that I told you who done done it. So, forget those thumbs up/thumbs down bastards. I took Lit & Film in High School and Cinema 101 in junior college so I know what I’m talking about. And I’m right. So there.

The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagment
Whoever thought it necessary to add the caveat to this movie must have assumed the only people willing to watch this total piece of crap were brain-damaged children. Oh wait, that’s an oxymoron. Hmmm, was there anyone who didn't see the ads for this movie? I didn't think so. And don’t ask me why I rented it. The first one was cute. So shut up. And I’m a 17 year old trapped in a 37 year old’s body. So shut up. And it was about a princess. SO SHUT UP.

Anyway…this extended retarded sitcom was 90 minutes of crap. And the clothes weren’t even good! The plot was weak and they managed to plunge romance and women’s lib 800 years backwards with the “law” that our princess of Crapistan, or wherever, must marry another royal within 30 days. What? She manages to pick someone and receive a ring within a week. What? Invitations go out the next day. WHAT?

This stupid movie trips all over itself with sub-plots and scenes that go beyond suspended disbelief into improbable land. Really, really bad improbable land without anything redeeming like R.O.U.S.’s. There were about 9 million scenes and most of them didn't make any sense. A slumber party with mattress surfing. 10 minutes of mattress surfing. And a floor show. Huh?They even added a standard poodle, the dog of the dev-ile, and gave it more screen time than Julie Andrews. This is Mary Fucking Poppin’s people! YOU DON’T SHAFT MARIA FUCKING VON TRAPP!!

Here’s your choice. A frontal lobotomy or an hour and half out of your life screening this total poo.

I give it 1 ½ boogers out of 4. (Due to my system locking up and me losing my original Movie Review post (grr and god damn) when I tried to download a picture, you will be spared a photo of actual boogers or my original choice of Mickey Mouse flipping you off. Bummed, aren’t ya?)

Cellular
I had actually read some reviews of this movie hoping to hear that it was total shit and I’d move on to something that actually took brain power like an indie film about a dwarf with a foot fetish. But alas, a few Netflix viewers liked it so I got it.

It wasn’t that bad. I was actually drawn into the movie pretty quickly and they didn’t torture you with 2 hours of Kim Basinger crying into the phone. I swear. What is wrong with that woman? Is she hired solely on the fact that she can vibrate at will? That chick is like a human Chihuahua.

I liked the fact that they had her kidnapped right away. No fuckin around. Straight to the good stuff. And she tried to kick one of the kidnappers asses. Ass? Assi? She held her own pretty well. She even whacked one of them and the look of surprise on his face was priceless. I love it when a mother pulls the mama grizzly bear thing. The whole phone call thing was so unlikely I had to roll my eyes, but whatever. This wasn't Schindlers List.

William H. Macy was an odd choice as the come-to-the-rescue cop. And his talent was way beyond this bit of action-packed fluff. But the young dude was fucking hot and I enjoyed his eye candy immensely. There were a few good one-liners and enough blood to keep me satisfied. Even though I was ready for this one to wrap it up about 20 minute before they did. It wasn’t that bad.

I give it 3 boogers. It would have been 3 ½ if I had been drinking and if they’d let the cute guy be shirtless for a little longer. I was so robbed.

The Village
I mainly rented this one because of the hype surrounding the director, who seemed to get more attention than the movie itself. And his name is fun to say. I’ve been repeating is all day. Say it with me now. M. Night Shyamalan. Phoenetically, Shamalan. Shamalan Shamalan. Shaaaaaamaaaaalaaaaaaan. Shamalamadingdong. Fun, no?

Here’s another one that got thrashed by the reviewers. I disagreed with them, until the end. And then it all went to hell in a Hunt. William Hunt, that is. I was wondering what happened to him. Apparently he’s behind on a few mortgage payments, is what I think. And Billy, when you’re losing your hair, do not perm the wispy, receding top. Just makes your head look like a blond crotch.

The film flowed nicely and the scenes were stylish. The plot line was very clever and could have really packed a punch, if it hadn’t completely fallen apart in its ending. I was convinced this was all taking place 200 years ago and was surprised when I found out otherwise.

There were some really big names in this one, including a mentally warped character played by Adrian Brody that was just plain weird. I must say, I’m not a fan and couldn’t help but smirk when he bought it in a sink hole. Joaquin Phoenix played yet another low-talker sans emotion. Wow Joaquin, way to stretch.

All the elders have secrets (don't they always?) and they send the blind girl into the dreaded forest to get help. The fucking blind girl? And damn if she doesn’t come through, running through the forest at top speed. I can’t even walk to my car without tripping and the blind girl is sprinting over logs. Going against my claim to be a squealer, I’m not going to give away all the secrets to this one. Go see it yourself. But if you’re up for a true horror flick, this won’t satisfy your craving for severed heads and pig’s blood on the prom queen. It’s a direction the director should have gone, but Shyamalan blew chunks.

Shamalan. Shamalan. I can’t stop.

I give it 2 ½ boogs.

Dummy
Haven’t watched it yet since it has Adrian Brody in it and I can’t stomach watching Mr. Bird Beak twice in one weekend.

Weird thing that happened this week

Two friends of mine, who live on opposite sides of the entire country and don't converse, both purchased Arrogant Bastard Ale for the first time and discovered it's brewed practically in my backyard. Who looks where a beer is brewed? Weird.

The Cancer Chronicles - Take 4

cont:

My car is usually a source of power for me. Something that I can actually control. I like the feeling of being strapped in by my seatbelt and speeding down the road. All those horses at my beck-and-call. But not today. Today my car has become a tomb of anguish. The essence of my bad news shrouding the glass like steam. Smothering me.

I made my way home in a stupor mixed with panic and a side of shock. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know what to do. I aimed my car home and just let it get me there.

As I entered the freeway, I fumbled for my cell phone and called the first person I could think of. My oldest friend Karen. We’ve known each other since the summer before 1st grade and she's the closest thing to a sister I've ever had. 30 years of friendship under our belts. Her family was my family. More so since my parents moved out of state and I was left on my own in San Diego. I’d spend countless holiday’s and family occasions with them and I loved them deeply. Our parents are friends as well. I had no doubts about calling Karen first. I was wrong.

She answered and I managed to stumble through the story. I hadn’t relayed much of the past 6 weeks of tests and such to Karen since she’d watched both of her parent’s battle cancer in the previous 18 months and I knew it had been very hard on her. Particularly her mother’s bout with breast cancer. The chemo has almost gotten her. Karen’s dad had fared much better with prostate cancer but I can only imagine the toll it had taken on all of them.

Despite those facts, Karen was the only person I wanted to talk to at the moment. I was greeted with an icy reception after I dropped my bomb. Immediately perplexed, I knew I’d calmed down and was delivering the news with the most nonchalance I could muster and did not expect being treated the way I was. There was a half-hearted “that’s too bad” given and not much else. No offer to come up to my house or even an invitation to go to hers.

I was blown away. This being the single worst thing I’d ever been told and the one person I turned to pushed me away with frost and indifference. I so badly needed human compassion and companionship, and it was clear from the first minute that I was not going to find it in my best friend. Our relationship was never to recover.

I’m jumping a little bit ahead here, but this part of the story warrants further explanation. You might think Karen’s reaction was a direct result of her being over-saturated with cancer in her life. I gave her that benefit of the doubt too. I called on another friend that night who rushed over to my home with 2 bottles of chilled wine and sat with me for 3 hours as I proceeded to cry, get drunk, talk in circles, and gear myself for what was to come.

I called Karen the next day and the next, and when the frost turned into a glacier, I knew it was futile for me to continue to reach out and I stopped. She did show up at the hospital the day I had surgery and my first question was “what are you doing here”. She them admonished me for not telling her my surgery had been moved up from noon to nine a.m. I was in no position to fight but through my lovely drugs I was giving her a big fuck you in my head. Our contact was minimal in the following months until I phoned her on my way out of town for Thanksgiving.

It was a strained discussion to say the least, but we both agreed we needed to get together when I returned home to talk things out. She then admitted that her attitude towards me in the previous 4 ½ months was not due to her being overwhelmed dealing with parents. She explained she’d been a bitch to me (her words) because she compared everyone to her mother and what she had gone through and no one’s problems came close. She’d simply not wanted to hear me "complain". She didn’t want to “hear it”. I was stunned. She might have been lying, but it’s the lie she talked herself into and I was the one she not only abandoned, but admittedly treated like shit. It made my whole experience exponentially worse. We never did have that talk.

**Digression: I have since learned that being the one on the cancer side of the fence comes with a host of intricacies that you don’t realize when you’re being the comforter rather than the comforted. It’s difficult to know someone who’s been branded with “the C word”. And most people don’t know what to say, how to act or what to do. I fully understand how awkward and scary it can be, since I’ve seen both sides.

There were times when I was too exhausted to have one more conversation with a well-meaning friend only to spend my time and carefully metered energy attempting to make the person on the other end of the phone feel better as opposed to the other way around. Some people are overcome with their own fears and are usually unaware that they push the conversation into a preconceived direction. One that is meant to pacify their own agenda.

Within days of my diagnosis I received one such call where the person told me in a single breath that it was OK for me to be afraid but I HAD to remain positive. Every subsequent statement by me, expressing those fears, was cut-off mid-stream with increasingly agitated comments that I must remain POSITIVE. Alright, thank you for the advice, but when exactly the fuck do I get to have the fear part?? Huh? WHEN? WHEN DO I GET TO BE AFRAID YOU ASSHOLE? CAN YOU PLEASE SHUT YOUR OWN PIEHOLE FOR JUST A FUCKING MINUTE AND LET ME ABSORB THE FACT THAT 3 DAYS AGO I WAS TOLD I HAD CANCER AND I’M CURRENTLY SHITTING MY PANTS EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY.

Of course I didn’t say that, but I was thinking it. I had people tell me they “promised” I’d be alright. Sorry, but you can’t do that. I had doctors tell me they were “sure” it wasn’t cancer. WRONG. I've been told that I gave this cancer to myself. Nice. I know we all have to deal with that shit on a daily basis, but if you ever find out a loved one has been diagnosed with a serious illness, please, do your homework and learn about their situation and what you can do as a bystander. Ask the ill person what they NEED. It’s stressful for everyone, but being armed with some knowledge and being a good listener goes a long way and is by far the best thing you can do. **

I made it through the weekend, beginning to tell my friends, and I got through the phone call to my parents with relative ease. I was already getting sick of having to tell people. It’s a strange conversation and as I previously mentioned, is tiring. I went back to work the following Monday and started making arrangements and appointments. (I was to learn fairly quickly how this was going to change every single aspect of my life).

My endocrinologists office didn’t have an appointment until the following Friday and didn't seem too concerned about my diagnosis. That’s when I lost it again. I wanted to be seen right away and find out what the hell I needed to do. I had a psych professor in college who refused to let anyone use the phrase “patient”. People are clients, paying clients, and should be treated as such. I’ve never forgotten that, and in my current state of panic, managed to retain that mindset. I was squeezed in that morning. Fucking with me on a good day is stupid, fucking with me when I'm freaked is deadly.

The doctor was obviously irritated at my constant stream of tears, but I needed answers and he had them. We went over a few details and a surgeon was recommended. I was sent up a few floors in the building to the surgeon’s office and thankfully was treated with better care there. I was still a bawling mess when the next doctor walked in and he did his best to calm me down. He was a no-nonsense Englishman but managed to reassure me that I’d be in good hands and all would be O.K. I had no reason to believe anyone yet, although I had no choice but to put my trust in him, so I did my best to do just that.

I’d have to have my whole thyroid removed and a round of radioactive iodine therapy. I still didn't know much about thyroid cancer or its treatments, but thankfully, my very good cyber-friend Heidi got online and started doing research for me. Sending me as much information as she could. She found an online thyroid cancer support group called thyca.org and I began reading everything I could get my hands on to prepare myself and be the informed patient I am. I owe Heidi more than I could ever repay.

Reading about illnesses, symptoms and side-effects is a double-edged sword. It's important to learn all you can, but it's also frightening as hell to read about everything that can go wrong. There were many times when I didn't think I could take one more minute or read one more personal account of hell.

The surgery was scheduled for the morning of July 30th. 9 days away. The entire process, from finding the lump in my neck, to lying on a table being carved open, was 6 weeks.

Caveat

I just wanted to clarify a couple of things for anyone who's reading this mental purging. I don't expect anyone to keep track of the timeline, and it's certainly not my intention to trick anyone, but I'm recounting my experiences dealing with cancer that have taken place in the last 18 months. I'm not freshly diagnosed, but I'm sincerely grateful for your concern and kind words.

I've fumbled my way through this hellish journey like a cat on a unicycle, which I'm sure most cancer patients do, trying to figure out how the fuck to cope. I've made many mistakes in that arena and came to the conclusion that it was time for some pre-Spring cleaning of my brain. I don't want to be a premature postjaculator and give everything away now, so stay tuned if you wish, but know that most of the time I'm doing O.K., and the cancer is "undetectable" at the moment.

What I've been through I wouldn't wish on anyone, and I still have my moments of overwhelming fear, continuing to learn how the hell to manage the mental and physical fallout the cancer has caused. However, there are lights at the end of the tunnels. I'm not a full-time whack job and I don't spend the majority of my time wallowing. And I would never look for pity from anyone. Only understanding. The very best thing now is, I'm very much in love with an incredible man. A bonus I had no idea would bless my world.

I also don't intend to be a broken record, replaying all of this until people want to slap me and pull their hair out. There is still a huge amount of humor and fun in my life, and for that matter, a lot of life to live. And I intend to live it. I just need to stop this cycle of thought rumination, or at least slow it down to a manageable speed. It won't ever be over, but the art of putting everything into perspective takes time. So thank you for sticking with me and giving me your feedback. And perhaps learning something along the way. I really appreciate it.

Betty

The Cancer Chronicles - Take 3

After making her astronomically, insensitively delivered blow, Dr. Piece of Shit finally paused to ask if I was still on the line. I wasn’t able to answer right away. My memory is slightly distorted and when thinking back, I picture myself death gripping the steering wheel with both hands. But that can’t be the case since I was holding the phone with one. I realized I was travelling down the center of the street and blinked hard to refocus.

I righted my car and stopped its plunge into a line of bumpers. A physical reaction began like I’d never felt before. In the same instance, I was hyper-aware of certain elements of my surroundings and a completely void of emotion. The brightness of the sun became blinding. The hum of my tires deafening. The smell of my lunch nauseating. Yet I couldn’t see, or breathe, and I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. For a fleeting, infinitesimal, delicious moment. A moment I will crave for the rest of my life.

I had lost my center vision and can only recall seeing peripherally down the road. Just as described by most people who have faced instantaneous life-threatening danger, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Some alternate reality as I plunged into a realm of terror I’d never experienced.

I was conscience of the fact that I wasn’t feeling anything and how that was so very odd. And although it’s bad timing for this analogy, I can only equate this strange retreat from my only known reality like a giant tsunami. The tide was instantly drawn out past the horizon leaving the sea floor barren and starving. Then, without warning, in another second, it all came rushing back over me with a force that felt like my heart had literally stopped and I gulped for air like a suffocating fish. If I had died at that minute it wouldn’t have surprised me. And there would be times when I wished I had.

My body continued to react while my mind raced to catch up. Every fiber in my being began to vibrate with horror. My flesh broke out into an icy sweat. My ears pounding with the sound of blood rushing through my veins and my chest was heaving in painful, stilted contractions. It was so beyond any previous feeling of sickening despair I'd endured before. The kind that smothers your soul when you hear bad news. That midnight phone call announcing a death, a love affair over, a beloved pet gone for good.

The next thing I remember is sitting in my car, parked in front of my office building and I was arguing with the doctor with tears streaming down my face as I struggled to speak. When had it escalated to this? Even in a catatonic state I can still fight with someone being an asshole. She was saying something about how I “had” to contact a particular surgeon and see Dr. So and So, an endocrinologist. She committed the last infraction I was going to take. Off-handedly mentioning that this was not a "big deal", or something of that nature. Now I was waking up.

Not a big deal? You fucking inconsiderate, rank, skank. You just told me I had fucking CANCER. While I was DRIVING MY CAR. My shock turned into anger, my anger into steely rage. I told her I’d already found an endocrinologist and she responded with audible irritation and said “well, it’s obvious you don’t want us to handle your case”. That’s when I’d had enough. I screamed into the phone that it would be nice if she fucking gave me a fucking minute to absorb the fact that I’d just found out I had fucking cancer fuckyouverymuch. Then I hung up. I never spoke to her again.

Time out for a lesson: I now look at medical professionals like this. If they suck. Find a new one. If they're assholes, move on. If they treat you like a retard. Fuck 'em. You wouldn’t take your car to a mechanic that never fixes the problem then takes a crap on your passenger seat, would you? Your body is much more important than an automobile, and in my experience, you don’t get a second chance with my life. You don’t try to fix the ping, you don’t get to “practice” medicine on me. Your life, peace of mind, and your right to compassionate treatment is far more important than stroking a physician’s ego or lining their wallets.

What do you call someone who graduated last in their class in medical school? Doctor.

I cried, hard, in my car for about 10 minutes, frozen to my seat. Not knowing what I should do. It was an incredible feeling of helplessness. Do I simply turn around and go home? Do I try and go into the building and gather my things then leave? How can I face anyone? How in the world am I going to tell my parents? Oh christ, my parents. Who should I call first? Who should I call at all? What do I do now? My god, I need to get drunk.

I gathered my senses and walked past the receptionist in our lobby. My head didn’t explode. So far, so good. I went upstairs and turned the corner to our hallway. Still managing to put one foot in front of the other. I only had 25 feet to go.

I didn’t make it.

I turned right instead of left and entered my boss’s office. She took one look at my face and stood up.

I wasn’t close to my manager. She was a pain in the ass and not a good boss. She had tried, in her own broken way, to reassure me through all of my medical tests, in the previous month, that she was sure everything was fine. But that’s little comfort when things are escalating at every turn and you know a lot more about the situation, and the ramifications of what’s going on and what your future could hold. But you can’t tell your superior to suck it.

I stumbled toward her and completely broke down. I sputtered through earth shattering sobs that I’d just gotten the call and I had cancer. She leapt around her desk and threw her arms around me. Her instincts as a mother kicking in with powerful force. As I continued to melt down she kissed my face and held me tight, held me up, telling me everything was going to be alright. That I was strong and wonderful and I would be supported. Another utterly surreal moment to add to my memoirs. My boss was kissing my face. Too weird. And this was something my own mother would have never done.

But I was grateful for someone, anyone, to be there and come to my aid like that, at what is probably the most vulnerable and horrendous moment of my life. The sound of her door shut behind me. I imagine the entire hallway and all of my co-workers had heard me and someone had the presence of mind to give me much needed privacy. I never did find out who it was. I managed to calm down again and we decided it was better if I went home. I gathered my things, shut down my system, assuring her I could drive. The waves were still washing over me.

I just wanted to go home.

Take Two

This is so fucking retarded. I should be able to write about all of this. What’s the big deal? I lived it. Am living it. It’s not like I don’t know what has happened or what I still deal with. And I'm totally kick ass dammit!

Here’s the scoop. I’m sensitive. Over-sensitive one could say. In certain circumstances, don’t get me wrong, I’m also a fucking barracuda and will eat your young if I’m so inclined, but I’m also extremely responsive (that’s a positive spin I learned from a counselor) and easily affected by internal and external forces. I also battle near-crippling fears. All the fucking time. And this was a particularly hard week. I don't know what happens. What triggers it. But it sucks.

Something I have learned, am still learning, is it’s important for all of us to accept the fact that what you refuse to face, the things we expect to fade away, will chase us down like junk-yard dogs. The more you try to not think about it the more you think about it. Like the pain of heartbreak and every song you hear is a brutal reminder of lost love that re-opens the wound with every note. A perpetual turd swirling the bowl.

I won’t even try to profess that this bullshit that continues to ruminate around in my brain is a result of what happened 18 months ago, because that would be a big fat lie. On a certain level, I’ve always been this way. But, things have intensified and morphed and new fun challenges (can you smell the sarcasm?) were added to my repertoire of crap to handle. In fact, my entire life changed, and please note, this is not a dramatic exaggeration, and not all in good ways.

This is why a confession of sorts is proving to be incredibly difficult. Opening these floodgates is an exercise in unpredictability, and that scares me. However, the bottom line is possible freedom inside my own psyche. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover on a physical level, but hopefully the chains binding my brain will be loosened. And I’m confident I will be able to compartmentalize what is now my life and all the new thing that it encompasses. I just don’t have a timeline. Yet.

I can’t wait to become a decent writer, the artist I want too much to be, spilling forth eloquent prose to impress and move. And I can’t sit around wishing and waiting for feedback from anyone anymore. That is a bad habit. A false wish. And I can’t let my intense anxieties cloud my progress worrying that those I admire, respect and love will change their opinion of me and go running for the door. This has to be for me and me alone. And I won’t apologize if my words sound crazy, or uninteresting, or untrue. It’s my reality. It’s for me. And hell, I can always delete.
_____________________________________________________

Where was I? Oh yes, in the shower. I ran my hand down my throat and felt something, something odd. There was definitely a lumpiness there. Not your typical breast-exam handout description pea-sized dot but more like those fat cysts dogs get. Great, I thought, now I have a disease only animals get.

I had already been suspecting something was wonky with my thyroid. In the previous 6 months I’d had increasing symptoms of hypothyroidism, or a bum thyroid. I was steadily gaining weight and had attributed that to eating my way through a break-up, but then I started consuming less like a hyena and more like a human, but the weight kept creeping on. Then my skin got all dried out, my hair felt funky and I was really cold and really tired. By June I was feeling like I had a slight case of the flu all the time. And now there’s some weird mass in my neck. Shit.

I arrived at the new doctor’s the following Monday only to find a line of about 40 people waiting to cough up their co-pays in some cattle call area. I had never heard of such a thing and ended up being 15 minutes late to the doctor’s actual office. They refused to see me. And thus began my foray into the fucked up medical world of hell.

I was not happy about this and blurted that I’d found a lump in my neck. They managed to squeeze me in later that afternoon. When I was finally seen, I hoped up on the exam table and the new doc sauntered in. She had the bedside manner of a great white shark and I was a bleeding seal. She poked around my neck and claimed to feel nothing. I think about that moment ALL THE TIME. If I had decided at that critical point in time, to give up out of frustration or stick my head back in the sand, like so many with a nagging inner voice do, my future might have turned down a decidedly different road.

I insisted I had felt something and she resigned to squeeze my throat from another, more uncomfortable angle. And that’s when she too felt it. It was suggested that I had a nodule, something extremely common, but needed to have some tests. I was still blessedly unaware and naïve. As I was walking out the door she flippantly mentioned that if it was cancer I’d be “lucky” since it was the “good kind”. WHAT?? CANCER WHAT?? Lucky? Good? WHAT. THE. FUCK?? What did you say? CANCER?!?

That was my introduction into the world of stupid comments from medical professionals.

I’d never, ever, had the word cancer cross my mind. I thought I needed some medication for a few months, drop these lb’s and go on my merry way. Such was not the case, by a long shot. I'd already been dismissed by my other doctor FOR A YEAR, treated like some hypochondriac, and now my world seemed to be crashing down. I wanted an answer, but not that one for chrissakes.


I went for some blood tests and an ultrasound of my neck. The labs were once again normal but the ultrasound showed 2 nodules. Frick. I’d never been diagnosed with rocks on my thyroid before and knew that someone hadn’t done their job and adequately checked my neck during my annual check-ups. And it pissed me off.

After a follow-up appointment with Dr. Dead Eyes, I was sent for a special gamma scan where I felt like I’d been plunged into a comic book scene with some huge space machine hovering over my face and I’d be shrunk to the size of a field mouse, resigned to living in Barbie’s dream house trying not to be eaten by a cat.

I’d just started doing some research since the “C” word had been mentioned, but didn’t realize that they’d fed me a small dose of radiation for this gamma scan until later. A particular type of radiation that accumulates in your body every time you have some. Super.

In my readings of nodules, I knew that a “hot” one was A-OK and a “cold” one, not so much. After the scan they made me sit in the room. This was odd but I was new to all of this and didn’t get it. After about 20 minutes of sitting there getting increasingly nervous, a new face walked in and introduced himself as a doctor. I didn’t expect to see any doctors and it took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying. One of my nodules was “cold” and I would have to have a biopsy. What? Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Biopsies don’t sound like much fun. And they’re not. Oh brother, they are not.

Another factor that had never crossed my mind began to take form. I’d been going to all of these appointments by myself since that was my norm and I don’t have any family in San Diego or a significant other to hold my hand in waiting rooms like sweet little old couple’s. I was getting really worried but trying to hold my fears at bay. Easier said than done. I didn't have a smiling, understanding face to greet me when I walked back into the lobby with this news pressing me into the floor.

Becoming the persistent and informed patient that I now am, I’d already found a thyroid specialist for a consultation. He also used the phrase "good cancer" and "lucky". What the fuck is wrong with these people? I told him of the biopsy recommendation and he confirmed it was necessary but half-assed reassured me, without being bothered to look me in they eye, that even the worst-case scenario was no big deal. This would become the biggest lie I heard.

Upon the instance of my manager, I had a co-worker drive me to the next procedure. I felt very uncomfortable with this since I can be compared to a wet cat in cage when I’m frightened. It’s better to leave me alone and not make eye contact. I was already scared shitless and now I have to be fucking brave for someone else. But, I appreciated the fact that a friend was putting herself out like that. I don’t like to burden anyone else and have a hard time leaning on anyone but me. Another lesson to learn from, don’t try to be a pillar, doesn’t mean much when you’re all alone without supports. Eventually you’ll topple.

I’m pretty stubborn (no, really?) and don’t like being treated like anyone’s meat puppet. I’ve been known to refuse stepping on the scale or disrobing to my birthday suit when it’s not warranted, in my opinion. Sorry folks, you don’t need to see my hoo-ha for a sinus infection. The nurse called my name in horribly broken English (God, I hope I’m being taken to the correct room and won't end up with my asshole sewed shut by accident or something) and tried to get me into a skanky hospital gown. I wasn’t havin’ it and her irritation was not lost. Fuck her anyway. They were messing with my throat and I wore a v-neck t-shirt. Fucking deal with it.

I was made to wait for an obnoxiously long time at the end of a lonely hallway, all by myself. I nearly backed out of the whole damn thing. Finally, after I was good and freaked, I was taken into a room by a tech and told to lie down on a gurney. The small room stunk like a hospital and was full of machines and people. None of who were acknowledging me in any way.

As I was beginning to have a full-blown panic attack, the doctor came in right as I said the word “fuck” in what I thought was under my breath. He immediately admonished me for swearing and our relationship was over before it began. I tried to explain that I was scared but he didn't care. I thoroughly fucked myself with that display of non-restraint. I believe he did nothing to make the biopsy go smoothly and I would accuse him of hurting me on purpose. It was bad. Very, very bad.

I was instructed to scoot over the edge of the gurney and hang my head upside down. A sterile surgical paper was taped to my throat and covered my entire face. Without much warning, he began. One person continually swiped an ultrasound thing over my neck while the doctor attempted to "retrieve" cells from inside the suspicious nodule. This consisted of me being tortured with sharp objects for what seemed like a lifetime. He injected me with lidocaine, which I learned later makes a biopsy of this nature hurt worse. Yea for me.

This was the most excruciatingly painful thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. The doctor had tons of trouble getting the needles into the nodule. He had to keep using bigger and bigger syringes. I was convinced at one point he was using a McDonald's straw. There was also some conjecture that the nodule was partially calcified, which justified injecting another substance that would hopefully break the nodule up enough to get a viable sample. This meant another needle plunged deep into my throat like a sewing machine. Poke poke poke poke poke poke times 100.

The doctor handed over a slide to some lab geeks standing by. No one had yet to say a word to me. I was in so much pain I was death gripping the gurney pad until my fingers cramped and I sounded like I was giving birth. Tears were a constant stream down my face, falling into my ears and onto the floor. All while I was hanging upside down and trying not to move. 6 people in this room with me and not a fucking word.

To my horror, the first sample wielded nothing usable. We were going to have to go through the entire routine again. After about 45 minutes of this, I couldn’t take anymore and said so. I was responded to with a puff of exasperation from the asshole armed with the hypodermic's and he told me if this one didn’t have enough cells I’d have to do it again. No fucking way Jack. Not by you at least. I'd rather have an epileptic with a rusty knife do it.

It took me a few minutes to recover. The lights were turned on and still, no one said a word to me. It was getting surreal. I sat up, wiped my face dry with the back of my shaking hand and told everyone in the room that it would be nice if when a patient was going through something like this that someone, anyone, say something. I was met with blank stares and again admonished for swearing. Unbelievable. I made a point of reminding them all that these were scary times for a patient and a little understanding goes a long way. If I hadn’t been so traumatized I would have called them all flaming fuckers and kicked someone in the crotch.

But I gathered my senses, and wobbly legs, and got the hell out of there. I was driven back to the work in a daze. Unable to swallow or move my head for days after. My entire neck turned black and blue and remained that way for 2 weeks. It was the middle of a beautiful Southern California summer. But all of that meant nothing to me. My life was coming to a stop. Winding down like an old carousel, ponies with chipped paint and vacant eyes.

It was Friday July 18th. I had gone to pick up some lunch and was heading back to the office. Trying to keep my life in some semblance of normalcy. Only telling my company what was going on as to not worry my friends and family.

My cell phone rang. It was Dr. Cold As Ice. She asked if it was a convenient time. I replied yes. She asked if I was on my cell phone. I confirmed and told her I was returning to work in my car with some lunch. There was not a pause. Not a moment inbetween. My last word still escaping my lips. Without skipping a beat she said, “the results are in. It’s malignant”.

I almost crashed my car. I don’t remember much of the next 10 minutes. My lunch was never eaten…

Flip Flopper

I started it. And now I don't know if I can finish it. Fuck finishing, I don't even know if I can take the next step.

Fuck.

This is harder than I can express. One ticket to crazy town. All aboard! Or just me.

Fuck.

Taking a risk

Drama unfolds at my feet without invitation. (Sometimes). Stealing moments, hours, days. (Years). These bastard thieves of time have taken enough. (Way too much). Calm out of chaos, chaos out of calm. (My MO) Blame has its place. (You know who you are). Explanations a distant cousin. (But still an important member of the family). I'm beyond weary today. (Again).

Truth. My truths, at least, are ready. My story. Just one of thousands, but it's mine. My personal diary that I purposefully have not put into so many words. A blurb here-and-there. A correspondence with an advocate. A short conversation with a stranger. A pleading glance. An effort to make it all go away. A failed attempt.

Batten the hatches. This boat is about to set sail. And hopefully, we'll get to blow this motherfucker up and sink her into the Sea of Past once and for all. Let it become a safehaven for something else, and remove a burden from me. A stormy soul finally calmed by the catharsis I've been looking for. One gaping chink in the armor has already been repaired. Love has found its way into my life, for that I am extremely blessed and eternally grateful. Hopefully this will take care of the rest. Taking a deep breath. Plunging into potential danger. Fingers crossed.

It's time...

_________________________________________________________

I knew something was wrong. Despite the outside influences and self-imposed stresses of every day life, a voice deep inside my head was whispering to me. It's amazing how adept we become at ignoring those soft messages in the back of our minds. Well-intentioned friends and family reinforce denials. Those who are professed to help caught in backwards red-taped industries.

"It's just stress."

"It's your crappy job".

"You're not getting enough sleep".

"Take two aspirin and please don't call us again".

These, of course, are usually true. But my whisper turned into a shout. Then the shout into a scream. And it's never stopped.

It was June of 2003. In the previous 6 months or so we'd all witnessed 9/11. In one weekend I quit my job of 8 years and was dumped by the man I loved. Within another month my brother's marriage exploded in a fireball of police, restraining orders and fear of a murder-suicide. I didn't want to exacerbate any more family anxiety with my personal problems so I kept them to myself. And for the most part, have continued to. And this has been one of the biggest mistakes of my entire life.

Something wasn't right. And I knew it. I made an appointment with my doctor. One or two marginal tests were conducted. A finger up the ass here, a blood test there. I was sent away with a condescending clean bill of health, mysterious symptoms (to them) and the nagging instinct that all was not O.K. I've never done well on tests, I knew the lab results weren't telling the whole story, why should they be any different? Knowing something is very off in your own body and having a medical professional throw a shrug of indifference your way is not a comfort. More on that another time.

For some reason, I listened to my gut this time. I did not dismiss myself. I'd been down this road before and every time I was right. Having the satisfaction of saying, I fucking told you so, and the regretful confirmation of what it actually was. These are important voices to listen to. Fear is an adequate motivator.

I did some more research online and my initial suspicions of what could possibly be going on were further supported. I'm situationally tenacious, but in this case, was not going to give up. I asked a friend if she had a doctor she liked. She did. I made the call and did my best to keep my nervousness at bay. The Saturday before my appointment I had returned home from my horse riding lesson and was in the shower as normal.

For some reason I ran my soapy hand slowly down my neck and that's when I felt it...

Lucy, you've got some 'splainin to do

Calling all bitches. And I say this with the utmost love and respect. Please explain something to me. But give me a second, I'll get to it.

I've been waxing all philosophical and shit lately. This is what happens when you're an over thinker and you have too much alone time on your hands. My mind rarely stops, I've talked about this before, and I have to make legitimate, purposeful efforts to push my personal pause button and give it a rest. God forbid I wake up during the night, which happens every night, and my switch flips back to the "on" position. I'm guaranteed at least an hour of crack-of-dawn pondering over the current drama's weighing on my skull. It's so annoying.

I'm a student of behavior. I have a fucking degree in it forchrissakes, not that that means a damn thing anyway, but tonight, a particular topic is perplexing me and I'm seriously curious for an answer. An explanation I either didn't receive in college or don't remember talking about. And this issue sucks. Pisses me right off and sucks.

Why the fuck do some women (notice the use of the word "some", I do this on purpose as I detest absolutes and think anyone who uses them is always a retard. OK, that was a joke, but you get my point) feel the need, nay, the compulsion to seek out and stalk like a slutty cat in heat, men who have clearly given their hearts to another?

Why do they do this?

Is it ingrained into the female DNA? Is it an accepted societal norm? Is it the scripted dance between ALL species of the opposite sex? Can these women help themselves or are they pre-programmed fembots with vagina's? Am I fooling myself into thinking anything on the entire planet can truly be monogamous?

One thing that I believe is that women are in constant competition with men and women. As opposed to males who only contend with other males. We chicks really aren't a part of that equation. But take a girl against anyone else, be them male or female, and out come the claws or more likely, master manipulations that most men are oblivious to and some women can't do much about. Sorry guys, but you hardly ever know when you're being played. That's just the way it is.

Women are equally as dumb to the games men get away with. But we definitely have a clue when a woman is trying to hand down some serious bullshit. And this is what pisses me off. The need for attention that is so overwhelming by some women it's like a black hole in the universe that attempts to suck every living thing into their own selfish prick of a world. And this is usually done right in the face of another woman.

I can't tell you how many times I've seen some bitch, not a female I respect on any level, go after, not flirt, not tell a good dirty joke, not be friendly, but throw themselves at another woman's man. Right in front of his significant other. And fuck me if these ho's don't win some of the time. They’re like that weird kid who had the triple scoop double dutch chocolate ice cream in the waffle cone with whipped cream but just had to have your single scoop bubble gum ice cream in the cup. Nobody liked that kid. Get your own fucking desert.

And I must add a caveat apologizing for not being able to come up with a better descriptor for my insinuation of the word "belong". I'm a firm believer that no one belongs to anyone else. I don't own anyone but my cats. I'm not responsible for anyone but myself. I don't want to control anyone else, and I don't have a desire to be any person's parental unit. I don't "let" anyone I'm with do anything. I fucking hate that shit. Courtesy is one thing, but some of this permission crap is out of control and I want no part of it. You are responsible for your own actions and you face the consequences of breaking any trust in a relationship. You fuck up, you pay, I leave.

Flirting on a certain level is fine. Terms of endearment are great. Everyone needs attention. Everyone likes to be flattered. It's natural and I'm no different. I'm a total attention whore. But I'm not such a whore that I'd shamelessly throw myself at a person who's in a committed relationship. So take note you women who think it's cool to do this. Or cute. Or harmless. I might have tinges of jealousy, I will admit that, but this has nothing to do with that. It has to do with the extreme level of disrespect some women have for each other that's stumping me for an explanation.

Giving your heart to another person is a serious thing in my book. I don't do this easily and it's a big deal. In return, if I'm lucky enough for someone to entrust me with theirs, I will honor and cherish it. I respect this in other people's relationships as well. And god dammit, there are lines you just don't cross. If you do, and you do this as a big "fuck you" right in someone else's face, well, then you're an asshole and I wouldn't give you the satisfaction to gather the energy to spit in your face. Although I would muster the force to kick you in your crusty crotch before stomping on your soul.

But heed this violators of the unwritten female code. I'm also confident in myself. Confident enough to know that you're pathetic and not part of the equation. And if you ever do become a part, I hope you and the useless, weak, limp dick of a person who fell for your pitiful pussy have a happy life together. Until some other cunt does the same thing to you. If you've acted like my friend, and he's broken a promise, then I'm better off without either of you.

Obnoxious people are good for a quick laugh, but you're soon tiring. It gets old but quick, and you'll be left with yourself and your raunchy schtick, eyes of repugnance staring, trash talk at your back. Everyone, everyone, gets sick of the one trick pony. Been there, done that. Ad nauseum. So when you think you're being clever, again, you're not.

Come on girls. We have enough to deal with in our society. We have enough to sort out in our own heads. We don't need to be at each other's throats, or in everyone else's pants. By all means, I'm not suggesting we sit in sewing circles singing kumbaya and braiding our hair, but get some dignity why don'tcha. I love men. I love women. But I have NO USE for a woman who spews platitudes about being a "sister" then vomits bullshit all over her fellow females with such disgusting disregard.

Have a little bit more respect for others and you'll naturally have more respect for yourself. Or else be ready for my foot up your ass.

Head Go Kaboom

Thank you to everyone who stopped by and said "hey" and for anyone who has taken the time to read my silly blatherings and completely warranted rants. I really do appreciate it. And I will get over my need for external validation. Somewhere in my 90's.

I wish I had a witty tale to tell, or a deeply thoughtful, beautiful post like Ginny inside of me today. Or the ability to weave a profoundly intelligent anecdote that makes you stop and ponder while you audibly utter a "wow" under your breath, like whitey does every time he puts fingers to keyboard.

But, unfortunately, despite my feeling much better this week, and managing to shake off most of the crankies, somehow I pushed my personal envelope and over-did it. Fucking stupid fucking work and the 50 fucking hours I've put in this week might have something to do with it.

I now have a migraine that was preceded by a particularly bad panic attack last night which was only thwarted by a fistful of Apple Jacks and an Ativan. I think my brains are leaking out of my nose. Yes, I'm sure it's my brains.

And my right eye is falling out.

But don't worry, I have duct tape and a rubberband and everything will be just fine. Have a good weekend kids!

Late Bloomer

**Edited to add that you all suck at this comment thing! PFT!!

This is the theme of my entire life.

Apparently there was some global blogging de-lurking day last week and of course I'm sitting in the caboose of this train looking backwards down the track. But I'm still on it dammit!

So please come out of hiding if you're passing on by and say hi and I'll say hi back. I'd love to be a naughty voyeur on your blog if you have one. I need to waste at least half my work day fucking around or I just don't feel like I've accomplished anything at all.

Plus it's really good for my situational self-esteem. A princess still needs strokes people, even if she rocks most of the time. And if you don't, well, you can kiss my tiara. :)

Thanks!

Wow

You know when you've been all wrapped up in your own shit and your head has been firmly jammed up your ass and you've been a cranky, self-absorbed dink and you were a poopy no-fun poop on the phone with the most incredible human being when in reality you're just missing someone so much that you're acting like a baby because you've been sick and lonely and bored and you want nothing more than to be in his general vicinity just so you can feel his presence and plant your lips on his forever?

Then you feel better and the rains stop pissing buckets onto your head and the sun comes out and you're thinking about a special someone for the millionth time that day and suddenly have one of those moments of overwhelming passion and adoration that it sucks the oxygen from your lungs and makes your heart pound with adrenalin and aftershocks hit your tingly parts from the mere thought of his hands on your body and you're so fucking appreciative when you realize there's a person on the planet who is so awe-inspiring beautiful and talented and all the words better than awesome that you can't possible be so lucky as to have this man not only in your life but actually be the recipient of their love?

I just had one of those.

Third Eye

Mount Vesuvius has taken root on my face. Threatening to erupt at any moment and envelope the villagers with hot, molten lava. They'll try to run, screaming in fear. From me. I've made babies cry and dogs tuck their tails in terror. I've been chased by villagers with fiery torches.

I have a zit. Of epic proportions. It's a flesh Volkswagen. A giant, throbbing, size of a kitten pimple next to my nose. The kind that springs forth without warning in a matter of milliseconds and is connected to every nerve in my head. I can't move a solitary muscle in my face without the painful reminder of the giant chancre taking over my skull.

The gravitational pull of the earth is yanking on my upper lip and I'm having trouble keeping my head upright. I'm fearful that I could distrupt the weather patterns of the Northern Hemisphere with this thing. I think it's another dimension, inhabited by microscopic aliens attempting to take over the world. Through my face.

What? Am I fucking 13? Have I not been through enough these last few days? Now this?

I'd stick around and regale you with provisional portrayals of the pink pustule on my puss, but I have an appointment to be fitted for a BURKA!

Fuck you, Nabisco

What the flying fat has happened to the food industry in the last few years? Please tell me. I need to know. I smell a conspiracy and it's not gently wafting through my olfactory passages like hand-made bread lovingly kneaded and slowly baking in a warm oven. It stinks like that unidentifiable crap-filled tupperware in the back of the fridge that grew hair and made your eyes water when you peeled off the crusty lid.

Most food is sacred to me. It's consumed in joyous celebration and comforts most ills. I actually own this shirt. Yes, tis a joke, but funny, no? I'm not an eat-to-live person, I'm a live-to-eat. Breaking my daily bread is not merely an act of nourishment for my body. It's sustenance for my soul. And these people are jacking with my soul man. MY SOUL!

Continuing my quest to be the most convoluted, complicated kook you'll ever meet, I'm picky. Please contain your disbelief. When I was a child, my mother was not permitted to reveal any ingredient list for whatever meal she was serving. Eventually we'd get down to #3 or 4 and that's where I'd refuse to lift my fork. Without fail, after chicken, flour, and butter, some strange substance like eye of newt would be mentioned. Wait. What? I don't know what that is. It must be gross! Hey! The chicken is orange. I DON'T WANT IT.

I have been able to spend most of my life refraining from patronizing eateries who serve meals created by stuck-up Frenchmen who consider sputum-on-toast a delicacy. Where the ambient light is curiously low as to suggest they don't want you to be able to identify the mysterious tiny stack of what looks like meat steaming in the middle of your giant plate surrounded by a swirl of green jizz.

This has been a conscience choice on my part. I don't like freaky food. I won't eat any animal that is not on my very short list of acceptable slaughter. Cows, pigs, chickens, turkey's, some fish. That's it. No babies. No sharks. No Bambie's. No buffalos. No vittles. No fucking thing you shot in the woods or ran over with your car. Don't hide it in the spaghetti sauce, don't cover it with a bun. I DON'T WANT IT.

I've been tricked before. My bastard family thinks they're so funny. We had a group over for "fish tacos" one time and as we're all sitting at the table some smart ass starts humming the theme from Jaws. Then another joins in, then another, until I finally understand that I've just taken a huge bite of something I'm diametrically opposed to eating for personal and environmental reasons, AND I'm the butt of a joke. This is a lethal combination. Needless to say, I was not pleased and others went down with me. Jaws indeed. They'd wished all they'd suffered was being munched by a giant shark. Fuckers.

When I was in San Fran in November my best friend Matty, whitey and I went to a little bistro for dinner. The word bistro should have tipped us off right there, but I'd eaten at this place before and had a burger and fries. How shi-shi (chi-chi? Sheshe? You know what I mean) could it be? We opened the menus and immediately (most of us) had trouble finding something to eat.

And it was even worse for "I'd like a PLAIN, cheeseburger, PLAIN, please. Did I mention, PLAIN?" whitey, who immediately asked what the hell the conglomeration of vowels were that could be found as an element on half of the menu. It was explained as flavored mayo but they called it aioli or areola or uvula or some such. Go ahead, try to say that. Can't, can ya. Poor guy ended up eating a salad.

Let's talk about all these fucking pompous chefs with their over-the-top obnoxious extravagant elaborations of a side dish for fuckssake. It's not a subterrainian, pre-pubescent, imported, sliced on the thighs of Norwegian virgins, lightly fondled, deeply thrusted, urbanely seared, truffle infused pomme frite. It's a PO-TA-TO.

You can hardly traverse a drive-through without having the clown ask if you want to try the sun-dried, encrusted, re-fried, sauteed, hand-pressed, classic, retro, three cheese, free-range chicken wrap. NO! And tuna salad shouldn't make your mouth burn. Please leave the fancy fish for the fancy fish restaurant. That I don't go to. On purpose.

This brings me to my main complaint, just in case you were lost in the Rant Forrest I've plunged us in to. It's bad enough that almost every eating establishment has jumped on the "pseudo gourmet bandwagon". But all measure of eateries and manufacturers alike are trying to trick us. And I'm on to them.

They're treating us like we're dumb. And some of us are dumb, but not me sista-friend. I know that food is getting jammed with all of these crap fillers and recipe's are being touted as "new and improved" so we're not being served the good stuff. Fuck you Kraft. I know you changed the powdered cheese formula and then tried to change it back when it blew up in your stupid faces and you had to launch a world-wide campaign to convince everyone you were indeed the cheesiest after you fucked with it and turned it into the cardboardiest. But it's not exactly the same.

And how many times have you gotten a subway sandwich and you patiently peer behind the snot-guard, watching your sandwich artist painfully, carefully, peel apart and fold the paper-thin slices of congealed pressed turkeyfood, hap-hazardly slapping 3 WHOLE SLICES on your huge piece of bread, then spread their fingers as wide as they'll go, plunge down with all their might to the bottom of the shredded lettuce tub and dump a truckload on top of your sammy? WTF? Lettuce only tastes good when it's swimming in dressing anyway, don't force me to be a vegasaurus, asshole.

Or take the salad bar at my work. Recently they've started supplying the normal iceberg lettuce bowl with some nasty mishmash of lettuce, huge slices of dried out carrot slivers (gag) and that purple cabbage crap (double gag). (Yes, I know it's red cabbage, but that makes no fucking sense because it's not red, it's purple, and you're not the boss of me). I'm sure the crapateria ladies think they've invented some superior product. A salad that will be colorful and jaunty and varietous. But it's not. Now it's garden clippings.

I'm trying to be healthy. I'm trying to get some roughage in my system. I don't want to wade through my precious blue cheese slathered all over the top to pick out the fucking unnecessary rank-tasting filler you're putting in the lettuce to make it stretch farther. Charge me the extra .03582 cents and leave the rabbit food out of it! I DON'T WANT IT.

This phenomena is literally everywhere you look. I've been sick as a damn dog for the last 4 days and have eaten very little, which completely screws with my food-obsessed brain since I should be eating why aren't I hungry oh god I feel sick but I want to eat!! This sucks!

My friend brought over some provisions, one of them being Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup. That right there is bullshit. For anyone worrying about the number of fowl being killed every year, please don't put your focus on this company, because by my calculations there's approximately 1 chicken murdered for every 1200 cans of soup coming down the conveyer belt. Chicken Noodle my ass. It should be re-labeled to read, Yellowy Water with Floating Goobers Tons of Wormy Noodles and One Pink Chicken Nugget Soup.

Containers of nuts now say "less than 50% peanuts". I see. You've been ripping us off for so long, filling the thing with sub-standard nuts and peppering the can with 1 measly cashew, the coveted mother of all nuts, that you must proclaim, in print, that you promise, at least more than half will not be crap? How is that a plus?

I just don't understand why some establishments mound your plate with 14 servings worth of food and others give you a barrel of steamed rice with two chewy slices of meat and a pound of limp broccoli. Quit stinging on the protein people! Don't you know we're all afraid of carbs now? Sheesh!

Aaaaaaand another thing. Please stop making the bags, boxes, baskets, buckets and barges of snacks SO BIG that you need an SUV to get your chips home, only to find 5 sad little taters smooshed at the bottom when you manage to blow-torch your way into it.

I am on to you!

don't eat the tuna!!

Yea, so, I spent my day yesterday in the ER being poked and prodded and puking my guts out. Guess I shouldn't have eaten that tuna melt off the lunch truck. Ya think? Be back soon.

DON'T EAT THE TUNA!!

Karma Shmarma

I'm in a give up mood again. I don't really know where these things come from. What the particular trigger is I could look out for and dodge. Pulling a screaming serpentine down the street to avoid the shit-storm. They make me feel overwhelmed and restless and my skin is ready to slide right off my body and go take a Hawaiian vacation without me.

I battle with depression and hormones and today they're winning. My rifle is jammed and my helmet is dented. My new orders haven't come through and I'm stuck in this foxhole fantasizing about crawling through the muck, escaping across a foreign border where no one knows me and people wear funny pants.

This dark cloud hanging over my head is annoying and threatening. Causing a ripple effect of irrational thought. Today I don't like my earlobes again. Yea, cause that's important. I also worry that anyone witnessing another one of my "moods" will respond with irritation that they might be obligated to deliver yet another, "no, you do not completely suck you idiot" monologue with restrained disdain. So, my tact is to try and become invisible. -you can't see me- Is it working?

Or I could do something wild and crazy, although I'm a lazy tool and it probably will never happen. At sporadic intervals, I ponder with the idea that I'll run out and get an elaborate tattoo or dye my hair bright purple. Neither would bode well since I have trouble picking out a simple brand of peanut butter therefore the prospect that I'd be able to choose a design or figure to be permanently burned into my skin is somewhere around 0%. And I have very long prone-to-tangles hair, not to mention that I work in a professional environment and it would finally give them a legit reason to can my grumpy ass.

I'd close my eyes and put my finger to a map, buy a plane ticket to the random destination and just disappear forever. But I'm so fucking (occasionally), responsible I couldn't worry my parents, friends, or cats. Nix that idea too.

I could try and turn this crap around by giving more of myself. But fuck that. I've been working on my Karma for years and where has it gotten me? Zilch, nada, bubkiss. I try and try and try to do nice things for people and I get continually shit on. Which supports the notion that there's no such thing as pure altruism, which concludes that yes, indeed, I am a selfish prick and shouldn't expect anything in return for my generosity. But fuck. Sometimes it would be nice to be recognized just a damn little for something huge you've done for a person.

Bottom line is, I can't escape from myself. From this stupid fucking condition I have to fucking deal with and hear about 50 times a day. My life does not suck and people do love me. I know this too shall pass.

This too shall fucking pass.

The good, the bad, the wet.

What have I done to deserve a man who takes my breath away? What good deeds have I performed to award me with a human being so incredible that that I feel a part of me is missing when he's away? What karmic favor have I earned? And when will I believe it's all real?

I've been searching for a direction to turn since my eyes welled and my throat closed as we pulled into the airport parking lot last night. Time came to a stop and my feet were stuck in quicksand. There was absolutely nothing on my 800 channel cable TV and I didn't even bother trying open a book. I knew the words would melt off the page and drip onto my lap as I gave in to futility.

This is not something I expected to feel.

Nary a distraction to fill the empty space and cure my gloomy tunnel vision. Or the lonely spot on the couch. The one he'd occupied for 3 short days that lasted a second. Where he rested his hand on my thigh and put his arm around my shoulders while I drifted to sleep resting on his chest. Where we laughed at zombies and both got Garden State. Knowing how the story fit into each of our lives without having to discuss it.

But this is going in a much too sad direction and that is not my intention. Such is a state of melancholy.

I spent the week getting ready for his arrival. Making sure the house was pristine, the bed was inviting and the fridge was filled with provisions. Mainly cheese and booze, since thank the lord above, he eats like my kind of trashcan. I'm a meat and potatoes girl and crave a good french fry and blessed be, the man I love does the same. And can he cook! Best fucking breakfast I've ever had babe.

He wasn't getting in until late on Thursday which afforded me some time to get myself fluffed and buffed. In my impatient anticipation, I got to the airport about 45 minutes early. And fuck it if that stupid airline hadn't delayed almost every flight. I waited for 29 years and finally, at about 11:15 I was fairly sure his plane had finally landed.

The butterflies in my stomach were the size of kittens and I waited for another 10 years to see if I could spot him. Finally, finally, I saw his shaved head bobbing above the other passengers and I think I ran over a small child and and old man in a wheelchair to bound into his arms. He planted his lips on mine before we'd made ample eye contact. -cue cheesy music- Like two magnets drawn together with love. You may all barf now.

Fast forward to Friday (you dirty birds don't get ALL the details), and we woke, very late, to grey skies and predicted rain. In short order, the heavens spilled forth and we decided to stay in for the day. After the amazing meal he cooked, we were properly sated, and spent the day watching movies, snuggling and snogging. It was a perfect end to a rocky year. My very favorite kind of day spent with the only person I wanted to spend it with.

My normally skiddish-to-strangers cats postively swooned the minute he walked in the door. Within a short time his lap was occupied and pleas of attention were being cried his way, and not just by me. I was subseqently ignored by my little girls. Turned into the lowly food source and tolerated lump on the bed. That man got more pussy than he could hope for. Sluts.

Later on Friday night, we ordered in a pizza and cracked open some drinks. Midnight was celebrated with a sleepy kiss and heartfelt "I love you's". No craziness, no obnoxious drunks, no stupid "count-down" shows. Just the two of us safe in my cozy house holding each other. The holiday I usually despise slipped past with zero fanfare but much fondness. Perfect.

Saturday we managed to pull ourselves away from the bedroom and the now bright blue skies invited us to go out and play. He had requested a trip to Sea World for his first visit to San Diego and little did he know, that was the best thing he could have chosen. Despite my mixed feelings regarding zoo's and such, the animal lover in me is greedy to be as close as possible to marine mammals and (certain) fish. I'm a SCUBA diver and have a passion for the sea, whales in particular.

The park looked crowded upon first inspection, but we found it to be a mirage at the gates. We had a fantastic time. We were rarely in a crowd and got to pet dolphins and stingrays (after some coaxing from me ya sissy and don't be mad I said that cause I was the only one who got splashed by the fucker who soaked my entire right side). And we both got the ass-squenching heebie-jeebies looking at the Moray Eels. Those things really do look like zombies. And I know that big one was giving me the death eye.

I held his hand tight as we went through the shark exhibit and he didn't roll his eyes when I choked up over the brand-new baby Orca. Spending the day with someone who loves animals like I do was an extra bonus. And I got to take him home and fuck his brains out!

The closer it came to our impending separation, the more our bodies seem to be touching. I don't remember many moments when some part of my anatomy wasn't against his. Conversation flowed easily as did laughter, and silence was never awkward. I keep imagining the softness of the back of his hands and the curve of his neck that my lips craved to kiss.

We'd planned to take a drive before he had to be deposited back at the airport, but never left the house. Other matters were more pressing. But alas, we had to leave, but not after some mind-blowing frolicking. God damn. That's all I can say.

We got to security at the last possible minute and embraced with sad insolence, knowing that we were being forced to say, "see you soon". And I seriously hope he didn't see me almost eat complete shit as I turned to quickly walk back to my car and tripped over some retard hauling 10 rolling suitcases passing right behind me. I bashed my knee but good and that was a fitting physical pain to match what my heart was feeling.

And now, as I try to pretend that March isn't that far away, and my daily fucking grind is actually necessary, I'll be able to experience a moment of satisfaction thinking about this beautiful weekend and this awe-inspiring man. I love you.

And baby, my crouch misses you.