Get out the hole punch, ma!

I have a big birthday coming up in a few months. It starts with a 4 and ends with an 0 so if you couldn't figure it out, I'll be 29.

How the hell did I get here? I'm so grateful to be here, but the hell? How could so much time have passed? I don't feel much different than when I was 22, I think? Maybe? Maybe not. God, I don't know. Shouldn't I have things figured out by now? It's 2007 for fuckssake. And where's my god damn flying car!?!

I have a vivid memory of a day in high school when me and group of my morose, self-entitled, overly expressive "Drama Fags" stood around in our pegged jeans and flipped collars and figured out how old we would be when the century rolled over from 1999 to 2000. I was shocked and sickened to realize I'd be 32 and man, my life would like totally be like over by then. Sha.

How silly I was.

I know a number is just and number and all that and I believe that but now that I'm staring at the last half of 39 I'm getting floods of emotions about it and my life and where its at or not at on a daily basis. It's a wee bit overwhelming and I'm not quite sure where it's all coming from or what to do with it.

And whoa, this is not the fork in road I intended to take today. I'm over-tired and probably hormonal and what I really wanted to discuss was my idea, intention and desire to do something a little crazy for or before my epic b-day this year.

I want to get my nose pierced.

Please contain your shock at this extremely important subject matter. I know it's not like I'm planning on base-jumping off of the world's largest ball of twine or anything but this does involve needles and my face and possible permanent divets in my shnoz. Plus there's the whole age thing and the new decade I'm entering into and all the stupid fucking preconceived notions and expectations on one who's in this particular age category, and man is that a post for another day. It's also a proven fact I have no luck so there's a good chance something would go wrong.

I got my ears pierced when I was in 3rd grade. What is that, 8? 9? I don't remember. I'd been begging my mother for God knows how long to be like my friends who already had their ears pierced and taunted me with sparkly pink rhinestones and painted beans dangling from their faces. I'd put up with all the lame "why do you want more holes in your head" jokes from the men in my family long enough and had finally been given permission to get them.

The day to get perforated finally came and my Mom and I embarked on the trek to the biggest mall we had in San Diego at the time and made our way to the large department store who offered ear piercing. I was nervous but excited and tried to ignore my mother's non-mothering warnings that it was going to hurt. (My mother has a long history of making injuries and such worse by making a horrible grimacing face while looking at your bleeding wound, sucking air through her teeth and saying, "Eeesh, that looks baaaaaad.")

We went through the glass double doors and walked under the bright over-head lights to the jewelry counter. I don't remember if we needed an appointment or not but it was obvious we'd have to wait a few minutes since there was a little old lady getting hers done and had already parked her fanny in the chair. We learned she was having her ears done for the first time in her life after using clip-ons for more than 50 years and she was obviously nervous, wringing her hands, her brow furrowed with anxiety.

I watched with glorious ignorance as the piercer marked the old woman's ears with a purple felt-tip pen then loaded the "gun" with a stud and backing. The old lady was with her middle aged daughter and she gripped her hand tightly, steadying herself for the pinch. The gun was placed on her lobe, everyone held their breath and just as the piercer pulled the trigger her hand twitched the lady jerked and WHAM! The earring went in crooked and the gun jammed and the whole mess was stuck on the old ladies ear.

There was a lot of hustle and bustle and bleeding and old lady moaning and actual tears down her wrinkly face crying and I nearly shit my toughskins two times. They finally got the piercing gun dislodged from her head and managed to talk her into finishing the other ear which was done without a problem. But by that time I'd gone from wary to terrified, my eyes as big as saucers and already tugging my mother back towards the door. All I knew is that I didn't want my ears pierced by Miss Fumblefingers no fucking way fuck no.

In a rare moment of understanding my mother let me take some time to reconsider instead of her normal "you've made your decision now live with it" attitude. We walked around the mall for a little while and came upon a jewelry store that also did piercings so if I wanted to go through with this at least I didn't have to go back to the department store and risk a pre-teen lobotomy from Retardo.

The new piercer person was a nice girl who was calm and gentle and talked me through the ordeal with expertise. I held still even when I was surprised and momentarily deafened by the sonic boom crashing through my brain from the gun and the pinch was more of a slam-my- head-in-a-door feeling but it was done and I had done did it.

My ears were flaming hot for the rest of the day and I was convinced my whole heart had climbed up into my sinus cavity but at least there wasn't a major malfunction. Of course I did not take care of them like I was aggressively warned about, lazy about cleaning or turning the earrings so they didn't get stuck and being the wild kid that I was diving into diseased ponds and having dog shit fights they got infected all the time. And I was forever scared away from getting any more holes in my head after that.

So yea, the nose. I think I should go for it. Totally.

Yea, baby

Lookie my new layout! Come on, people. You have nothing to say?? Nothing?*

Do you even know what it took to change this damn thing? Practically an act of gawd, I'll tell you. This crabby girl does not like change. And I mean, does not like change in a way that normal people don't like swallowing handfuls of glass or getting a used band aid in their salad. I'm talking that much.

Months of contemplation, procrastination, fear. Then there was the hemming followed by the hawing rounded out by the hate of HTML. I'm sure you feel my pain.

Finally the decision was made before I could escape the clutches of my quickly distracted mind and I did it. Only to find that certain things (GOD DAMN COMMENTS) were lost in the ether and the directions for recovery provided by the comment host (GOD DAMN HALOSCAN) were worth jack effing squat (GOD DAMN IT).

But, after several tantrums, minutes of pouting, extreme stress, one irrational accusation, and a borrowed (stolen) image, I think we're on our way. The new Blogger has its problems but some things have been easier to manage. Miracle, I know. I really like the new layout and am proud of myself for figuring some stuff out on my own and finally having a page that doesn't look circa 1999. Go me.

Jesus. You'd think I'd just discovered a new species of puppy or something. Anyway, it's (nearly) done and I'm actually happy with it, finally.

*I'm totally kidding, you don't have to lavish me with compliments, much.

~~~~~

We had a fairly quiet 3 day weekend successfully avoiding the throngs of people who arrive in San Diego hoping to spend time at the beach packing every inch of sand like 4 million drunk sardines slathered in SPF 35. We stayed in and relaxed, watched and turned off half-way through a couple of movies because they sucked ass, and I took some piccies with my macro lens that is a tricky bitch with PMS but a couple of them came out a'ight.

~~~~~

Lastly, just what is the deal with Twitter? I don't get it. I signed up but still, what? And my company has blocked it which is supposed to mean it's a good thing that I must be protected from (eyeroll) so please tell me, what is the hub bub? I must know.

G. Dammit.

Dear Blogger,

You sort of suck.

Love,

Betty

P.S. you're also a fucking liar and smell like cheese. Look what you've done to my blog, you asshole. I hate you. A lot. Wait. I didn't mean that. Give me my comments back, please? And fix my title. Love you. Mean it. (Call me.)

Wednesday Tip

When you've recently, but after nearly everyone else, discovered a deliciously naughty but talented band that specializes in the most creative of wording, kicky beats and wonderfully horrible and occasionally nasty and/or wickedly vulgar lyrics because you are often late to the party although you do arrive in all your gloriousness and manage to get served a lovely cocktail and a piece of cake your hostess saved for you because she knows you're an ass who runs a couple hours behind the entire world, it's a good idea to enjoy these tunes to yourself and pay attention to what you're doing so you don't get caught with your Ipod buds shoved firmly in your ears as you happily but obliviously and repetitively serenade away in a voice much too loud for a stuffy, no-nonsense office with the sense of humor of a school marm in the 1800's the stanza;

"NOW SHOW 'EM THEM TITTIES!!"

It doesn't go over so well.

Yawnday

Thank you to everyone who have left comments about Rass. I tried 10 times to reply to you individually but since Haloscan sucks more ass than a horny men's chorus it wouldn't let me. I'm putting whitey on the task of updating this boring blog layout next weekend and switching to another comment thingy. Fuggit. I'm a'scared of the template so I can't do it.

The news about my little girl is sinking in and I'm gearing up to do whatever it will take to keep her happy and healthy as possible (IV fluids - GAH!) I shelled out $50 for a Drinkwell water fountain on Saturday since she was completely obsessed with drinking from the running bathroom tap for awhile and we need to encourage her to consume as much liquid as possible.

The cost of the damn thing stung a bit especially since the online price was WAY lower but I couldn't wait to order it and the stupid store which I won't mention but it rhymes with METCO wouldn't honor the online price because the stores aren't allowed to "compete" with the internet even though it's the same company forfuckssake how stupid.

I got it all set up and filled with water and didn't electrocute myself in the process which was no small miracle, turned it on, let it flow and showed it to the cat who was All. Over. It. For about 5 minutes.

Apparently the entire purpose of drinking out of the tap is not for the fresh, running water but to control me like the puppet master she is getting me up and off my ass to go into the bathroom and turn the water on then stand there while she watches me watching her not drinking it.

Sigh.

This is why I loves cats. They so have you by the balls. Heh. But whatever, it's still worth it.

Not much else of great note is going on besides a list of shit I have to take care of and things on my mind and I'm still really busy coughing, darn it. We managed to leave the house both Saturday and Sunday this weekend and it wasn't all that horrible although next weekend I'd rather stay inside at least Sunday and on the holiday Monday. Your life is pretty pared down when the main goal is to never have the sun touch your skin and it's fun to not brush your hair. Both sound awesome to me.

There were a few moments of retardation, besides the METCO purchase, another one being running into a neighbor (sorry, baby) that I've never spoken too and unfortunately got into a 20 minute chat with (really sorry, baby) where she unhinged her jaw and spewed verbal napalm about her life covering more subjects and personal information that I'd never want to know about (I owe you big, baby).

She, we learned, is divorced with 3 young boys who are in a very expensive private school and she made a killing from her divorce and teaches tennis a few times a week enjoys peanut butter sandwiches on wheat bread but not the crust her ex-husband is a firefighter and on and on and on and just when we were ready to escape we reached one of these moments:

Neighbor: "So, how long have you two been married?"
Us: "Oh, we're not married."
Neighbor: ~gravely serious~"God will bless you more if you get married."
Us:...
Us later: "What a fucking bitch!!"

The fuck, woman? You think it's OK to say that to perfect strangers?? You don't know our situation, if we're religious at all, or if we're serial killers that whack people then bury them under the lawn for saying stupid things. (We're not, just in case you're wondering.) But that was o-ffen-sive. Now I'm glad I never told her someone drew a sideways penis in pink pen on the back of her minivan. What a shitbag.

On Sunday we went to Sea World, very early (sorry baby!) to try and recapture a photo I'd taken before and have entered in the county fair photo contest, which is my very first photo contest and I have no hopes of even having a picture shown but I wanted to try. We didn't spend a lot of time there but had a pretty good time. The best part being home before 1:00 and narrowly missing the 10 million people who showed up.

I tried to get some shots of fish which are generally tough because of the glass and smears of sticky child hands and greasy noses but I dig the giant octopus who unfortunately lives in a really tiny tank who was giving me the stink eye about it, no doubt.

clicky


There was also a mother duck with 10 ducklings that were so cute we wanted to shove them all in our pockets and take them home but didn't because we would have had our asses pummeled by a very pissed off mama duck and Rass would have eaten them all then barfed them on the carpet. They were key-yute, though.

Here are the only pic's I uploaded, enjoy if you so please. Sea World set.

Darn

It is upon us. Again. A sick kitty with no way to escape the disease that will eventually take her life. I'm not ready. I don't want to do this again. Unfortunately I'm willing and able because I have no choice.



We just said goodbye to her sister, Boo, last September. 33 days before her (their) 9th birthday. It was far too soon for Boo and it was a long, drawn-out death that came after a year of consistent wasting away with agonizing decisions and doubts that will haunt me forever, despite how hard we tried to save her. I thought for sure it was a fluke thing, the doctor assured me it was, but here we are preparing for the worst. Again.

I took Rascal to the vets office last Friday for a check up and to see about this acne-looking crap on her chin that seemed to be driving her nutty and didn't look right. Because she's technically a senior cat they encouraged me to run some tests to not only see why her chin was behaving like a surly teenager but to take a peek at her kidneys and other things since she was none too happy having her guts squeezed and my (awesome) vet wanted to make sure it wasn't just Rass being disagreeable at being touched. (Which is the norm for my cantankerous queen. You need permission to look in her general direction even on a good day.)

Rass was whisked away from me, poked, prodded, had her chin shaved in a most unflattering way and I was sent home with some antibiotics and the promise of a phone call. All to the tune of three hundred, fifty-four dollars and twenty-nine cents. Ouch. And it wasn't fun for her either.

Of course that wasn't as painful as the message I received on Saturday afternoon. The blood tests were already in and the diagnosis came back unfavorable; kidney disease. In other words, kidney failure. Her death sentence, to be brutally honest. Thankfully it's been labeled as mild, early stages, whatever, so a smidgen of hope is still there.



Well, not hope really, but the wish that things will progress slowly and she'll be around for as long as possible but with cats it's completely unpredictable since they just have to be the mystery fucking domestic animal and things can go haywire without cause or explanation at any time and somehow I think they like it that way because it's no joke they run the world and wouldn't want anyone to ever have the upper hand. Ever. Little bastards.

I was strangely calm about it on Saturday, thinking it was OK and I would be OK and she'll be OK until she's not OK anymore. Even while whitey was comforting me and ready for my immediate meltdown it didn't come. Until yesterday.

I had to bring her back to the vet for a couple follow up tests so we could get a better handle on where this kidney failure is on the scale of mild to say your goodbyes. I wanted to wait until I got paid again but the doc didn't, so my worry went up a notch from there.

She had to have a blood pressure taken and X-rays, sailing through the former while her mama fretted then it was reported that Miss Thing had become a very unhappy girl when stretched out and pinned down for the images and that was all she was going to put up with today.



While she was off being radiated I was given a lesson on how to prepare an IV of Ringer's lactate to give subcutaneous fluids myself (GAH!!), how to dispose of the sharps and the best way to poke your cat with a giant needle being warned that it's going to take "some practice." And that's where my panic attack started.

You see, Rascal and I have not always gotten along. Didn't see eye to eye, if you will, and she had little to no interest in me for a very long time. Boo was my little girl and while I had affection for Rass, or KeeKee as I call her most of the time, she was very independent and aloof and the little fucker ran from me most of the time so eff it. Then whitey moved in and turned her into a lover and when Boo died she changed. She was happier, more affectionate, and funnier. She really turned into another kitty and we've been bonding every since.

Let me tell you, I LOVE this girl. Like I didn't think I ever would. She's still a freak and can be annoying but she's weird and hilarious and sweet and beautiful and I feel guilty as hell for thinking she was a turd for such a long time. I don't want her going anywhere but here I am, going into support mode, paranoiaville, obsession alley. Not to mention the cost. OMG, the fucking cost.

I take care of my animals and I always say the universe sends me the ones that no one else would take because they're always great animals but fucking expensive with bizarre maladies that I'm obligated to tend to. Unfortunately it beats the shit out of my pocketbook and I'm not made of money. I hate it being a consideration but it is a consideration. 2 visits have already totalled a few dollars short of $600.00 with the drugs and tests and special foods. And that's just the beginning.

So, I'm in it. The worry and the watching like a hawk and the anguish that she'll not feel well and be in pain and have to go through all kinds of nasty shit at my hands and I'll be losing another baby in such a short time. I know it's all part of life but dammit, it's a shitty, shitty part.

There will be pills shoved down her throat daily, needles, dreaded car rides, distress, fear, uncertainty, etc. etc. etc. And to top things off right before we left the vet said she heard a heart murmer that was new. God. Damn. It.

I don't say any of this looking for sympathy. I know I have a lot of health issues myself and have been stupidly extra sick this year and there are millions of people who have it worse then me, but it's my blog and I'm overwhelmed with sadness today. I'm just plain overfuckingwhelmed altogether.

I appreciate all of the well wishes I always get, I really do, so I'm not fishing for more or expecting any or trying to be Debbie Downer or thinking life sucks or saying why me. I'm just fucking bummed. Today I'm really fucking bummed.

Too much

What's with all the scrolling message thingies at the bottom of every other channel on the TV?

Need I be so multi-stimulated when I'm trying to do my best impersonation of a leafy green vegetable sitting in front of the idiot box wanting nothing more than to be entertained with fabulous reality TV shows and The Office? Must I tax my (floatie crammed) eyeballs trying to read teeny tiny writing whizzing across the bottom of my screen that's already sitting 8 feet away from me? Is it imperative that while I'm watching a smug kitty get the living crap beat out of them by a turtle that I need to know that Paris Hilton's latest chancre was drained and treated with antibiotics?

I think not!

They're popping up everywhere. News channels, talk shows, infomercials even. It's craziness! We're totally inundated with stimuli as it is, I don't need 400 bits of info on the screen to decipher. By 6:00 my brain is nearly full and this won't leave me any room to comprehend and make fun of the creepy pawing cheesy-beyond-belief lame lecherous but may be gay Bachelor. It's too much.

You know where a message board would be handy, though? On the bumper of my car. That way I could let every retard on the road know I hate them and fuck off please when they've nearly sent me off a cliff from not paying attention while texting a resume to the local McDonald's or drifted into my lane because the driver is getting a hummer from his girlfriend, which normally I would forgive because alright, get some, but you know that dumb girl is no good at it.

Or better yet, I want one strapped to my ass and hard wired into my brain so my every brilliantly witty thought and spot-on fashion advice would be shared with the world. I'm sure that would be very appreciated.

Druuuuuugs

I've never been one to consume, imbibe, sniff, snuff, huff, puff, swallow, snort, or partake in any other handful of horrible and painful ways, drugs. Well, not my personal definition of drugs anyway. Please enjoy that caveat, I have an endless supply of them.

I've smoked pot probably about 10 times in my life with each experience increasingly nasty with me being not your typical stoner craving Doritos and all the potatoes in Idaho and maybe worrying that someone is looking at them but a jittery spaz verbally reguritating an endless diatribe about how I feel so jittery repeating the word jittery so many times that if my pot-smoking partners had enough energy to lift their heads from the back of the couch they'd pour the bong-water down my throat and send me out into the world to fend for myself.

The first time I smoked enough to feel it I didn't pass out like my (totally kick-ass) aunt (who bought me booze when I was in high school and let me borrow her BMW to run my dorky friends around), curled up on the couch looking so peaceful I wanted to slap her cherubic face. I was wide awake and wired and there was no decent food in her fucking house. I split a regular Coke with her, after I woke up her snoozing ass, and ravaged the icy remains of a box of Rocky Road ice cream in the back of her freezer.

Overall it was a super stupid night but let me tell you what. In between my crushing paranoia that my dad would somehow spontaneously know that I was up to something as reprehensible as smoking marijuana causing him to burst through the door at any minute with my first class ticket to Ground Town that was the best fucking ice cream I've ever tasted so I guess it was worth it for that.

I suppose I've never given out that drug-taker vibe. I've only been offered something more than pot a couple of times and I was too chicken to do it. I just knew I'd be that dumb kid on the cover of a Very Special Investigative Issue on the Scourge of Our Youth in People magazine after I sucked an entire can of whipped cream while being held upside down in some kids kitchen and ended up strapped to a wheelchair drooling into a cup and having my mother dress me in plaid pants with kitten sweatshirts for the rest of my life.

I just knew some bad shit would happen to me. Although I've always trusted prescription drugs, for the most part. Now in my old age I'm leery of taking anything wacky like anti-seizure medication to help me sleep. Seriously, doc, wtf? But I got my first taste of a narcotic when I was in high school and it was like experiencing my first orgasm. I liked it. A lot. Wanted more and always have. But not enough to seek it out because there's still the chicken factor and chocolate, which is my number one drug of choice.

I had my wisdom teeth out early, when I was 16 because my dentist was a direct descendant of Satan and enjoyed pulling or arranging to have pulled most of the teeth in my head. He decided I needed oral surgery again and this time the useless molars in the back must come out. It was not fun and I looked like someone had run my face over with an urban assault vehicle but I got drugs this time. Really nice drugs. Drugs I wanted to take to the prom then blow in the back of the limo.

Percodan. If I was to ever have a child I might be tempted to name them that. The love, it is still there. I took the first pill and within an hour my pain was not only a faint memory but I felt oh so shiny. Warm on the inside like all the angels in heaven had entered my body and kissed my soul.

I was lulled to sleep as if floating on the Sea of Drug-Induced Goodness and woke up needing another, which I didn't get because my parents were stingy freaks who didn't give me a lick of credit for being scared shitless of drugs despite my instant and undying love for Percodan and went by my dad's previous little "problem" with Valium in the 60's and took my beloved dope away from me parsing out a few measly doses then hiding them in their bathroom.

Which I found later when some schmuck in gym decided to pop my shoulder out of the socket but my mother didn't believe that I was in excruciating pain (typical) and I had to borrow a sling from a friend who'd broken her elbow in an unfortunate hood-riding accident that I was witness to (another story for another time) and I found my bottle of pills which I stole back from my parents and proceeded to eat them all in a few short days plus a few of the same that were my dads. So there.

Oh yea, there was that one time I was screwing around with some fringy-type friends, again in high school, and we had ditched class to hang out at Denny's and cut, with my gas card, "lines" on the table made from Sweet-n-Low. I just had to push my very sophisticated comedy one step further and scooped up a toot in my always long coke-looking pinkie nail and up my nose it went. My gawd, the pain. I blame my 17 year-old Swiss cheese brain for that one. To this day I don't like the taste of the pink stuff. Blech.

But really, that's all I had the guts to do because you know, the drooling bad sweater thing has always loomed over my head. Booze has been my thing which isn't nearly as scary as real drugs because, you know, spinning around the room and puking 20 times until you burst blood vessels in your eyeballs is a cake walk. But I can't do that anymore either so fooey! I've developed such a craptacular allergy to alcohol that I can't even get a nice little buzz from a lovely bottle of wine when I want to without paying dearly.

So, I can't drink, I won't do illegal stuff because I have no luck, I'm a sensitive freak of nature and bad things will happen to me, my thyroid meds don't get me high and my inhaler just makes me feel like shit so what is a girl to do? I could take Pamprin because that does a fairly good job making me feel warm and fuzzy but it also knocks me unconscious for about 5 hours and when you want to party and get a little funky and maybe your freak on you don't want to be snoring in the corner!

All I have left now is the occasional doctor recommended and prescribed pharmaceutical assistance that will kill 2 birds with one pill taking care of whatever ails me adding the extra bonus of getting a little happy. Odds are if you have to take something like that you're in pain one way or another so you deserve relief with being harmlessly but gloriously glazed at the same time. Makes perfect sense to me.

Therefore I'd like to voice my disdain and displeasure for whoever or whatever asshole entity decided it would be clever to add codeine to cough syrup for poor, unfortunate girls afflicted with her second bout of barking bronchitis with a head cold in between in 4 short months causing gallons of snot to pour from her face, wheezing, complaining, misery, general malaise, and rendering her useless to all mankind it's really fucking shitty that the special ingredient in that wonderful drug that makes all the bad things go away and replaced with the shiny has been REMOVED!

You, good sir, SUCK.

BLINK

So, in the scheme of things I suppose this doesn't really rate high on the scale of horrible maladies and debilitating afflictions, rendering me on some disabled list unable to function or go about my day but it's annoying and permanent, which in itself is disturbing, and big fat fucking bummer to boot and harasses the holy heck out of me and I'm sure someone would agree it could warrant if not time off for stress related Betty bugging shit at least lots of sympathy and a few pretty presents of a sparkly nature.

I have eye floaties.

I've had one in my right eye for as long as I can remember and that was bad enough then last summer I was driving home in the bright Southern California sunshine and it looks like there was a dark hair on my sunglasses but it sort of moved diagonally towards my nose and I thought, well wtf is that?

It didn't go away and actually got worse and I was due for an eye exam so I went and said, hey doc, there's a huge effing wrinkle-type thing on my left eyeball and I think my brain has torn and gotten loose in my eyeball liquid and surely I must go on disability for a couple of years because obviously I can't be expected to work with random and occasional semi-microscopic disturbances across my vision.

The doc said no.

The doc said this was normal and nothing to worry about and nothing she could do. So I kicked her in the box and left.

Then last December I'm visiting my best gay boy Matty in San Francisco and we're lounging around in his expensive thousands of dollars bed with the 800 thread count sheets reading and recovering from our shenanigans the previous night and all of a damn sudden a NEW floatie went zooming across my left eye that was already crippled by the brain wrinkle so that is NOT FAIR that it got ANOTHER chunk of junk bobbing around in there.

The Hell?

So in the span of a completely unfair and retardedly short period of stupid time I went from one vitreous swimmer to two, one in each eye with a giant slash too that happens every time I drive. Every time I drive. Over and over and over.

I came across a bit of information recently that suggested that if you look up they can momentarily go away so now whenever my horizon is nearly blinded and disturbed by this detritus debris I do this routine;

Blink.

Blink harder.

Smash eyes together.

Open eyes really wide.

Look up, look down, look up, look farther up.

Blink.

Blink blink.

Repeat. All day.

So many times during my waking hours I look like a fun-house freak a few seconds away from biting the head off a chicken and stretching my neck a foot in either direction with meat hooks.

This clearly this warrants taking a year off of work, no? Yea, I thought so, too.

Knock knock knock

Well hello there.

Let's just pretend that we are old friends who run into each other at a party and one of us (me) remembers that one of us (me) was supposed to call you back that one day to make plans for lunch and didn't and then worried about it then forgot and then thought that you probably forgot too but by the pinchy way you said "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey" in that passive-aggressive sing-song voice then pointed your wine glass holding finger at me and smiled like Cruella De Ville sporting a new fur coat made from baby cockapoos which told me oh yea, you remember that I totally blew you off and somehow I'm going to pay.

But then I rush over and give you a big old bear hug and slap your ass and tell you 12 funny stories while refreshing your glass every 5 minutes and in no time we're bff's again and all is forgiven because hell, we all know I'm fucking fabulous and how can you be mad at me? You can't. So don't tell your boyfriend my ass looks fat in these pants when I walk away, alright? We were having such a nice time, don't spoil it.

Yes, so. I got through the scan and as my girlie Tru left in the comments it was clean. Which is a big YAY!! It looked better than last year which was better than the year before when I got the dreaded "We see something but aren't going to do anything about it so have a nice life thinking you have cancer raging through your body. Buh bye."

The whole scanning process SUCKS and I felt like shit for weeks but the outcome was great so great. You'd think I'd be great but no, not so much with the great.

I don't know exactly what is wrong with me because I am grateful and happy and all that but after a couple days of being elated through an icky sick fog I remember all the other things that are still wrong with me and I still physically feel like shit so my good news is short lived.

This year I didn't feel as bad for as long but haven't been able to shake the general feeling of having a mild case of the flu and walking around like a virtual zombie after getting scant more than a few hours of sleep a night. Right before the whole ordeal I'd been told I have situational and reversible fibromyalgia which explains my constant state of shit-feeling. Of course I was told to exercise and eat right and reduce stress and here, take this nasty drug made for epileptics to help you sleep, which I won't do.

Therefore I'm trying to uncrank myself and figure this new development out. Pair all of this with a job I fucking HATE working with people who are LAME and I've been sporting one giant pair of pissy pants for weeks.

I bought The Secret because Oprah told me too but I'm so cantankerous I'd rather shove it up her righteous ass then read it. I snarl at toddlers and flip off old ladies and laughed when Sanjaya was voted off of American Idol but really, that bitch needed to go. I squish snails and yell at sales girls and agree with Dr. Laura.

I'm tellin' ya. I've been a CRANK.

And I have no real elegant way of closing this verbal regurgitation so I'm going to discreetly sneak into the guest room where all the coats and purses are and quietly grab my things trying not to wake the drunk woman snoring on top of that leather jacket and slip out the front door. (No, I'm not leaving, it was a metaphor. Simile? Fake ending.) Ahem. OK, on to other things.

~~~~~

I started the South Beach Diet yesterday. I lasted 14 hours. GO ME!!

~~~~~

Hey, chick sitting in front of me at the movies with the greasy hair and ugly striped green shirt. Put your fucking cell phone away. I'm not kidding. I've been on a mean streak lately and if you don't shove that phone in your dirty white purse I'm going to pour the remains of my diet coke over your head and give you a courtesy lobotomy with the straw.

You see, when they play that nauseating song with the creepy dancing paper sacks it's not to simply entertain the likes of you and your white trash girlfriend. It's a message. A big, fat hint, close to a demand, right around the corner from a warning to be aware of your surroundings and the people sharing the same space as your mouth-breathing self and it is a simple fact of respect that you adhere to societal rules in a cinema.

Rules which allow other paying patrons with short tempers and quick fuses to enjoy a theatrical film without being FUCKING BLINDED IN THE PITCH BLACK ROOM BY YOUR GOD DAMN PINK JEWELED PHONE WITH THE BLUE KEYS AND SEARCHLIGHT SCREEN WHILE YOU TEXT THE GUY YOU'RE TRYING TO MAKE YOUR NEW BABY DADDY EVERY 4 FUCKING MINUTES!!

PUT. IT. AWAAAAAAAAAY. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.

~~~~~

Miss me? I missed you. Let's make out.