Thank you all who left me comments. My readership has grown from 4 to 8 and that's all the proof I need that I MUST. KEEP. GOING. Actually, about 30 seconds after posting the previous (and somewhat pathetic) entry I had about 9 things I wanted to talk about and then felt like an asshole because I'd just said I didn't know if I wanted to keep going and then I smacked myself in my dumb head thinking I could pull the whiny post or post something new right away and pretend that the whiny post didn't exist but then thought no, that would also be dumb because I figured some people had already read it and I don't like pulling the words I've committed to and I'd recently pulled another post that although I thought was funny even if it was a wee bit over-the-top love-fest for Pamprin and when you're smack dab in the middle of the Pamprin Days if someone doesn't give you accolades in one half of one second you cry a little then get hot about the face and maybe blush bright red and pull the post down convinced that you are unfunny in all manners of funny and man, was that dumb too.
However, another round of Pamprin Days were partially to blame for my plunge into writing despair and rendering of garments over my measly comments, not that I don't appreciate the one I do have, don't have a cow, and I reserve the right to flip-flop back and repost it. Because it was kinda funny and I can't help it if I'm suddenly overcome with feelings because I'm convinced I have a Niagara Falls supply of them and it's not my fault.
Are you still with me?
My point is, I guess I should employ the swimming-after-a-big-meal rule and NOT POST whatever despair is scrolling across my brain at the very moment it's happening.
Have crazy, whiny thought, wait 1 hour before posting.
I'm going to have that carved onto a chunk of wood, apply 10 layers of shallac and hang it above my monitor. Not-to-mention I'm pretty sure I heard a collective eyeroll of the internet at yet another person boo-hooing over something stupid and trivial. I get that. Still doesn't excuse you from lovingly stroking my insane ego, though. ~points finger at you who did a drive-by reading~
So, therefore and another thing, I've changed my mind. It's something I do often. Well, it's more like I've swirled around again in a complete circle like a turd in the bowl wanting to write and having some confidence about it and realizing that I should be writing for me and it's just icing on my cake if anyone reads and likes it and why do I need so much god damn outside fucking feedback anyway what are you Anna Nichole? "Lack mah wratting?"
And I need to suck it up and accept the fact that some bloggers are hugly popular and got that way from a host of approaches and reasons and maybe just dumb luck and who cares if I'm not one of them? Well, I do, but not all the time. And if I can make one person smile or laugh or think than it's all worth it so just stop expecting anything you lovely moron.
~swirl~ ~swirl~
I'm insane. But I'm cute insane so it's OK. So, for the time-being, I will not say goodbye. There's really no reason for this stupidity except my own insecurities which are my own damage. Luckily they are a smaller percentage that my ass-kickingness so insecurities, fuck off. I have some stories to tell. And that's that. I will continue to wrestle with my demons and you'll get to watch it all.
Crisis averted. Chocolate consumed. There will be no quitting. Amen.
_________________________________________________________
I had an epiphany last weekend. We'll see how long that lasts, ~swirl swirl~, but for now I'm still riding high. Ha, riding.
I almost died, you see, and I'm feeling the appreciation of still being here in one piece and for the luck I had on Saturday. I've mentioned before that I ride horses. Hunter jumpers to be exact. I've been doing this for years after learning how to ride as an adult. (Even though I grew up in horse country I was raised to fear them [thanks dad!] and carried that fear until I was in college where they had a stables and riding classes and I was weakened by an almost constant state of hangover, and I fell in love with it.)
I ride every Saturday in a lesson which is a mixture of therapy, commaraderie, and exercise. It's extremely important to me on many levels. I literally do not feel the same for the whole week if I don't get to ride on Saturday. I've had to take week after week off as my physical therapist tries to fix old injuries that have decided to flare up and render me cranky, in chronic pain, and set me up for a life of immobility if I don't do something about it now. Which, no fucking way will I let that happen if I can help it. Because of this I've skipped a lot of Saturdays this summer and I don't like it. Makes for one extra Princess Crankypants.
I'm taking September off for a few reasons so last weekend would be my last lesson for awhile and there was no way I was skipping it. Everything was going great. The weather was warm but not unbearable, my horse was behaving and we were almost done. One last excercise and we were finished. I had the bright idea to canter a serpintine pattern across the ring and just before we were done. KABOOM. My horse tripped and I ATE SHIT.
It was hhe scariest tumble I've ever had. My horse tripped and did a full face-plant into the dirt, both of his knees hitting the ground which then caused me to smash my face and chest into his neck and head. I literally saw my life flash before my eyes and my first thought was, oh fuck, we're both going to do a front sommersault with him landing on top of me and this could be the end of either one of us or both.
But that good boy managed to yank his front end up before he went all the way down. Unfortunately my centrifugal force of falling forward paired with his swinging head flung me all the way over and I landed on my back with a thud. I'd like to think it was very Cirque du Soleil. With horse poop.
Thankfully, a million times thankfully, I was pretty close to the ground and the landing wasn't too bad. I thought at first I'd broken my jaw and my neck muscles and shoulder blades were screaming and my chest was on fire. But I caught my breath and realized I think I was, for the most part, OK. My eyes wouldn't focus too well but I figured that was from adrenaline.
We checked out my horse and despite a small chunk taken out of one knee and nostriles full of sand, he was ok too. I got back on and we walked around a bit then called it a day. We were very, very, very, very, very lucky. I've felt a little wacky all week so I might have a slight concussion, I have some nasty bruises and my right boob is off limits, but still feel Lucky. As. Hell.
Nothing like a near-death experience to make you remember that life is precious and you'd better make the god damn best of it. So I went and bought me a fancy new Nikon D50 digital 35mm SLR camera with a Quantaray lens.
Fuckit, life is too short and I wanted it. Deserved it. And got it.
And it made me smile.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
So ah....yea....
This whole blog thing? I dunno...I just don't know.
I'm not sure it's working out.
Feeling a bit inadequate.
Maybe 2 years is enough.
Maybe.
I'm not sure it's working out.
Feeling a bit inadequate.
Maybe 2 years is enough.
Maybe.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A few tidbits of advice
Smashing a whole, blackened banana into your hair as a homemade backwater low-rent conditioner then sitting out in the sun for an hour does not enhance the luster of your hair in any way. It turns into a paste similar to quick-set cement and you'll be picking banana fiber off your skull for approximately 7 days or 20 washings. Whichever comes first.
Do not get drunk and decide it's a good time to go "pet the horses" at midnight by climbing into their dark pasture. The thunderous sound of hooves will not feel good across your Reebok hightops and you might likely die while wearing neon blue spandex "running" pants even though the only time you've ever "run" is when you were being chased by a rabid duck at the lake.
Do not rely on the sexual inexperience of your boyfriend who wants to experiment with the South Pole Hole and thinks spit is a sufficient lubricant.
When the man offers you a helmet, pay the rental fee.
Do not let your friends ride on your hood as you do doughnuts in the high school parking lot. They'll scratch the shit out of your paint and their parents will be really mad at you when they get back from the emergency room.
Peach flavored wine colors apparently sting freshly shaved balls.
Your girlfriend will not find it festive after you drink all of the Malibu rum and shove the hook end of a red ball ornament from the Christmas tree through your lobe while yelling "Hey baby, I pierced my ear" as blood flows down your neck at an alarming speed.
Yes. I do know the size of your dick. She told me. They all told me. Get used to it.
Denny's waitresses do not think it's funny to receive a nickel tip under a turned over full glass of water.
Never mess with one of those rifle-flipper chicks in the school band. She'll fuck you up two ways to Sunday.
Do not put your nose on the open vial when a stranger says "hey, smell this". You're next memory will be waking up in a pile of some boys dirty laundry while you try to extricate your left leg from between the washer and dryer.
Stop and go to the bathroom when you have the chance. Then the people at the gas station won't be hollering through the door while you're throwing away your "oops" underwear.
Cashews DO NOT soak up alcohol.
If you get crazy glue on your finger do not panic and try to get it off with your thumb. You will have effectively made a useless lobster claw and it's impossible to dial a fucking phone.
Do not put the vacuum attachment hose around your mouth. You'll end up with a red mark akin to ring-worm for about a week.
There's a reason why girls bikes don't have the middle bar. Nuff said.
When the crazy costume lady making your outfit for your friends Ren Faire wedding asks if you'd like a "little cleavage" tell her no. You will end up with the nickname The Bike Rack.
Do not eat a tuna melt from the lunch truck and sushi from the grocery store on the same day. The dude doing your IV in the ER the next morning will make fun of you.
Never give a crazy stalker man your home phone number.
Never snort Sweet-n-Low from your fingernail. Not even for comic effect. Especially when no one laughs.
Do not marry the man who routinely does the Silence of the Lambs penis tuck. There's something very, very wrong with him.
Do not wait longer than 30 seconds after turning on the gas to light the bar-b-que. Unless you enjoy the smell of burnt hair.
Do not put the drunk girl in charge of making sure the ribs don't burn. You will, in fact, be eating burned ribs.
Do not attempt your first front somersault off the diving board after consuming said burnt ribs with a six pack of cheap beer. You will puke black coal.
Dust busters will not suck up cat barf and you will ruin the dust buster.
Proclaiming with pride to your girlfriend, in the middle of her third time having sex ever, "I think that's the whole enchilada" is NOT romantic. She will get you back with perhaps a peach wine cooler sometime in the future.
Do not get drunk and decide it's a good time to go "pet the horses" at midnight by climbing into their dark pasture. The thunderous sound of hooves will not feel good across your Reebok hightops and you might likely die while wearing neon blue spandex "running" pants even though the only time you've ever "run" is when you were being chased by a rabid duck at the lake.
Do not rely on the sexual inexperience of your boyfriend who wants to experiment with the South Pole Hole and thinks spit is a sufficient lubricant.
When the man offers you a helmet, pay the rental fee.
Do not let your friends ride on your hood as you do doughnuts in the high school parking lot. They'll scratch the shit out of your paint and their parents will be really mad at you when they get back from the emergency room.
Peach flavored wine colors apparently sting freshly shaved balls.
Your girlfriend will not find it festive after you drink all of the Malibu rum and shove the hook end of a red ball ornament from the Christmas tree through your lobe while yelling "Hey baby, I pierced my ear" as blood flows down your neck at an alarming speed.
Yes. I do know the size of your dick. She told me. They all told me. Get used to it.
Denny's waitresses do not think it's funny to receive a nickel tip under a turned over full glass of water.
Never mess with one of those rifle-flipper chicks in the school band. She'll fuck you up two ways to Sunday.
Do not put your nose on the open vial when a stranger says "hey, smell this". You're next memory will be waking up in a pile of some boys dirty laundry while you try to extricate your left leg from between the washer and dryer.
Stop and go to the bathroom when you have the chance. Then the people at the gas station won't be hollering through the door while you're throwing away your "oops" underwear.
Cashews DO NOT soak up alcohol.
If you get crazy glue on your finger do not panic and try to get it off with your thumb. You will have effectively made a useless lobster claw and it's impossible to dial a fucking phone.
Do not put the vacuum attachment hose around your mouth. You'll end up with a red mark akin to ring-worm for about a week.
There's a reason why girls bikes don't have the middle bar. Nuff said.
When the crazy costume lady making your outfit for your friends Ren Faire wedding asks if you'd like a "little cleavage" tell her no. You will end up with the nickname The Bike Rack.
Do not eat a tuna melt from the lunch truck and sushi from the grocery store on the same day. The dude doing your IV in the ER the next morning will make fun of you.
Never give a crazy stalker man your home phone number.
Never snort Sweet-n-Low from your fingernail. Not even for comic effect. Especially when no one laughs.
Do not marry the man who routinely does the Silence of the Lambs penis tuck. There's something very, very wrong with him.
Do not wait longer than 30 seconds after turning on the gas to light the bar-b-que. Unless you enjoy the smell of burnt hair.
Do not put the drunk girl in charge of making sure the ribs don't burn. You will, in fact, be eating burned ribs.
Do not attempt your first front somersault off the diving board after consuming said burnt ribs with a six pack of cheap beer. You will puke black coal.
Dust busters will not suck up cat barf and you will ruin the dust buster.
Proclaiming with pride to your girlfriend, in the middle of her third time having sex ever, "I think that's the whole enchilada" is NOT romantic. She will get you back with perhaps a peach wine cooler sometime in the future.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Eureka!
Dear Medical Community,
I would like to inform you of my incredibly exciting and progressive discovery that answers age-old questions and resolves the mystery that so many of us have struggled with for years. After, just to name a few, more doctors appointments, consultations, painful and/or embarrassing tests, surgeries, lost test results, unreturned phone messages, unanswered questions, rolls of eyes, condescending speeches, nasty office staff, and fuckass god complex patronizing careless asshole experiences, I present to you with all the confidence of someone who's seen enough and had even more than that, my diagnosis of any and all of those who have taken the oath to first and foremost do no harm and you can hardly even manage that on a good day.
98% of you are suffering from the following:
Ego·ti·tis - Pronunciation = ee-go-tye-tis - n.
Latin - fateous headous or swollenium skullium
An excessive inflammation of the ego, caused by infectious or toxic agents in the conceit lobe of the brain, characterized by pompous behavior, excessive frowning, engorged cranium, and disdainful attitudes.
Symptoms and Signs
Egotitis, also known as butthead disease, is characterized by a variable degree of cranial enlargement, absence of sympathy, and a self-limited understanding of patients feelings, often followed by dismissive demeanors, rude behavior, surly staff, unsupportive or fearful inclinations towards patient self-education and the internet, un-returned phone calls, and incessant blathering on and on and on.
Egotitis is due to a depleted empathy node and a possibly fractured sympathy bone.
Diagnosis
Egotitis is relatively easy to diagnose although unfortunately rarely treated successfully. Determinations of egotitis are frequently made by the patient after an off-handed or condescending remark has been said. However, some medical personnel have an obvious affliction upon first glance. This can be supported by the observance of an upturned nose or a noticeable scowl. The eyes might travel from the patients head to toes with a disapproving grunt. Most notably, a patient will be asked a question and repeatedly interupteded by physician when attempting to reply. These sufferers should be avoided at all costs, as this will affect patients mental and possible physical well-being.
Treatment and Prognosis
Since egotitis is a self-limited transient disorder lasting an unknown amount of time, treatment is conservative, usually requiring a change of physician for best results. Anti-egotitis drugs are not currently available, although trials are being conducted in my home laboratory (a.k.a. laundry room.) Surgical treatment is only an option when removal is required of a well-placed foot from infected physicians buttocks after a particular pretentious episode has occurred with a severely pissed of client.
Most doctors are terminal, however, some, with intensive verbal lashings and/or required attendance at patient care conferences where they are publicly flogged and verbally bashed, or if the physician becomes a patient themselves and gets treated like a chart and not a person, can overcome this ailment. However, more trials are necessary at this time since this disease has undoubtedly been around for centuries and it will take a virtual miracle to eradicate.
Recommendations
If you are treated like a stupid cow, have symptoms ignored, or are patted on the head as if a small, drooling child, chuck the jerk and find a new doc. Find a new office. Find a new way.
This is your body. You are in charge of it.
I would like to inform you of my incredibly exciting and progressive discovery that answers age-old questions and resolves the mystery that so many of us have struggled with for years. After, just to name a few, more doctors appointments, consultations, painful and/or embarrassing tests, surgeries, lost test results, unreturned phone messages, unanswered questions, rolls of eyes, condescending speeches, nasty office staff, and fuckass god complex patronizing careless asshole experiences, I present to you with all the confidence of someone who's seen enough and had even more than that, my diagnosis of any and all of those who have taken the oath to first and foremost do no harm and you can hardly even manage that on a good day.
98% of you are suffering from the following:
Ego·ti·tis - Pronunciation = ee-go-tye-tis - n.
Latin - fateous headous or swollenium skullium
An excessive inflammation of the ego, caused by infectious or toxic agents in the conceit lobe of the brain, characterized by pompous behavior, excessive frowning, engorged cranium, and disdainful attitudes.
Symptoms and Signs
Egotitis, also known as butthead disease, is characterized by a variable degree of cranial enlargement, absence of sympathy, and a self-limited understanding of patients feelings, often followed by dismissive demeanors, rude behavior, surly staff, unsupportive or fearful inclinations towards patient self-education and the internet, un-returned phone calls, and incessant blathering on and on and on.
Egotitis is due to a depleted empathy node and a possibly fractured sympathy bone.
Diagnosis
Egotitis is relatively easy to diagnose although unfortunately rarely treated successfully. Determinations of egotitis are frequently made by the patient after an off-handed or condescending remark has been said. However, some medical personnel have an obvious affliction upon first glance. This can be supported by the observance of an upturned nose or a noticeable scowl. The eyes might travel from the patients head to toes with a disapproving grunt. Most notably, a patient will be asked a question and repeatedly interupteded by physician when attempting to reply. These sufferers should be avoided at all costs, as this will affect patients mental and possible physical well-being.
Treatment and Prognosis
Since egotitis is a self-limited transient disorder lasting an unknown amount of time, treatment is conservative, usually requiring a change of physician for best results. Anti-egotitis drugs are not currently available, although trials are being conducted in my home laboratory (a.k.a. laundry room.) Surgical treatment is only an option when removal is required of a well-placed foot from infected physicians buttocks after a particular pretentious episode has occurred with a severely pissed of client.
Most doctors are terminal, however, some, with intensive verbal lashings and/or required attendance at patient care conferences where they are publicly flogged and verbally bashed, or if the physician becomes a patient themselves and gets treated like a chart and not a person, can overcome this ailment. However, more trials are necessary at this time since this disease has undoubtedly been around for centuries and it will take a virtual miracle to eradicate.
Recommendations
If you are treated like a stupid cow, have symptoms ignored, or are patted on the head as if a small, drooling child, chuck the jerk and find a new doc. Find a new office. Find a new way.
This is your body. You are in charge of it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Tricked you!
Today I was going to write about something completely different than what I'm really going to write about. You all narrowly escaped reading a depressing diatribe of depression and the annals of my anxieties that I'm currently having but after a breakfast of chocolate and Ativan, and a little sumpin' sumpin' last night, I'm feeling a little better. Plus I have more half-cocked entries to clean up and make into a cohesive post that hopefully won't make people want to put a bullet in my (or their) brains from reading yet another "depression blog".
However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.
___________________________________________________
In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.
And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.
I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.
Alright, there is more to that one.
Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.
Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!
This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.
I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)
Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.
I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!
I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.
WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!
What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!
I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.
Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!
Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!
ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.
GAH. OOF. FUCK!!
I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.
However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.
And. I am stupid.
However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.
___________________________________________________
In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.
And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.
I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.
Alright, there is more to that one.
Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.
Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!
This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.
I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)
Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.
I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!
I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.
WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!
What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!
I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.
Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!
Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!
ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.
GAH. OOF. FUCK!!
I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.
However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.
And. I am stupid.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Wadded panties for everyone!
OK. Fine!! I'll stop ignoring you and write something. SHEESH. Have a cow, whydon'tcha. A girl can only take so many begging and pleading e-mails. Threatening phone calls. And one packaged unmentionable delivered by a poor, unsuspecting UPS man.
I am of course lying.
The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa
See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.
I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.
Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.
Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.
_______________________________________________________
I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.
The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.
After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)
To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.
This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.
Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;
"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"
And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;
"What's wrong?"
And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;
"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"
So I asked;
"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"
And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;
"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"
Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;
"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"
And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.
_______________________________________________________
I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.
She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.
Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.
_________________________________________________________
Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.
I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.
Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!
After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.
_____________________________________________________
Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.
First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.
Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.
Then there was the poo ball incident.
Yes, I said poo ball.
I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.
So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.
I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!
Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??
I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.
I am of course lying.
The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa
See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.
I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.
Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.
Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.
_______________________________________________________
I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.
The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.
After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)
To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.
This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.
Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;
"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"
And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;
"What's wrong?"
And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;
"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"
So I asked;
"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"
And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;
"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"
Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;
"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"
And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.
_______________________________________________________
I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.
She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.
Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.
_________________________________________________________
Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.
I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.
Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!
After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.
_____________________________________________________
Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.
First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.
Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.
Then there was the poo ball incident.
Yes, I said poo ball.
I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.
So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.
I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!
Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??
I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
