I find it very rude and somewhat neglectful for all of you bloggers out there to not write as much as I'd like you to. I mean, really, you guys are a large portion of my time-wasting management skills at work and the main escape from my own ruminating, self-serving thoughts going through my brain all day. The least you could do is take a moment to pen some brilliant anecdote or spin a yarn about your childhood so I can be fucking entertained.
I'm not feeling the love here. There's no gentle kissing on the neck from you. No courtesy reach-around. There's infrequent posting with nary a hint of existence. Not even a quick hello, Betty, I'm thinking of you. I just don't know what I'm going to do about this. Frankly, I'm hurt.
So if you love me at all, post more. It would really make me happy. And we all know my happiness is the most important thing.
Fondly,
Betty
p.s. I'm completely exempt from doing this because I said so.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Like a hammer
I don't know what it is. That thing that comes over me without warning. Well, one of the things, since there are about 1100 of them. You know, that thing when you get a rush of feelings that knock you back a few feet, the kind that make your heart hurt and your tingly parts tingle. The emotion that slams you into the floor like a love tsunami. You feelin' me? Because that's what's goin' on with my boy this very minute.
We live together. We see each other almost every day, unless one of us is out of town which rarely happens anyway. We talk about mundane crap. We talk about actual crap. We turn into zombies in front of the TV. We do our own things in separate rooms. Nothing especially special has happened or is going on, but I tell you what, I'm overwhelmed with love for that boy right now.
I think about him every other minute of the day, inbetween cursing doctors and dickheads. I stare at the back of his head when he's sitting on the floor doing the Sunday crossword puzzle on the coffee table. I want to reach out and pull his hair. I want to squeeeeeeeze his face. I want to lick the back of his neck. I want to crawl right inside him and hide.
I'm having so much fun just being in his presence. I constantly worry that I'm a total dud and any second now he's going to get sick of dealing with my utter lack of energy every day. But every time he laughs outloud at one of my jokes, or an awesomely snarky comment to an American Idol constestant, I hope he's happy and happy with me. I really don't doubt that, but I worry. I'm a chick, what can I say.
I understand relationships go through their phases, circling back and around over and over. At least I think the good ones do. But for now, I love him more than chocolate dipped in chocolate sprinkled with chocolate.
We live together. We see each other almost every day, unless one of us is out of town which rarely happens anyway. We talk about mundane crap. We talk about actual crap. We turn into zombies in front of the TV. We do our own things in separate rooms. Nothing especially special has happened or is going on, but I tell you what, I'm overwhelmed with love for that boy right now.
I think about him every other minute of the day, inbetween cursing doctors and dickheads. I stare at the back of his head when he's sitting on the floor doing the Sunday crossword puzzle on the coffee table. I want to reach out and pull his hair. I want to squeeeeeeeze his face. I want to lick the back of his neck. I want to crawl right inside him and hide.
I'm having so much fun just being in his presence. I constantly worry that I'm a total dud and any second now he's going to get sick of dealing with my utter lack of energy every day. But every time he laughs outloud at one of my jokes, or an awesomely snarky comment to an American Idol constestant, I hope he's happy and happy with me. I really don't doubt that, but I worry. I'm a chick, what can I say.
I understand relationships go through their phases, circling back and around over and over. At least I think the good ones do. But for now, I love him more than chocolate dipped in chocolate sprinkled with chocolate.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
I have issues: part 1 million and 1
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred fucking phone calls to get that scan set up!
After fighting with no less than 5 cranky bitches at the doctor's office, making more phone calls in one week than I do in a year, multiple tears and tantrums, it's finally done. And I got the extreme pleasure, sort of like being ass-fucked by a cactus, of spending 3 hours on the phone with my lovely insurance company last Friday being told a variety of different things concerning the drug I have to get for said scan so I don't have to go off my medication and practically die.
I was told I couldn't get the drug at all. That it would cost me at least $700.00. That it would cost only $70.00. That it was covered. Wasn't covered. And the best pile of bullshit for the day, that I could get it but I'd have to inject it myself, not in this fucking lifetime, asshole, and that if I bought it at my pharmacy and had the doctor inject me it was considered a criminal act.
I just can't convey the stress last week caused me. I'd write a scathing letter about how we all hear over and over how stress causes illness, possible even cancer, when the people who are supposed to help you prevent disease make it 100 blargillion times worse than it needs to be because they are inept, fucker, rude, cold, uncaring, stupid, careless, heartless, bungling, incompetent, dickwads, but I don't think my company would appreciate me making 45 thousand copies of it!
I finally got hold of a woman who, shall I ever breed and under the assumption she would appreciate a gift of this nature, would be welcome to my first born demon spawn. She took the bull by the horns and we called the pharmacy division together and she ran buckshot all over their asses making sure they knew they'd been retarded and caused a patient undue anxiety and assured me she'd take care of it all and she called me honey like 3 times. It was glorious.
The doctor has chosen to ignore my messages to call me back directly, and he shall pay for that. Oh yes he shall. But at least the scan is scheduled and now we need to pray to the deity of your choice that I don't get fucked to the wall by the disability people. Fingers crossed!
________________________________________________________
In other news...
There is some darn good reality TV out there right now, peeps, so I hope you're tuning in. I'm now addicted, but not limited to, the following: The Gauntlet II (can't wait for Derrick to blow, dismember a team mate and smoke them in a beer-can bong), Runway II (who took my chiffon!?!), Roller Girls (I'll refrain from saying anything snarky because those girls could kick my ass from a hospital bed), and the new season of the Bachelor:Paris (can you believe that springer spaniel chick cut up an orange and stuck it in her mouth like redneck teeth? What the hell was she thinking?)
The boy and I are having a great time making fun of people and adding our own brilliantly hilarious commentary. And we have pa-lenty of material, let me tell you what. The problem is, this constant string of improv has caused me to become a chatter. Yes, I am morphing into one of those idiot people who can't shut their pie holes long enough to take a breath while watching anything on TV. I'm still OK at the movie theater, as long as a have a large popcorn to power shove in my maw the whole time.
I can't help myself. It just comes springing out of my mouth like verbal dystentary. Last night, as a preview to the reality TV we viewed later in the evening, during dinner we enjoyed Friday the 13th part 3. Now before you get all up in my grill for rotting my brain on such crap, the boy loves him some bad 80's horror and I recorded it on the DVR because I'm an awesome girlfriend like that. Unfortunately, I found myself nattering on every 2 bloody seconds without end. WTF?
I commented on everything. Their hair, their clothes, the girls camel toes, the music, the cars, the camera angles, the script, the acting, the murder weapons, the lack of neck by the supposed hunk, the lame special effects, the worn-out shlong spot on the black dudes jeans.
And perhaps worst of all, I made the goofy sounds this particular genre is famous for. FOR 2 SOLID HOURS. Chi chi chi shh shh shh eee eee eee ahh ahh ahh. I couldn't shut the fuck up! And I didn't even say everything I wanted to. My god. It's a wonder whitey didn't shove a pillow down my throat. I have the best boyfriend.
So let's just add this to my long list of "issues", shall we? Oh yes we shall!
After fighting with no less than 5 cranky bitches at the doctor's office, making more phone calls in one week than I do in a year, multiple tears and tantrums, it's finally done. And I got the extreme pleasure, sort of like being ass-fucked by a cactus, of spending 3 hours on the phone with my lovely insurance company last Friday being told a variety of different things concerning the drug I have to get for said scan so I don't have to go off my medication and practically die.
I was told I couldn't get the drug at all. That it would cost me at least $700.00. That it would cost only $70.00. That it was covered. Wasn't covered. And the best pile of bullshit for the day, that I could get it but I'd have to inject it myself, not in this fucking lifetime, asshole, and that if I bought it at my pharmacy and had the doctor inject me it was considered a criminal act.
I just can't convey the stress last week caused me. I'd write a scathing letter about how we all hear over and over how stress causes illness, possible even cancer, when the people who are supposed to help you prevent disease make it 100 blargillion times worse than it needs to be because they are inept, fucker, rude, cold, uncaring, stupid, careless, heartless, bungling, incompetent, dickwads, but I don't think my company would appreciate me making 45 thousand copies of it!
I finally got hold of a woman who, shall I ever breed and under the assumption she would appreciate a gift of this nature, would be welcome to my first born demon spawn. She took the bull by the horns and we called the pharmacy division together and she ran buckshot all over their asses making sure they knew they'd been retarded and caused a patient undue anxiety and assured me she'd take care of it all and she called me honey like 3 times. It was glorious.
The doctor has chosen to ignore my messages to call me back directly, and he shall pay for that. Oh yes he shall. But at least the scan is scheduled and now we need to pray to the deity of your choice that I don't get fucked to the wall by the disability people. Fingers crossed!
________________________________________________________
In other news...
There is some darn good reality TV out there right now, peeps, so I hope you're tuning in. I'm now addicted, but not limited to, the following: The Gauntlet II (can't wait for Derrick to blow, dismember a team mate and smoke them in a beer-can bong), Runway II (who took my chiffon!?!), Roller Girls (I'll refrain from saying anything snarky because those girls could kick my ass from a hospital bed), and the new season of the Bachelor:Paris (can you believe that springer spaniel chick cut up an orange and stuck it in her mouth like redneck teeth? What the hell was she thinking?)
The boy and I are having a great time making fun of people and adding our own brilliantly hilarious commentary. And we have pa-lenty of material, let me tell you what. The problem is, this constant string of improv has caused me to become a chatter. Yes, I am morphing into one of those idiot people who can't shut their pie holes long enough to take a breath while watching anything on TV. I'm still OK at the movie theater, as long as a have a large popcorn to power shove in my maw the whole time.
I can't help myself. It just comes springing out of my mouth like verbal dystentary. Last night, as a preview to the reality TV we viewed later in the evening, during dinner we enjoyed Friday the 13th part 3. Now before you get all up in my grill for rotting my brain on such crap, the boy loves him some bad 80's horror and I recorded it on the DVR because I'm an awesome girlfriend like that. Unfortunately, I found myself nattering on every 2 bloody seconds without end. WTF?
I commented on everything. Their hair, their clothes, the girls camel toes, the music, the cars, the camera angles, the script, the acting, the murder weapons, the lack of neck by the supposed hunk, the lame special effects, the worn-out shlong spot on the black dudes jeans.
And perhaps worst of all, I made the goofy sounds this particular genre is famous for. FOR 2 SOLID HOURS. Chi chi chi shh shh shh eee eee eee ahh ahh ahh. I couldn't shut the fuck up! And I didn't even say everything I wanted to. My god. It's a wonder whitey didn't shove a pillow down my throat. I have the best boyfriend.
So let's just add this to my long list of "issues", shall we? Oh yes we shall!
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Motherfuck!
When? When will it ever get easier? Will it ever get easier?? Will something ever fucking work out again? When will anyone pay attention or remember or do the right fucking thing? When? WHEN? WHEN WHEN WHEN WHEN WHEN?!?
The blood test results that were supposed to be in last Friday obviously weren't. I let that go. New doc, new facility, they get the benefit of the doubt, again. I waited through Monday and Tuesday and still heard nothing. Today I was going to call and see what the dealio was and inquire about the scan, since I have about 492 phone calls to make and a metric ton of shit to take care of.
Before I had a chance to call the doctor's office I received a brief message on my cell phone from a nurse with a of couple lab results, which were WAY off of the numbers from just a month ago so WTF about that, and instructions to start taking 2 different doses of thyroid meds but no mention of another perscription being written and how the blue FUCK do they expect me to take 2 different doses when I have no script for the second one, and a quick "he wants to see you in 2 months".
OK, assholefuckersmotherfuckdipshitgoddamnassholes. WHAT ABOUT THE FREAKIN' SCAN??? No mention OF THE FREAKIN' SCAN!! WHAT ABOUT THE GOD DAMN FREAKIN' SCAN?!?!?!
And yes, I called back, and yes, the chick didn't know what to do, and yes, they have to call me back.
Oh. My. God. I'm so pissed! And, AND, whenever you change doses of thyroid meds you're supposed to be retested in 6 weeks, not 8, 6!! And they totally forgot that I'm a FUCKING MENTAL PATIENT and have been waiting for another scan for 9 freakin' months already and I don't want to freakin' wait any freakin' more!!
What is WRONG with poeple??
I swear to Christ, I think the credit card industry and the medical industry should switch places. I'm 29 nano-seconds late on a Visa payment and those fuckers are all over me like Angelina on Brad but the entire medical community can't get one fucking thing right.
FUCK.
The blood test results that were supposed to be in last Friday obviously weren't. I let that go. New doc, new facility, they get the benefit of the doubt, again. I waited through Monday and Tuesday and still heard nothing. Today I was going to call and see what the dealio was and inquire about the scan, since I have about 492 phone calls to make and a metric ton of shit to take care of.
Before I had a chance to call the doctor's office I received a brief message on my cell phone from a nurse with a of couple lab results, which were WAY off of the numbers from just a month ago so WTF about that, and instructions to start taking 2 different doses of thyroid meds but no mention of another perscription being written and how the blue FUCK do they expect me to take 2 different doses when I have no script for the second one, and a quick "he wants to see you in 2 months".
OK, assholefuckersmotherfuckdipshitgoddamnassholes. WHAT ABOUT THE FREAKIN' SCAN??? No mention OF THE FREAKIN' SCAN!! WHAT ABOUT THE GOD DAMN FREAKIN' SCAN?!?!?!
And yes, I called back, and yes, the chick didn't know what to do, and yes, they have to call me back.
Oh. My. God. I'm so pissed! And, AND, whenever you change doses of thyroid meds you're supposed to be retested in 6 weeks, not 8, 6!! And they totally forgot that I'm a FUCKING MENTAL PATIENT and have been waiting for another scan for 9 freakin' months already and I don't want to freakin' wait any freakin' more!!
What is WRONG with poeple??
I swear to Christ, I think the credit card industry and the medical industry should switch places. I'm 29 nano-seconds late on a Visa payment and those fuckers are all over me like Angelina on Brad but the entire medical community can't get one fucking thing right.
FUCK.
Monday, January 09, 2006
I usually look good in blue
Well, I've managed to get through the first 9 days of this new year in a haze of short-term memory issues and non-alcohol induced hangovers. I'm still waiting for the life-changing epiphany that will burst forth and rush over me creating an influx of energy and goal achieving but I ordered it from Amazon.com and you know how fucked up the shipping gets during the holidays.
As my previous post implicated, I'm so damn distracted. I'm not necessarily depressed, but I sure am stressed. Well, alright, I am a little blue, but you don't have to hide the sharp stuff right now. I have so much to think about. To take care of. To do. I can't seem to keep a thought in my head longer than it takes a wild bear to eat a self-indulgent crazy white boy from Malibu. (Guess who watched Grizzly Man last weekend?) I'm not doing a head in the sand thing but more of an I drank the bong water slow glazed scan of the room numbness and oh look, something shiny.
Wheneve I get this stressed out I have nightmares. This morning was no exception. I had a bad dream that lasted about 9 hours and has shaken me for the day. I dreamt that I'd just received a hefty dose of radiation and was supposed to be quarantined and all of these people kept coming around bugging me and not listening to my warnings. Then I got all freaked out that I was going to cause everyone who'd come in contact with me cancer and be the reason for their deaths, including my cats. It was fucked up.
Then I woke up with Boo between my knees pinning me to the sheets, because that poor anorexic feline somehow weighs 100 pounds at night, and I launched her off the bed thinking I was going to give her cancer too because I was still sort of in the dream so I feel kind of bad about that, but god dammit, don't sleep between my legs kitty cat, I fucking hate that.
One good thing though, I saw yet another new doctor last week and this one I liked. In fact, I got the best vibe from him than any other endocrinologist I've seen. I remain cautiously optimistic, but hopefully he won't be a monumental asshole wrapped in a condescending egotistical mother fucker. Wouldn't that be refreshing. His office was stuffed with toys so I thought that was a good sign. We ran more blood tests (thanks to both of the inept vampire girls, I got poked 3 fucking times with little result) and those should be in by today.
He also saw no reason to wait until March for another scan, thank the baby jesus. I'm going to lose my shit for good if I have to wait any more to take care of this crap. I've already accepted the fact I'm probably going to have more radiation so now I just want the fucker over with. The scans and especially the radiation sucks so fucking hard I can't tell you, but the waiting is killing me. It's been more than 9 months since that bad scan and I'm stupidly insane over it. This new doc suspects the "clean" scan in 2004 was a false negative and whoever read it didn't know what they were doing. Fabulous.
At least I didn't cry this time. Which is a bane to my current existence since I hate crying and especially hate crying in front of anyone else. Catharsis my arsis. But my emotions continue to be so fucking raw and sneak up on me at the dumbest times that I actually cried watching those gay nuns sing for the Pope in Sister Act last weekend. Yes. I know. Shaddup. I also cried at King Kong but you'd have to be a robot not to, and a preview for some new movie where 8 huskies get left in Anarctica, and The Chronicles of Narnia, and Michelle Kwan: Friends & Family ice skating special. I said, I KNOW. SHAD. UP. It's so pathetic.
I was really happy about this new guy and hopefully didn't scare him off when I lunged at him for a hug like a cheetah on a gazelle. I just couldn't help it. He was so cool it required bodily contact. (This good feeling lasted about 2 hours until work turned into a whore again. Man, I hate this job so hard I could punch an orphan).
Other than that, my head continues to swim like a turd circling the bowl with all of this continuing drama and some other stuff I'm just not ready to talk about. Life-changing decisions that make my asshole itch and sweat to pour from my chubby face. Eesh. Can't do it. Therefore I shall leave you with this:
Dear woman who sat in front of me at the movies yesterday,
Your perfume smelled like a mixture of weed killer and Summer's Eve vinegar douche with a hint of Glade industrial strength floral air freshener. I don't know what discount dollar store you bought your gallon of pee-yellow, cheap, offensive, knock-off fragrance in the bottle entitled Eau de Dawgsheet but you'd have been better off if you bathed in a vat of hair perm solution then lathered fermenting whale carcass behind your ears.
Your assault on my olfactory nerves was worse than the rampaging stink of nursing home I had to endure in another movie the weekend before. Is it not bad enough I had to go out in public and fraternize with all of you fucking freaks, dealing with whining toddlers and fat men with flatulence, but do I also have to try and enjoy a rare afternoon at the theater by inhaling the steaming stench coming from your clammy skin through the whole fucking film? I really think it's too much to ask. Even for a reasonable person like me.
So the next time you're going out with your high-water pants member's only jacket wearing mate, do us all a favor. Instead of pouring the liquid equivalent of a Shamu fucking stadium of your nasty, bargain-basement imposter perfume down your droopy cleavage, don't. Instead, slap a little unscented deodorant on your armpits and leave the poisonous cropdusting to the professionals. Then maybe next time you won't find yourself picking my popcorn out of your hair. Thank you and have a nice day.
As my previous post implicated, I'm so damn distracted. I'm not necessarily depressed, but I sure am stressed. Well, alright, I am a little blue, but you don't have to hide the sharp stuff right now. I have so much to think about. To take care of. To do. I can't seem to keep a thought in my head longer than it takes a wild bear to eat a self-indulgent crazy white boy from Malibu. (Guess who watched Grizzly Man last weekend?) I'm not doing a head in the sand thing but more of an I drank the bong water slow glazed scan of the room numbness and oh look, something shiny.
Wheneve I get this stressed out I have nightmares. This morning was no exception. I had a bad dream that lasted about 9 hours and has shaken me for the day. I dreamt that I'd just received a hefty dose of radiation and was supposed to be quarantined and all of these people kept coming around bugging me and not listening to my warnings. Then I got all freaked out that I was going to cause everyone who'd come in contact with me cancer and be the reason for their deaths, including my cats. It was fucked up.
Then I woke up with Boo between my knees pinning me to the sheets, because that poor anorexic feline somehow weighs 100 pounds at night, and I launched her off the bed thinking I was going to give her cancer too because I was still sort of in the dream so I feel kind of bad about that, but god dammit, don't sleep between my legs kitty cat, I fucking hate that.
One good thing though, I saw yet another new doctor last week and this one I liked. In fact, I got the best vibe from him than any other endocrinologist I've seen. I remain cautiously optimistic, but hopefully he won't be a monumental asshole wrapped in a condescending egotistical mother fucker. Wouldn't that be refreshing. His office was stuffed with toys so I thought that was a good sign. We ran more blood tests (thanks to both of the inept vampire girls, I got poked 3 fucking times with little result) and those should be in by today.
He also saw no reason to wait until March for another scan, thank the baby jesus. I'm going to lose my shit for good if I have to wait any more to take care of this crap. I've already accepted the fact I'm probably going to have more radiation so now I just want the fucker over with. The scans and especially the radiation sucks so fucking hard I can't tell you, but the waiting is killing me. It's been more than 9 months since that bad scan and I'm stupidly insane over it. This new doc suspects the "clean" scan in 2004 was a false negative and whoever read it didn't know what they were doing. Fabulous.
At least I didn't cry this time. Which is a bane to my current existence since I hate crying and especially hate crying in front of anyone else. Catharsis my arsis. But my emotions continue to be so fucking raw and sneak up on me at the dumbest times that I actually cried watching those gay nuns sing for the Pope in Sister Act last weekend. Yes. I know. Shaddup. I also cried at King Kong but you'd have to be a robot not to, and a preview for some new movie where 8 huskies get left in Anarctica, and The Chronicles of Narnia, and Michelle Kwan: Friends & Family ice skating special. I said, I KNOW. SHAD. UP. It's so pathetic.
I was really happy about this new guy and hopefully didn't scare him off when I lunged at him for a hug like a cheetah on a gazelle. I just couldn't help it. He was so cool it required bodily contact. (This good feeling lasted about 2 hours until work turned into a whore again. Man, I hate this job so hard I could punch an orphan).
Other than that, my head continues to swim like a turd circling the bowl with all of this continuing drama and some other stuff I'm just not ready to talk about. Life-changing decisions that make my asshole itch and sweat to pour from my chubby face. Eesh. Can't do it. Therefore I shall leave you with this:
Dear woman who sat in front of me at the movies yesterday,
Your perfume smelled like a mixture of weed killer and Summer's Eve vinegar douche with a hint of Glade industrial strength floral air freshener. I don't know what discount dollar store you bought your gallon of pee-yellow, cheap, offensive, knock-off fragrance in the bottle entitled Eau de Dawgsheet but you'd have been better off if you bathed in a vat of hair perm solution then lathered fermenting whale carcass behind your ears.
Your assault on my olfactory nerves was worse than the rampaging stink of nursing home I had to endure in another movie the weekend before. Is it not bad enough I had to go out in public and fraternize with all of you fucking freaks, dealing with whining toddlers and fat men with flatulence, but do I also have to try and enjoy a rare afternoon at the theater by inhaling the steaming stench coming from your clammy skin through the whole fucking film? I really think it's too much to ask. Even for a reasonable person like me.
So the next time you're going out with your high-water pants member's only jacket wearing mate, do us all a favor. Instead of pouring the liquid equivalent of a Shamu fucking stadium of your nasty, bargain-basement imposter perfume down your droopy cleavage, don't. Instead, slap a little unscented deodorant on your armpits and leave the poisonous cropdusting to the professionals. Then maybe next time you won't find yourself picking my popcorn out of your hair. Thank you and have a nice day.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
The 7th Ring of Hell: Conclusion
Ack! The time! She is a whore! Where does it all go? I'll tell you where it goes! It goes to stupid work and stupid laundry and me being stupidly lazy and watching deliciously horrible reality TV like Project Runway and now the new show Roller Girls because if it's a crowd of crazy people expelling high drama and bad fashion I am SUCKED IN, baby, SUCKED IN LIKE FLYNN.
But I cannot leave you hanging and some good things have happened in the last week that I want to talk about but I must finish Christmas Shit: 2005 even though I'm mostly over it now.
______________________________________________________
Let me begin by clarifying that my mother did not shout out "Merry Fucking Christmas" in the car. That was the mantra screaming through my own head as we fated death on the freeway and headed to my brother's brand new and purchased by my parents house in a fucking dustbowl town outside of Phoenix. Yea, you heard me, my parents bought that house for him. And it's the SECOND ONE. Please, don't make me explain it. It causes me to vomit through my eyes.
My brother greeted me by fiddling with some tool or something and saying "hi" without raising his head to muster at least eye contact. Thanks, brother! Nice to see you too, dick. 46 years old and he acts like a petulant teenager. Too bad he won't go get high in the garage like he used to and shed this serial killer vibe he's got going. But whatever.
Then my parents new 5 month-old black lab puppy, Sadie came in from the back yard at mach 5 and launched herself 7 feet through the air at my head and nailed me right in the uterus and I fell so deeply, instantly in love with that floppy-eared little girl that it makes me ache not to be near her.
I was led to the den to put my stuff down on the ancient, single bed that I would not be getting any sleep on for the next 3 days because it sucked and where my mother promptly picked on my large suitcase, again, as I screeched like a howler monkey "I've told you 10 times it's half full of presents!!" and that shut her firmly. Jeeeeeez, Mommmmmmm. How many times did I have to say it? I didn't fucking pack my entire closet, it was gifts! I even brought my own wrapping paper and ribbon lest I use any of my brother's crap so BACK OFF. Oh, btw, she mentioned it one more time before I left. My mother = insufferable.
I was waiting for my brother to leave for the airport since he was doing a same-day round trip back to Cali to pick up my niece. My welcome had been so icy I knew my parents and I wouldn't be able to relax until he was gone. I'd spoken to my mom about training the puppy while I was there because for some unknown reason I'm really good at training stuff and my parents are horrible at it. She actually asked me to help. She. Asked me!
Case in point; When the puppy would get all riled up and bashing into furniture instead of saying a simple "no", or distracting her with a toy, my father would go into a full-blown lecture "you settle down now and stop all that rough-housing! Settle now! SETTLE DOWN NOW! You heard me, I said knock if off!"
Um...Dad? She doesn't know WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE SAYING. Sheesh. The exsaperation I suffered.
My mother agreed to try my ideas and I appreciated that. It's a very, very rare occasion that she thinks I do anything slightly more than not completely shittily and I had a boner over training this damn dog and being a success in her eyes. Even for only a few days. Plus I'm gooooood. Damn good at it.
My mom had mentioned that a friend had given them a device called a halti. It's used to get better control over dogs who pull or lunge or might do those things like pounce on a baby and eat its head. Mom had relayed to me that the one and only time her and Dad tried to get the halti on Sadie baby was to wrestle the panicked pooch to the ground and force the binding torture device over her head. Because you know, making the puppy terrified of the training aid is the best approach. Goofy parents.
I had an idea to sit down and let the puppy get used to the halti by letting her sniff it, chew on it, play with it, and laying it over her nose while she flipped around me like a furry fish out of water. My idea worked! Within 20 minutes I had her sitting still and letting me click the halti on her face without protest or freak out. And right in front of my mother!
I was SO fucking proud of myself. My mom was excited and exclaimed "I can't believe she let you put it on her like that".
I straightened up even taller and beamed.
I praised Sadie for being such a good, good girl.
Then as soon as the triumph started it was shit on by my grumbling asshole brother when he spat, "Heh, big deal, look how long it took her".
Motherfucker.
Can't say anything nice, can you? Can't acknowledge that I taught the dog something with positive reinforcement in 20 short minutes and didn't tie a 10 pound work boot onto the collar of a year-old puppy for a week when it chewed the mate like you did to one of your dogs huh dickhead? Maybe you DON'T KNOW IT ALL?!? Totally shit on one of the only, out of 2, things I think I'm actually good at. (The other thing is top secret.)
Motherfucker.
Then we talked about the jumping. The puppy jumps. She's a baby. She's a lab. She's a red-level spaz. I told my mom the best method is to turn around, pull your arms up, and say "DOWN". But the main thing is to try and ignore it. Dogs jump up to greet you. It's in instinct, just watch wolves, they do the same thing. The puppy wants eye contact and thinks "yay, hi, yay, hi, YAY!". If you take that away they'll get the message, but it takes time. My mom had been told to lift her knee. WRONG. I know it's a method some people use, but I wanted to try a positive approach that I'd learned from an actual dog trainer and not play crush the puppy's chest in.
I was right in the middle of showing her what I was talking about when Mr. Man pipes up with a your are an idiot tone, "a knee in the chest is the best thing". Sigh. I, as nicely as possible, said, "no, it's not. It's actually the opposite thing we should do and now we're going to try something else". He shook his nasty head and said nothing more. I naively thought that was the end of that.
And do you know what that butthole did? He finally left and collected my niece and when they got home later that night my niece walked into the house, the puppy ran up to her, and she lifted her god damn knee right into that doggie's face.
Motherfucker.
Wonder where she got that idea? I had to spend the rest of my mini-Christmas vacation undoing what he did.
Despite his initial snotty comments, he left me alone about the dog after the first day. And I was a smashing success. Or rather, Sadie and I were. She did do some of the work. In the span of literally one day, some things she did on the second try, I taught that sweet puppy to shake, high-five, lay down, roll over, and speak. And we got even farther with the halti to the point she'd sit still like a good girl and let me click it on her then wear it for a few minutes, then sit still again while I took it off. She's scary smart. And the sweetest, most loving puppy I've ever seen. Now, if she'd just stop humping her stuffed moose like a porn star in heat, we'll be O.K.
Tension remained semi-high on Christmas day and increased ten-fold when my brother's girlfriend came over with her high-needs little boy. I don't want to get into that because this poor kid has been handed a shitbag of problems and the U.S. isn't interested or equipped to handle these kinds of kids. And his mother, while nice, can't (and I suspect doesn't want to) handle it either. My brother clearly has no love for this kid and decided to handle the boys ADHD squirms at the Christmas dinner table with a booming exclamation that went something like, "THIS IS MY HOUSE AND IN MY HOUSE YOU DO WHAT I SAY AND IF YOU DON'T SIT STILL AND EAT WITH US THEN YOU'LL GET NOTHING FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT ROWR GRUMBLE GROWL".
Motherfucker.
OK, first off, you can't strong-arm a kid with autism, OCD, and ADHD. It's not your house it's Mom and Dad's. And nice prelude to dinner, asshole! We're all SO relaxed now! And maybe this little boy shouldn't have sucked down an entire sugar soda you gave him before dinner? Hmmm?
Dinner was completed with only one other incident that I fixed because the one adult at the table with no children figured out that the high needs kid with food triggers (and now that you mention it, non-heathens who detest food touching each other on the plate and who refuse to eat any bastardized combo like peas/mashed potatoes because ew, disgusting, and that's not abnormal in the least) don't like to eat pickles tossed into old ketchup and why don't we wipe all that red goo off the pickle with a napkin, there, all better. Jesus. H. must I do everything?
The rest of the weekend got stuck on some kind of loop of thinly vieled snotty comments from my brother, my parents crabbing at each other, me spending as much time as I can with the puppy, my mother turning from appreciation and awe at my training skills to making fun of me for spending so much time turning her dog into a well-behaved and incredibly cute circus puppy by calling out in a sing-song sarcastic voice "uh oh, school is in session" every time I did a little refresher, and a couple more near-misses of me launching a howizter at my brother's face for being a dick but he never took the bait, with some laughs inbetween. There were a few laughs, I won't discount that.
And oh, there was the expensive laptop case my mom got me for Christmas that, in theory, would have been a nice gift if 1. I owned a laptop, and 2. I was partial to Eddie Bauer looking green canvas/brown leather luggage, and 3. If she had any idea that it was the opposite thing I would ever buy for myself. But I'm sure she agonized over another gift for me so I wasn't going to give her too much shit and she did kick in a 100 bucks. So that was nice.
Unfortunately, she obssessed obssessively over the bag since my initial reaction was one of perplexion and dammit, I couldn't wipe that quizzical look off my face before she saw it and I was asked about 295 times if I wanted to return it for something else and she was assured by the crack-smoking lady at the catalog place that it could double as a weekend bag and I'd like to know what woman could get more than a thong and an eyeliner in this thing let alone shit for an entire weekend. I'm the person who brings 7 pairs of shoes for an overnight. You know, just in case.
And I'm sorry, but the thought is only good enough when thought is actually part of the equation. When you consistently get shit that makes no sense but at the same time points out the glaringly obvious gaps inbetween who you are and what your loved one pays attention to, it kind of sucks. Anyone need a food dehydrator? Cuz I have one from Christmas 1999. Never opened. Because I. Don't. Cook. Eh, oh well. My mom was actually pretty cool all weekend so I'm not going to throw her under the bus. This ruined vacation was all about my brother.
The day after Christmas was spent shopping a bit with my mom and niece and it went pretty well. I ran out of steam and patience about 2:00 but that's par for the course with me. We were able to manage to watch some movies and relax that night and I had one decent conversation with my dad about moving to another state because California, it's been nice, but we're over. I was ready to go home Monday night but had to wait until the next day. Poo.
My brother left for work before I got up on Tusdays and our brief "thanks for my stuff" had been covered the night before. No hug goodbye either. Whatever. Despite the small respites of pleasure, it had been such a stressful time I vowed I was not going to do that again. 2 Christmas's in a row and a summer vacation thrown in the middle all spent watching everyone walk on eggshells around my brother and me holding my tongue is enough for me. Which of course leaves me with a very painful bout of meloncholy since my father is 80 years old now and I want and need to cherish every minute I can spend with him. But I just can't do that with my brother around. It's shaving time off my own life.
I mentioned to my parents before we left for the aiport that being around my brother is just plain unpleasant. He's mean and grumpy and mean. I made sure they understood it wasn't a reflection on them and that I know he's like that to everyone, but it sucks and I don't want to be around it anymore. I didn't say I'd never join them for a holiday again, but proclaimed the next one would be at my house so at least some things will be on my terms and turf. I'm sure they understood but it was a moment of collective dissapointment. My parents have both had a lifetime of heartache concentrated in the last 4 years and I don't want to add to that, so maybe next year I can help us all avoid it. Hopefully...hopefully.
Then we drove to the airport where dad almost killed us twice on the way.
Merry Fucking Christmas!
But I cannot leave you hanging and some good things have happened in the last week that I want to talk about but I must finish Christmas Shit: 2005 even though I'm mostly over it now.
______________________________________________________
Let me begin by clarifying that my mother did not shout out "Merry Fucking Christmas" in the car. That was the mantra screaming through my own head as we fated death on the freeway and headed to my brother's brand new and purchased by my parents house in a fucking dustbowl town outside of Phoenix. Yea, you heard me, my parents bought that house for him. And it's the SECOND ONE. Please, don't make me explain it. It causes me to vomit through my eyes.
My brother greeted me by fiddling with some tool or something and saying "hi" without raising his head to muster at least eye contact. Thanks, brother! Nice to see you too, dick. 46 years old and he acts like a petulant teenager. Too bad he won't go get high in the garage like he used to and shed this serial killer vibe he's got going. But whatever.
Then my parents new 5 month-old black lab puppy, Sadie came in from the back yard at mach 5 and launched herself 7 feet through the air at my head and nailed me right in the uterus and I fell so deeply, instantly in love with that floppy-eared little girl that it makes me ache not to be near her.
I was led to the den to put my stuff down on the ancient, single bed that I would not be getting any sleep on for the next 3 days because it sucked and where my mother promptly picked on my large suitcase, again, as I screeched like a howler monkey "I've told you 10 times it's half full of presents!!" and that shut her firmly. Jeeeeeez, Mommmmmmm. How many times did I have to say it? I didn't fucking pack my entire closet, it was gifts! I even brought my own wrapping paper and ribbon lest I use any of my brother's crap so BACK OFF. Oh, btw, she mentioned it one more time before I left. My mother = insufferable.
I was waiting for my brother to leave for the airport since he was doing a same-day round trip back to Cali to pick up my niece. My welcome had been so icy I knew my parents and I wouldn't be able to relax until he was gone. I'd spoken to my mom about training the puppy while I was there because for some unknown reason I'm really good at training stuff and my parents are horrible at it. She actually asked me to help. She. Asked me!
Case in point; When the puppy would get all riled up and bashing into furniture instead of saying a simple "no", or distracting her with a toy, my father would go into a full-blown lecture "you settle down now and stop all that rough-housing! Settle now! SETTLE DOWN NOW! You heard me, I said knock if off!"
Um...Dad? She doesn't know WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE SAYING. Sheesh. The exsaperation I suffered.
My mother agreed to try my ideas and I appreciated that. It's a very, very rare occasion that she thinks I do anything slightly more than not completely shittily and I had a boner over training this damn dog and being a success in her eyes. Even for only a few days. Plus I'm gooooood. Damn good at it.
My mom had mentioned that a friend had given them a device called a halti. It's used to get better control over dogs who pull or lunge or might do those things like pounce on a baby and eat its head. Mom had relayed to me that the one and only time her and Dad tried to get the halti on Sadie baby was to wrestle the panicked pooch to the ground and force the binding torture device over her head. Because you know, making the puppy terrified of the training aid is the best approach. Goofy parents.
I had an idea to sit down and let the puppy get used to the halti by letting her sniff it, chew on it, play with it, and laying it over her nose while she flipped around me like a furry fish out of water. My idea worked! Within 20 minutes I had her sitting still and letting me click the halti on her face without protest or freak out. And right in front of my mother!
I was SO fucking proud of myself. My mom was excited and exclaimed "I can't believe she let you put it on her like that".
I straightened up even taller and beamed.
I praised Sadie for being such a good, good girl.
Then as soon as the triumph started it was shit on by my grumbling asshole brother when he spat, "Heh, big deal, look how long it took her".
Motherfucker.
Can't say anything nice, can you? Can't acknowledge that I taught the dog something with positive reinforcement in 20 short minutes and didn't tie a 10 pound work boot onto the collar of a year-old puppy for a week when it chewed the mate like you did to one of your dogs huh dickhead? Maybe you DON'T KNOW IT ALL?!? Totally shit on one of the only, out of 2, things I think I'm actually good at. (The other thing is top secret.)
Motherfucker.
Then we talked about the jumping. The puppy jumps. She's a baby. She's a lab. She's a red-level spaz. I told my mom the best method is to turn around, pull your arms up, and say "DOWN". But the main thing is to try and ignore it. Dogs jump up to greet you. It's in instinct, just watch wolves, they do the same thing. The puppy wants eye contact and thinks "yay, hi, yay, hi, YAY!". If you take that away they'll get the message, but it takes time. My mom had been told to lift her knee. WRONG. I know it's a method some people use, but I wanted to try a positive approach that I'd learned from an actual dog trainer and not play crush the puppy's chest in.
I was right in the middle of showing her what I was talking about when Mr. Man pipes up with a your are an idiot tone, "a knee in the chest is the best thing". Sigh. I, as nicely as possible, said, "no, it's not. It's actually the opposite thing we should do and now we're going to try something else". He shook his nasty head and said nothing more. I naively thought that was the end of that.
And do you know what that butthole did? He finally left and collected my niece and when they got home later that night my niece walked into the house, the puppy ran up to her, and she lifted her god damn knee right into that doggie's face.
Motherfucker.
Wonder where she got that idea? I had to spend the rest of my mini-Christmas vacation undoing what he did.
Despite his initial snotty comments, he left me alone about the dog after the first day. And I was a smashing success. Or rather, Sadie and I were. She did do some of the work. In the span of literally one day, some things she did on the second try, I taught that sweet puppy to shake, high-five, lay down, roll over, and speak. And we got even farther with the halti to the point she'd sit still like a good girl and let me click it on her then wear it for a few minutes, then sit still again while I took it off. She's scary smart. And the sweetest, most loving puppy I've ever seen. Now, if she'd just stop humping her stuffed moose like a porn star in heat, we'll be O.K.
Tension remained semi-high on Christmas day and increased ten-fold when my brother's girlfriend came over with her high-needs little boy. I don't want to get into that because this poor kid has been handed a shitbag of problems and the U.S. isn't interested or equipped to handle these kinds of kids. And his mother, while nice, can't (and I suspect doesn't want to) handle it either. My brother clearly has no love for this kid and decided to handle the boys ADHD squirms at the Christmas dinner table with a booming exclamation that went something like, "THIS IS MY HOUSE AND IN MY HOUSE YOU DO WHAT I SAY AND IF YOU DON'T SIT STILL AND EAT WITH US THEN YOU'LL GET NOTHING FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT ROWR GRUMBLE GROWL".
Motherfucker.
OK, first off, you can't strong-arm a kid with autism, OCD, and ADHD. It's not your house it's Mom and Dad's. And nice prelude to dinner, asshole! We're all SO relaxed now! And maybe this little boy shouldn't have sucked down an entire sugar soda you gave him before dinner? Hmmm?
Dinner was completed with only one other incident that I fixed because the one adult at the table with no children figured out that the high needs kid with food triggers (and now that you mention it, non-heathens who detest food touching each other on the plate and who refuse to eat any bastardized combo like peas/mashed potatoes because ew, disgusting, and that's not abnormal in the least) don't like to eat pickles tossed into old ketchup and why don't we wipe all that red goo off the pickle with a napkin, there, all better. Jesus. H. must I do everything?
The rest of the weekend got stuck on some kind of loop of thinly vieled snotty comments from my brother, my parents crabbing at each other, me spending as much time as I can with the puppy, my mother turning from appreciation and awe at my training skills to making fun of me for spending so much time turning her dog into a well-behaved and incredibly cute circus puppy by calling out in a sing-song sarcastic voice "uh oh, school is in session" every time I did a little refresher, and a couple more near-misses of me launching a howizter at my brother's face for being a dick but he never took the bait, with some laughs inbetween. There were a few laughs, I won't discount that.
And oh, there was the expensive laptop case my mom got me for Christmas that, in theory, would have been a nice gift if 1. I owned a laptop, and 2. I was partial to Eddie Bauer looking green canvas/brown leather luggage, and 3. If she had any idea that it was the opposite thing I would ever buy for myself. But I'm sure she agonized over another gift for me so I wasn't going to give her too much shit and she did kick in a 100 bucks. So that was nice.
Unfortunately, she obssessed obssessively over the bag since my initial reaction was one of perplexion and dammit, I couldn't wipe that quizzical look off my face before she saw it and I was asked about 295 times if I wanted to return it for something else and she was assured by the crack-smoking lady at the catalog place that it could double as a weekend bag and I'd like to know what woman could get more than a thong and an eyeliner in this thing let alone shit for an entire weekend. I'm the person who brings 7 pairs of shoes for an overnight. You know, just in case.
And I'm sorry, but the thought is only good enough when thought is actually part of the equation. When you consistently get shit that makes no sense but at the same time points out the glaringly obvious gaps inbetween who you are and what your loved one pays attention to, it kind of sucks. Anyone need a food dehydrator? Cuz I have one from Christmas 1999. Never opened. Because I. Don't. Cook. Eh, oh well. My mom was actually pretty cool all weekend so I'm not going to throw her under the bus. This ruined vacation was all about my brother.
The day after Christmas was spent shopping a bit with my mom and niece and it went pretty well. I ran out of steam and patience about 2:00 but that's par for the course with me. We were able to manage to watch some movies and relax that night and I had one decent conversation with my dad about moving to another state because California, it's been nice, but we're over. I was ready to go home Monday night but had to wait until the next day. Poo.
My brother left for work before I got up on Tusdays and our brief "thanks for my stuff" had been covered the night before. No hug goodbye either. Whatever. Despite the small respites of pleasure, it had been such a stressful time I vowed I was not going to do that again. 2 Christmas's in a row and a summer vacation thrown in the middle all spent watching everyone walk on eggshells around my brother and me holding my tongue is enough for me. Which of course leaves me with a very painful bout of meloncholy since my father is 80 years old now and I want and need to cherish every minute I can spend with him. But I just can't do that with my brother around. It's shaving time off my own life.
I mentioned to my parents before we left for the aiport that being around my brother is just plain unpleasant. He's mean and grumpy and mean. I made sure they understood it wasn't a reflection on them and that I know he's like that to everyone, but it sucks and I don't want to be around it anymore. I didn't say I'd never join them for a holiday again, but proclaimed the next one would be at my house so at least some things will be on my terms and turf. I'm sure they understood but it was a moment of collective dissapointment. My parents have both had a lifetime of heartache concentrated in the last 4 years and I don't want to add to that, so maybe next year I can help us all avoid it. Hopefully...hopefully.
Then we drove to the airport where dad almost killed us twice on the way.
Merry Fucking Christmas!
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