Another visit survived...barely

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Princess Crankypants takes a holiday

Today I'm leaving on one of these:



Fricking fargin tubes of death. Gack.


And I'm going here:



OK, so I won't be exactly there since that would require a disgusting hike down a very steep switch-back trail that's like 42 miles down and 195 miles up. And I don't think they provide medi-vac lifts via helicopter back to the top. Because this booty is not hauling herself by foot. Fuck. That.

But I am going to be in the general vicinity and hopefully will get to spend some quality time in the park, Yellowstone that is, seeing my beloved wildlife. Safely from the friggen car thankyouverymuch. I can't tell you how many tourons get smashed by animals every year up there. No, Mildred, you cannot run faster than a bison!

Most important of all, my primary goal is doing this.



Which could also involve never brushing my hair and wearing nothing but pajamas for 6 days. Ahhhh, the glory of crusty jammies. It's been another retarded week leaving me shaking my head at what people are capable of, and fighting with insurance companies over the 4 million dollars I owe and how they completely fucked me over by giving me bad info and now shit, I have to do it all over again in September christ what if I need radiation I'm going to be half dead and broke cry cry cry. So screw all that stupid noise, I'm on vacation!

I'll try to find the time between napping and napping to post an entry or two. I am visiting my folks you know, so I'll have plenty of material. And my crazy brother will be there too. Bonus! In the meantime, have fun, miss me, love you, mean it.

And a special farewell to whitey. I don't know how I'll sleep without your farting, snoring body next to mine. (That's what you get for the packing crack). I will miss you, baby, so much it hurts. Love you like crazy. When I get back I'd like a O! Have fun with the cats and don't let them watch any more porn. They're gettin' ideas...

See yooz guys later!!

Mom! I finished my homework!

The lovely Leslie was given 5 questions to answer and after I piped up begging to play, she graciously sent me 5 of my own to ponder. I usually don't participate in these meme (is that the correct usage of this stupid word that I don't know how to pronounce. Is it memm? M'em? Mee-mee? Fuck, I don't know. Stupid made-up internet word.) things, but Leslie is one smart cookie and I likes her. Check out her blog. It's a breath of fresh air when your world is stanky and she loves animals as much as me.

1. You have the opportunity to enact three laws. What are they?

This one was actually very hard for me and I'm sure I haven't given it nearly as much thought as I should have. But here goes.

Law # 1 - I would legalize prostitution but make sure this profession was handled like they do it at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch in Nevada. The girls are protected and safe with every conceivable protection at their fingertips, not to mention mandatory. It's a controlled environment of consenting adults and that's how it should be. The girls are there because they want to be and make a substantial amount of money. People should not be arrested for having consentual sex, if they are of legal age. It's just stupid.

Law # 2 - I would make animal abuse laws much stricter and perhaps painful. Anyone who is capable of hurting, torturing or abusing an animal should not get a light slap on the wrist with a minimal fine. They should get a taste of the pain they inflincted on the animal, say starving them until they can't lift their heads or tied to a tree in a backyard through the winter. At the very least, substantial jail time and lose every fucking thing they have. I feel very strongly about this one.

The ASPCA and Humane Society should get all the money from the government that goes towards developing chemical warfare and federally supported testing such as how many eyelashes the average person has. I'd rather have my money going towards something honorable and overly-necessary like animals in need.

Law # 2 - I think sexual predators should be phsycially castrated (chop it OFF) and medically altered (we're talking drooling zombies here) and put on an island surrounded by man-eating sharks (and giant killer jelly fish). Child molesters cannot be cured. They cannot be rehabilitated. And even if they can be successfully integrated back into society, there is more and more evidence showing that these people are not wired correctly. Even if they can control their actions, the urges never go away. They cannot be trusted around children or anyone for that matter if they're a rapist. They need to be banished. Off my planet, fuckwad!

2. What was the last kindness shown to you by a stranger or someone you don't know very well?

I have a customer who sent me a beautiful card in a business package last week. It was such a nice gesture I literally teared up. The note inside was very heartfelt and sincere and it was nice to be reminded that there are people out there who care, remember, and get it. She knows and understands about the healing I'm looking for and wished me just that. It was a simple act of kindness but meant so much. It's now on my bulletin board prominently displayed and I will extend the same generocity towards another person. It might be in the form of not hitting you, but hey! That would be darn nice of me!

3. Who has influenced you the most positively in your life -- I wanna know how they did and if they are still a part of your life.

This one is very tough. I've had so many people in my life who have lifted me up and taught me important lessons. But if I had to choose one today, it would have to be my first riding instructor in college. I was 21 or 22 and only had a few short and painful rides on horseback, mostly involving me getting on and promptly falling off. I'd been raised by my loving (and paranoid) father to fear horses. When I signed up for the riding course at my university I couldn't even feed a horse a carrot. A chickenshit was I.

Laura was the Basic Equitation instructor. Her tight, sunburned and weathered face betrayed her easy smile and friendly demeanor. The first day of class I cracked a joke that went over well and I can't help but think that might have been what endeared her to me strait-away. For some reason I became teacher's pet, which was ironic since I knew jack shit about horses. Laura saw something special in me and with her quiet way, instilled a confidence I'd never had before. I felt calm around her. A type of quiet fearlessness I'd rarely had.

Whenever Laura needed some task completed, she called on me. A spooky horse needed a walk, Betty got the job. A horse with enough energy to gallop from California to New York? Betty will work him out in the bull-pen. The killer horse who hated people needed a rider? Betty'll do it.

These weren't menial tasks or grunt work that Laura asked me to do. They were dangerous endevors, always important and Laura needed someone she could trust. She never had to look into my eyes and say "you can do this", I just knew I could. She radiated confidence right into me and I've always appreciated that. I was forever changed by that experience and how Laura treated me. I'm truly not articulating this the way I'd like to, but it was an unspoken thing, so maybe it doesn't need any more words than I've already said.

Laura left my school before I graduated. And truthfully, I only took one more riding class for fun then had to concentrate on my major and drinking as much beer as I could shove down my gullet. But I've never forgotten those 2 quarters and how they affected me forever. Laura is a person I go to in my head when I need a dose of tenacity. I'll be forever grateful to her and think of her often when I'm riding now.

4. What are you most passionate about? What makes your heart soar and your soul dance?

Man, Leslie, give me the hardest, thought-provoking questions in the whole wide world why dontcha! If we're talking about a profession, I'm extremely passionate about Human Sexuality Education. It's the career path I plan on taking as soon as I get an all-clear with this cancer shit. I think it's so important to teach kids all aspects concerning the most important subject on earth, and not just how their plumbing works. But I'll save that speech for another time.

I'd have to say the thing I'm most passionate about and that makes my heart soar is animals. I like them better than people. Sometimes I get shit for saying that, but fuck itm it's true. Animals aren't judgemental, well, except for cats, and they love you unconditionally. Once again, except for cats. I'e never felt more love for anything in the world than my dog Casey. Hear that cats? I loved a dog best of all. Ha!

Some of the most amazing experiences of my life have been with an animal of some kind. From coyotes to killer whales. Life-alterting, amazing, take-your-breath-away-you-probably-wouldn't-even-believe-me-anyway encounters.

I'm a spoiled little Princess Crankypants as my parents live in Yellowstone. So I get to go up there anytime I want and frolic in the forest and molest the wildlife. I'm always thrilled by every creature I see and have about 40 blargillion pictures of bison and elk. I never tire of it and my primary goal is always to see the beasts rather than the trees, which are also nice. But nothing makes me squeal outloud like finding a bald eagle riding on the wind or a moose feeding in the lake.

I would love to someday go to Africa. Specifically to experience all of the incredible wildlife in their natural habitats. Hopefully I won't have to witness a lioness taking down a zebra or anything, but hey, what are ya gonna do? It's not like they have cans of Alpo on the plains. And I've recently taken to screaming out "I WANT TO EAT IT!!" whenever I see a too-cute puppy. Thankfully whitey thinks it's hilarious and isn't ready to file down my teeth.

5. What's a perfect day in your world?

A perfect day in my world would have to be a Sunday. All the chores are done and the only thing on the agenda is lazing around all day. None of the 1800 things on my to-do list require attention and we're all stocked up on provisions. No need to get in the car for anything.

I wake up after a (non-existent) good night's sleep feeling great. No headaches. No body aches. No crushing fatigue. My baby and I lounge around in bed for awhile since there's no need to jump out of it. The world is quiet, still and peaceful. And the cats come and snuggle with ME. Dammit.

We stay in our pajamas all day. Hell, I might not even brush my hair. While the rain steadily falls outside, whitey makes us his famous bacon and cheese omelet with a side of hashbrowns breakfast and I have a hearty supply of chocolate to snack on throughout the day. We have a pile of good movies to watch and plug one in whenever we want. My afternoon nap is preceded by some slamming sex and I sleep sans scary dreams, waking up without being groggy. And the cats come and snuggle with ME. Dammit.

I spend a little time reading a good book, watch another movie and order me a mess of stuff from amazon.com. God, I love shopping. Mess around on the computer a little, then snog on the couch with my baby after a dinner of lemon chicken salad and orgasmic breadsticks from my favorite Greek place while we watch bad reality TV and make fun of ALL THE PEOPLE CRYING. Seriously, what's with the crying? I go to bed early, feeling relaxed and happy and not guilty for spending the whole day doing next to nothing. And the cats come snuggle with ME. Dammit.

Thanks Leslie! That was fun. I'd offer to pass on 5 questions to another person, but I'm getting ready to go on vacation and frankly, I'm just that lazy.

Aye, ye scarby dog

How is that I've reached the ripe ol' age of 37 and still manage to get shampoo in my fucking eye?

God dammit.

Burned again

One great thing about having a blog is that I get to say whatever the fuck I want to and no one can do a damn thing about it. I can't be shunned. I can't be shamed. I can't be banned. This is my kingdom and I wear the crown. It's shiny.

Having a personal space to vent your feelings and thoughts is so important because we all encounter situations in our lives where we don't have the opportunity to speak our minds, defend ourselves, or give personal sides to the story. We can't tell the boss that he's an idiot. We can't scream at the lumbering old lady in front you in the grocery store to hurry up. Well, we could but it might not go over so well.

I've experienced a situation this week that reminds me of what's important in life, makes me appreciate my true friends, and most of all, reminds me that the world is populated with fucking lunatic assholes who spew mostly bullshit from their gaping holes and feed on hypocrisy like the fat kid in a candy store. But what do I know? I'm vitriolic and unhappy.

One thing that drives me more batshit crazy than most others, and we all know that's a long fucking list, is being accused of something I haven't done. This started at a very early age when I was pinpointed as a criminal the first day of kindergarten and it was really the stupid kidwith the eyepatch and snotty nose next to me. Long running trauma here. I tend to go right from a questioning posture to exploding in a campaigning frenzy of my own defense. And if that doesn't work, out come my claws. They are sharp and skillful.

And really, is that so different than anyone else?? I think not. I am human just like everyone else. I have feelings. I'm more sensitive than most and I will fully admit that I don't always have a tight grip on my emotions. But I'm willing to apologize if I get nutty. I am a good person who cares about people and would give someone the shirt off my back, except my new black one that I haven't worn yet that gives me some slammin' cleavage.

What I'm not willing to do is eat a giant shit sandwich that's being force-fed down my gullet. I will not keep quiet when blind-sided with accusations that are untrue and actions against me that are unfair and unwarranted. You slap my face with an open hand while I was minding my own business and you'll lose some teeth for your trouble. You poke me in the eye and you'll get bloody. You call me a jerk and I'll call your mother a filthy whore. That's how it works for me, and most everyone else. At least I admit to it. And I'll do it right to your face, not safely behind your friend's big brother's cousin's back.

I don't call someone a friend on a whim. I don't care about someone with a half-hearted effort. I don't share myself without risk. It's a gift when someone gives of themselves and it's an act of fucking evil when you promise someone a haven of protection, to assure them a safe place to vent, to share their private lives and personal struggles then spit in their face after they speak. Tell me your problems, my god you're so negative.

No one likes to be judged with only a speck of information. It's dangerous and dumb. And I will not bother with you ever again if I haven't been given the benefit of at least minimal communication.

When someone has chosen to block all access to your voice you will find another ear.

So, for those of you who have claimed friendship, go around crying that there's two sides to every story, then join one camp without giving the other side the benefit of laying their cards on the table, you can go fuck yourselves. It's a sad irony that some people spew this kind of injustice about like a fire hose but don't put into practicality. And they certainly don't apply this fairplay to anyone but themselves, or when it serves their own purposes, or when they're blindly jammed up a false idols asscrack.

I did nothing. I said nothing. I started nothing. I deserved none of it. I've read everything you've said. Ahhh, hypocrisy in its finest form.

"That bitch is so mean."

Get it now assholes??

What a joke.

So many anniversaries...

I need to start this post with something positive before I bitch and moan at you lovely people. It was exactly 2 years ago today that I got the call. The call that told me I had cancer. I thought it was a death sentence and my world crashed down with a deafening force. Guess what. I'm still here. (A big toe up the ass for those of you who hate me - ha ha. Suck it). It has sucked gorilla tits, no doubt about it, and something I'll have to manage and deal with forever. But the key here is that I have a forever. At least for now. And that's fucking awesome.

I'm very lucky and I know it. I've had it much easier than some, but even those who trudge through worse shit-shows than me are still here too. So, if anyone out there has gotten some news that seems too big to handle, just know that there are a lot of us out here still kickin' it with our homies. A diagnosis isn't always a ticket to the big dirt nap. And for the rest of you who are GIANT PUSSIES AFRAID OF THE DOCTOR AND NEEDLES AND PRETTY PAPER SHIRTS. Grow a pair and go. If you all disappear who am I'm going to complain to?

And also furthermore too bad I'm giving another plug to a deserving site. Just get over the "I'm so sick of those stupid plastic bracelets" thing. Yes, they turned into a fad. Yes, people wanted the coveted yellow band for a status symbol. Who cares? The semi-important thing is that it's being talked about. The fully important thing is that cancer research, for EVERY kind of cancer, is getting attention and money. So I don't give a flying fuck if you're sick of that chunk of plastic around a wrist, go here and learn. Give a dollar. Make a difference. It might be you next time.

http://www.lancearmstrong.com/

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OK, I didn't kill myself or anyone else in the last week. Although I got really close to running a few people over with my car. The no smoking thing didn't really work out either. I'm not a big-time sparker, but I know it's terrible for me and I'm nuts to be participating in this nasty habit blah blah. I smoke a few a day, or not at all, or more when I'm partying. Then I lose the taste and stop. I'm lucky it's not a horror show for me to quit. But when my brain is exploding from drug withdrawal and I'm obsessed with a painful decision, forrrrrrrget it. I'm lighting up if I want to.

I did however decide to stick with my plan of going off anti-depressants. Rachael (whom I have to properly link because she's a kick-ass writer taking names and leaving marks and I dig her chile so sorry I've been a tard, girlie) asked me in the comments why I would go off these meds. Well, here's the deal. I went on them because I'd been treading water in a sesspool of major clinical depression since my diagnosis, and probably a good deal of time before that. I needed help but I didn't do it all the right way. I didn't get therapy with the meds and that I do not recommend.

It wasn't a decision as much as an avoidance of more responsibilities. I was so sick of doctors appointments and draining my savings account for medical bills that I couldn't handle one more thing. But, I did find a psychiatrist, not my gynecologist, who knew what he was doing (hopefully) and recognized the fact that messing with your thyroid jacks up your entire body, mind, moods, etc., etc.

I was put on a drug that works well with the specific thyroid replacement hormones I take. And for awhile they worked. Then we upped the dosage and things went steadily in the opposite direction I was looking for. The depression really wasn't an issue anymore and I'd already made the decision that I wanted to go off the meds. Then I found out that they could be part of the reason why I feel like baked turd most of the time AND they make you gain weight, which I didn't know about my brand. Fuck that, Jack. No way. I don't have a thyroid and I'm addicted to chocolate. I don't need a little pill make me gain more weight. PFT.

Plus I'm freakishly sensitive to everything and can really feel these chemicals pumping through my system and I was ready to try something else like, Oh, I don't know, exercise. Shh, don't tell Tom Cruise. I finally got that dick to stop calling me.

And that's that. I did the right thing (OK, yes I know that it took me a few days and a couple friends yelling at me) and called my primary doctor to get a lower dose so I could tapir myself off of them like you're supposed to do. Practice what you preach, Betty. Practice what you preach.

Bottom line, if you feel like you need some pharmaceutical intervention because you're holding on to that last shred of pissed-soaked rope, then by all means do what you need to do. But please do a lot research first and go to someone who specializes in brain-altering drugs and not your chiropractor. These meds are given out like candy and they're nothing to fuck with. OK? OK. And please feel free to e-mail me if you have any questions. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not shy.

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God dammit, I didn't go to my high school torture make fun of fat people compare yourself to everyone memory trauma hope you aren't the biggest loser reunion either. And making that decision was an exercise in hysteria all by itself.

Do I go do I not go. Do I drag my poor boyfriend who would know not a soul. Do I suck it up and inflate my head with confidence and not care about the size of my ass or spare myself from another 10 years of retail therapy to get over spending $300 on a new outfit and $3,000 on psychotropic drugs.

Sigh.

I still don't know if I made the right decision, although it was mostly made for me when the friend I was going with backed out the day before the shindig. Thanks a lot Julie! I should have seen that one coming. I hated high school but my friend really hated high school. Which is not the way I remembered it since she looked like a supermodel and could get any guy she wanted. Although there was that little tiny incident our senior year when she came to school drunk, puked in the middle of the art class and got kicked out. Oops. I suppose that tainted her memory a bit. Teenagers - do not drink before school. Wait until after.

"We" decided that there wasn't anyone worth seeing or whoever we'd want to see wouldn't be there. "We" decided that we didn't keep in contact with anyone we saw at the 10 year reunion anyway. "We" decided that it wasn't valuable to flush our tentative self-esteem down the toilet for one night of possible misery or merriment, no guarantees of either. "We" decided that everyone was probably just as judgmental and snobby as they've been our whole lives and the reason why we stumbled out of the last one very drunk and very sorry we went. "We" went home and wrestled with the torn feelings for a few hours, got drunk and cried a little on our understanding boyfriends shoulder and drunk dialed a couple of friends. Oh wait, that was only me.

Despite the assurances from about a million people that their 10 sucked and their 20 was great, I resigned to the fact that I was giving up on pushing the issue with anyone and would not be there. Last time I regretted going and now I'll have to live with the regret of not. Oh, irony. What a fickle little bitch is she. I blame Alanis Morisette. I don't know if she's fickle but she sure is cranky.

Sigh
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Sunday I woke up before God, puttered around the house and decided that what was done was done and I won't think about it anymore. Instead I'm going to obsess about my upcoming visit to my parents where my mother will talk incessantly about how much more weight I've gained and I sneak candy behind her back.

Then about 8:00 I pounced on whitey to get up get up get up come play with me and please please make me breakfast. Which he did because he's awesome. We basically did some chores and some relaxing then I took a nap. After I peeled my zombie ass off the napping bed, we watched Anchorman with Will Ferrell. I highly recommend this flick if you want to laugh until coke comes out your nose.

I'd seen it before but he hadn't, which I think is really fun especially when the other person had heard bad things about a movie that you know is good and they will love then you'll get all the credit for their happiness. We laughed so fucking hard it was obnoxious. And of course picked up a bunch of high-larious phrases that only we'll get. I can't wait to drop "you are a real hooker" on some poor unsuspecting retail clerk. Ha. That'll be fun!

For your avid bibliophiles out there, I can't say enough about this book. (Thank you Heidi!) The premise sounds rather grim and morose, but trust me. Give it a chance and I think you'll like it. It centers around 4 very different people who end up on the same roof ready to jump to their demise. It's funny and different and quirky and inventive. Great summer read for inside the house with the AC cranking and a fan aimed at your sweaty neck while you whine for the 70 bazillionth time about the fucking heat. Oh, once again that would be me.

Word to the wise

DO NOT try to quit smoking and go off of your anti-depressant meds in the same week.

I can't decide if I want to kill myself or everyone else.

Christ.

Liar liar set your head on fire

Cliché:
Meaning trite or overused expression. From the French past participle of 'clicher' loosely translated to “Soss stoopeed Americans can't use ze brain to invent ze original phrase to safe ze life. I speet on dem. Patooey”

We all know people are full of shit. It's a pandemic. More prevalent than fleas. And we’re all well aware that those who find it a novelty to shove an untruth up your ass, rather than be honest, thoroughly enjoy the dreaded cliché when putting their purjurious prattle into practice.

Bullshitters are like the guilty kid slathered in chocolate from head to toe insisting that "me no ate the cookie". And the famously unimaginative who snatch that last double chocolate brownie from the plate right as you’re reaching for it who look at you with a smug face and belch some jewel such as “you snooze, you lose”. Ohhh, how I hate these people. Ohhh, how they should be caned. By me.

It's unbelievable the aspersions crap spewers try to cast. Especially when it's so obvious that you're literally stunned at their unbelievable attempt at falsehood. Opened jawed and wide eyed with imaginary innocence. Your response nothing but a woosh of discerning air of incredulity escaping past your lips. Unable to respond as you'd like to, the words coming 20 minutes too late.

Everyone embellishes, stretches the truth, fibs a little. It’s part of human nature. We can’t escape it. And sometimes it’s necessary. When feelings need to be spared and there’s no use in revealing every detail. There is a time and a place for brutal truth, and appropriate reasons to fudge it. But the level of libel that we encounter in our daily adult lives is staggering.

Even though I totally appreciate it when anyone is giving me a pep talk and trying to make me feel better with well-intentioned advice, or trying to inject some positive energy into my terminally cranky butt, I sincerely wish they’d save the tired clichés for someone who’s less hostile. Because there are some sayings that just make me want to beat people with a flaming 2 by 4.

You can be anything you want to be. One of the biggest lies ever told to anyone in the history of the world. I mean come on. You can not! Number one, using an absolute isn’t a smart thing to do anyway, but let's be real here. I'm never going to be a defensive tackle for the Broncos. (Damn, I love those shiny pants). I can't become a trapeze artist. (Besides the fact I'd have to work with fucking clowns, you know I'd fall and kill myself). And I'm sure as hell never going to be President. (The pay sucks and I already have a million people who don’t like me, I don’t need whole countries trying to bomb my ass).

You have nothing to fear but fear itself. Oh yea? Tell that to the guy with the rattlesnake happily sharing his sleeping bag. What a load. Try to convince me that being locked in a flying tube of death plunging through space is a natural phenomenon and that fearing I'll fall to the ground at the speed of light and become a small stain on the ground is irrational. Fuck. You. I don't need to face anything, I don't need to get over my fright. I need to take prescription medication and mix it with alcohol.

At least it's a dry heat. Yes, because standing under a bright sky that measures 115 degrees Farenheit doesn't feel like molten lava being poured over your head. Because it's DRY. Who the fuck cares? It wouldn't matter if I were 200 feet below the ocean's surface, being anywhere that resembles the surface of the sun SUCKS and I DON'T WANT TO GO THERE.

Little pinch now. Bullfuckingshit little pinch. Why don't I take that gleeming needle and plunge it into the soft part of your arm and we'll see if it feels like a little pinch. Lying hoor.

It's not you its me. Ha, it's SO you.

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all. Biggest load of crap. Everybody wants the dirt. We love gossip. The dirty details and the sordid scoop. Most people lick their lips with anticipation when being let in on the juicy secret. That's why I prefer "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me"! Now there's a cliché I can get behind.

Help, I've binged and I can't get up

Is it possible to consume so many Hershey Kisses as to become poisoned by mid-quality chocolate?

Is 583 too many?

Is it a bad sign that my boss's head now has a little point with a paper streamer sticking out the top?

Is there an antidote?

I'll post again later tonight. I have a feeling I'll be awake since for some reason I've lost the ability to blink.

Boring re-cap and shameless PSA

How was everyone's Happy Fourth Canada Day of July?

Somehow I feel like my three day weekend was wasted. Or more appropriately, I wasted it being in a fog for most of it. Things were slightly left of center. I saw everything out of the corner of my eye, the one full of cat hair. I'm still so tired, then I get guilty for being a sloth, then pissed off, then I take a nap.

The temp's have been heating up lately, and since I've turned into a walking furnace with tits it's been brutal. The thought of spending any time in the sun precisely kept me out of it, as much as possible. We were invited to a party on Monday but the thought of sitting outside was too much to take. So we went to the mall instead, inbetween watching 495 hours of TV and laying like a rug. Poor whitey. I feel so bad for being such a sickly dud all the time.

We did venture out to lunch on Sunday too. I was happy to go to what was (emphasis on was) one of my favorite restaurants, The Cheescake factory. I love this place. The atmosphere is nice, the food awesome and the cheescakes are almost better than sex. But I talked it up too much and jinxed it. Or it was because I said outloud that I'd talked it up too much and probably jinxed it. Either way, it sucked.

It was so crappy that I didn't get any cheesecake. That's how pissed off I was. The place was jammed with screaming kids and obnoxious drunks, at 4:00 mind you. I ordered an Asian chicken salad that arrived with a huge pile of fiber-optic hair piled on top, hardly any dressing and it was littered with that purple cabbage. I hate purple cabbage. Tasted like poo. Worst of all, our waitress blew. And not in the good way.

I walk into an eatery planning on a 20% tip for my server. You have to fuck up good for it to start going down. Our chick messed up so many times that not only did she get about a 12% tip, but I stole her pretty pink pen she gave me to sign the credit card slip with. Ha! That'll learn ya. And now I'll never go back there. Or at least not until I forget about the shitty salad and the loudness and the bad service want a piece of Kaluah Fudge Double Chocolate Caramal Extreme Ripple Cheescake.

All-in-all, it wasn't a bad weekend by any means. I had a great riding lesson on Saturday and jumped a bunch, so that was fun. But I'm torqued about still not feeling great all the time and worried that I'm dragging someone else through this mud with me. And yes, I believe him when he says it's/we're/he's fine, but I'm still going to worry! So feh.

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And now I shall lecture and plea.

I'm an animal lover. In fact, I like them more than people. Might sound harsh, but it's the truth and I make no apolgies for it. I'm not perfect and yes, the Noctural Bastards do irritate me from time-to-time and you might see a kitty taking a small flying leap with a little assistance off the bed at 1:30 in the morning after attempting to walk across my brains. But, my girls are well taken care of and protected.

They're not allowed outside to get eaten by coyotes or squished by cars or infringe on some neighbor who might not like my cats as much as I do and decide to turn them into furry mulch.
They're fed and watered and given treats and belly rubs and toys. They have the run of the house, save for the coffee table because those little fuckers get up there and drink my drinks with paws dusted in kitty litter. However, they are loved. I am tolerated. That's how it works.

Whitey and I happened across several episodes of Animal Cops while we were lounging about last weekend. I seriously cannot go into the rant I'd like to about this epidemic of abuse. It will upset me to the point of shut-down or explosion. It's not that I can't believe people are such souless fucks that they can neglect, mistreat and torture living creatures. It's the overwhelming numbers of worthless pricks perpetrating these crimes against animals that blows me away. It's the cruel disregard for life. The utter selfishness and lack of thought. Makes me sick on a level I can't articulate.

The people who rescue animals, arrest abusers, nurse furries back to health, and care enough to witness the carnage, destruction and desecration on a daily basis are angels. It takes special people to do this and from what I've seen not someone who's just doing their job. They really care. And they have the guts to see what they see and deal with what they have to deal with. That takes balls. And money. Which is what I give because I couldn't face what they do.

Animals are a life, not an impulse buy. So take heed when it's Easter and those bunnies are just too cute. Think before bringing a particular dog or dog breed into your home. Do your research prior to getting that fish tank or hamster or kitten. Please be responsible and get your beasts fixed and keep them healthy with vaccinations and check-ups.

Find out the proper way to train a new puppy or to deal with a freaky feline. And ask for help if you need it. Find a good home if you can't take care of an animal anymore. Do what's right. For you and your pet and maybe someday we won't have a show like Animal Cops with a million hours of heartbreaking footage.

I know there are a zillion charities out there. Important causes. Personal choices. And I'm sure lots of people think animals aren't as valuable as humans, but there's room for both, at least in my mind. My philosophy is, if someone doesn't care about life in the lowest forms, what would make them care about life in the higher? And yes, this includes snakes. (Darnit). If you can't give money, there are always lists of needs the shelters publish. Even a few old towels would be greatly appreciated. So, if you're so inclined, check out these sites. They need you too.

A.S.P.C.A

Humane Society

Petfinder

Pass the Geritol, please

Sweet merciful crap.

I just agreed to go to my 20th High School reunion. On the 16th. Of July. Next month.

This means I have 16 days to lose the approximately 1.4 million pounds I've gained in the last 2 years and try not to feel 65 years old in the process.

And I swear on all that is holy, if that DJ does not play Kajagoogoo's Too Shy, I'll finish my wine cooler, tighten up my side ponytail, kick off my jelly's, straighten my white tights, push my orange neon bracelets past the 2 Swatch watches up my arm, put on my pink leather Member's Only jacket, climb into my maroon Datsun 210 SL hatchback wagon named Ferris with the broken headlight, light a Dajarum, and go home.

20 fricken years. Christ.

Whew - dodged another bullet

GOOD NEWS! NOT GREAT NEWS BUT GOOD FOR NOW!! I'LL TELL YOU ABOUT IT NOW! WHY AM I STILL YELLING?

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who sent good vibes and left comments yesterday. They worked! (So far. You know I'll be hitting you up for more in a few months. I'm still a hyperactive worrying baby, you know.)

I had the MRI today and it was a suckfest with a side of "eh". The IV was fucking brutal. Nurse Ratchet missed the vein and had to grind the needle around in my forearm a bit to puncture it, which then caused blood to go squirting out of the catheter and down my arm and me to squirm in my seat with tears squeezing out of my eyes while I chanted a mantra of "crap crap crap". Ow and fucking ow. My arm feels like it was run over by a car then injected with silly putty. But obviously I can still type. Har.

The scan itself wasn't that bad. I actually went into a zone and almost fell asleep, despite the constant jackhammering on my head. Seriously, I know they can put a camera the size of a mile-long thread up your ass to see your brain, and we had people playing golf on the moon 30+ years ago for fuckssake. They can't invent a scanner that doesn't require ear plugs? Yes, I'm serious, I had to wear ear plugs. The sucker was LOUD.

But the dudes were semi-cool and the whole ordeal was over in less than an hour. The headache I get every time I'm injected with crap never got that bad and thankfully I'm not the claustrophobic type since my head was locked into place with a helmet thing and I was inserted into one of those full body tube machines. Felt like a Thanksgiving turkey being put into the oven. Please baste every 30 minutes. Thank you.

I wasn't expecting a call with the results for at least 2 days but low and behold, they're already in! Thank you doctor man who read the results right away and saved me 48 hours of sharting my pants. All's good in the neck region. No new masses or obvious scar tissue that would require me to be split open and scooped out. Just some swollen lymph nodes, which didn't surprise me. Radiation jacks those up. They're a mess all over me. It's a wonder I don't look like a sack of grapes in a sweater.

Doc said that this was good news, when he could sense my trepidation over the phone. I'm relieved the MRI was clean, but that doesn't rule out possible thyroid cancer cells since an MRI can't see those nasty buggers and I generally feel poopy all the time, which is a fucking drag, but better than having a tumor in my head, I tell ya. So, I could still have some thryoid cancer floating about, but at least it looks like I've avoided more surgery for the time being.

I'll have to do another thyroid cancer scan in the fall to see what the next course of action will be. Dependent on those results, there could be radiation or another year of freedom until the next scan. So, sigh, more waiting. Fricken A. This shit will never be over. Something that I have yet to accept. Don't really have the key to that, but I'm trying.

And somehow I've managed to become iron deficient. So I have to go take those pills that turn your crap black. Weeeee.

I'm very glad this set of tests and sharp poking in my arms are over and I'll being doing my very best to back-shelf this shit for the summer, concentrate on taking better care of myself and having some fucking fun. And doing a good bit of writing.

For now, me and my limpdick arm are picking up some dinner with ice cream, going home to the best man on the planet and getting laid.

It's really not that bad, but...

I'm in a funk again. It's not a deep funk, more like the shallow end of the funk pool. Where your upper half gets fried in the sun but your lower half is safe and cool below the water. But a funk nonetheless.

To bring everyone up-to-date, and to compartmentalize some of this shit in my own brain, here's the deal. I'm a cancer patient. Hate it. Hate it a lot. I've been much more fortunate than some, but was handed the shit end of the stick and I'm still holding on. Boo hoo, I know.

I've already had the surgery and one round of radiation. I now have to be scanned for the rest of my life for possible recurrences and take medication every day or I croak, and just those 2 small things sometimes seem impossible to comprehend. I had a clean scan last year but the one this last March showed a "shadow" in my neck. I saw my doc June 17th and here's the deal.

There is no deal. I still don't know what's going to happen or what I'll have to do. And this has left me incresingly pissed off and deflated. I was ready for a game plan and I still don't have one. My doc rushed me through the appointment and I didn't get to ask all of the questions I wanted to. This is partly my fault. I didn't come with a list, although most of the time that doesn't matter because they'll scoff at you anyway and ignore it. I didn't speak up and make him listen. But when you're in that situation things turn all swirly and bewildering and before you know it you're back in your car saying, what the fuck just happened?

I have to have an MRI tomorrow to see if there's something wonky going on in my throat, since I'm having some trouble occasionally choking. More needles, more worry. I'm not claustrophobic, so having my head locked into the machine for an hour doesn't bother me, but the mere fact that these tests are meant to find things scares the piss out of me. It's hard to communicate just how stressful this is and how hard it is to keep a composed face. There are moments when I think I'm going to lose it for good.

If the MRI is fine, then I have another scan in October. If not, I have no idea. Surgery? I don't know, but god damn I hope not. If the scan in October is fine, then I wait another year and do it all over again. If not, then it looks like another round of radiation with med withdrawl and 6 months of feeling 10 times worse than I do now. But everything is dependent on everything else.

So, that's that. I'm keeping my smile in my back pocket because I can't seem to manage it today. I don't mean to splash anyone with my bummer, but this is how I feel. And of course this weight on my mind makes every little stinking problem seem as big as Mt. Everest. If I could ever fucking sleep I'd be doing that instead of trying to fake it through this week.

Wish me luck.

Fuck the reaper, Bozo is worse

Phobias. They're supposedly mostly irrational fears. This I can understand because, aww, how horrible it must be to freak out at the mere thought of the Dutch. Seriously. That's a real fear. Must be the ugly wooden shoes or those white-blond eyebrows that match their white-blond hair making them look like killer kids in a bad 70's horror movie.

Despite the lame fears some are entirely justified and entirely real and those who think they aren't can bite me. I have a few, and of course I think they are totally warranted and not as infantile as chasing a little, tiny spider around the kitchen sink trying to stab it with a steak knife. Not that anyone I know did that recently or anything. So yes, even though some are goofy, there are those aversions that are genuine and should be taken seriously and looked upon with coquettishly batting doe eyes and tender petting and not rude mocking and dismissal. Especially the ones I have. So, fuck you Freud, I'm not crazy. Much.

Don't like bugs or snakes. No way no how. They are nasty and creepy and icky. That damn Animal Planet is obsessed with them. Bugs and snakes. Bugs and snakes. Lion thwapping an antelope in the ass with a clawed paw. Bugs and Snakes. What is their deal? Can't those animal dudes go traipse through the desert looking for puppies instead of killer snakes and creepy demonic bugs of hell?

Hey, how about doing a show on what's the cutest furry thing that nuzzles your cheek with love instead of the eel-like fish that crawls up your hoo-ha if you pee in the river and latches onto your tingly parts with head spikes and sucks your blood dry. I'm forever turning to that channel hoping to see a special on furry mammal babies only to have a giant 4 foot wide cobra spitting venom at my screen or a 20 pound flying cockroach devouring a small village. Christalmighty. It's enough to give a delicate girl like me a heart attack.

I also don't like hair. Which is the dumbest thing if you knew me, since my hair has grown past my waist and is now in danger of getting caught in my crack. It needs a trim, I'm not aiming to be the next Crystal Gale or anything. When hair is at risk of being flushed down the toilet, it's too damn long. Hair is OK if it's attached to your head, but once it leaves, all bets are off. I completely gag if I see a stray follicle on a sink somewhere. God forbid I find one in my food. Gack. I have to stop now or I'll have to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon.

Flying. Need I say more?

Also, clowns. I blame my mother for this one. It's one of my strongest revulsions. Some might call it a phobia, but it's not like I avert my eyes when seeing an image of this particular thing. It's not as if I shudder at the mere thought of Ronald McDonald. It isn't something that I spend much time thinking about! OK. Those are lies. It's pretty much exactly like that. But it's not my fault!

When I was a kid I had this Jack-in-the-Box toy, but instead of having a friendly little Jack inside, it had a fucking clown. A googly-eyed sneering-smile possessed clown. Here I am, an innocent (stop laughing) little girl, playing with her innocent little toy unaware at the carnage coming my way.

If the whole clown thing wasn't bad enough, it didn't work right. I'd slowly turn the little metal crank and it would play that creepy plinkity-plinkity-plink-plink song but the damn thing wouldn't pop up. Until you were staring at it real close for a second going hmf, what's up with this, and then WHAM! Right in your face. No warning plinks or anything. Just the fucking clown popping out trying to scare the shit out of me, and succeeding.

After the Attack-in-the-box met it's ultimate doom, I received another gift from my mother that planted yet another seed for my collection of fears. Mom was an abuser of the sewing machine. You know, one of those kooky mothers who had the philosophy that you could make anything you wanted or needed with a needle and thread. She was wrong. Thanks for those polyester home-made bikini's from extra upholstry fabric mom! They were SWELL!.

For one of my early birthdays, 11 perhaps, mom had gotten the bright idea to make me a gift. I've been nutso crazy about stuffed animals my whole life, still am and probably always will be. Instead of buying me a snuggly, fuzzy Gund teddy bear, my mom decided to make me a new friend to cuddle with. As I unwrapped my squishy treasure, I quickly realized this was no fucking teddy bear. It was a clown! And not just any clown. It was almost a direct copy of that psychotic killer clown from Poltergeist. Jesus, Mom, where you find this? Fun Patterns for the Possessed? Like I'm gonna love up something that's gonna kill me in my sleep and make my braces grow 100 feet long. Don't think so.

Apparently my mother didn't get the hint after I gave Bozo the Cursed an obligatory position among my non-possessed animals for a short time then stuffed him into the back of my closet. A few years later she was struck with yet another great plan that involved her beloved sewing machine and what I suspect was a devilish sense of humor, since I never did figure out just what the hell she was thinking with this one.

I was about 14 and it was Christmastime. I still hunted the house for my gifts, not yet affected by the spoiling of the prize knowing ahead of time what I was getting. My parents were off playing tennis or something and I was home alone. It was a pretty big house, but you can't hide anything from me. I can turn any amount of square footage inside out and put it back exactly as I found it.

I figured the best place to start was my parents bedroom. I poked around in their closets for a bit and found nothing. The dresser was also a zero. Next stop, under the bed. I got down on my belly and scooted myself to the edge of the bedskirt. My face jammed up against the frame. Excitement growing as I had a feeling I was getting closer to breaking the case and finding my loot. I was giggling with anticipation and filled with the naughty. I lifted the material and suddenly found myself nose-to-nose with a face starting back at me with vacant eyes and a maniacal blood-red smile.

Holy Christ! I flew backwards screaming, smashing my head in the process. When I retrieved my heart from the ceiling I tentatively went back under the bed to find out what the fuck that thing was.

My mother had sewn me a boy. A life-sized freaky-assed button-nosed boy. Complete with red string hair and patches on his knees. It looked like Richie Cunningham on crack with long skinny spindly arms and legs and a frozen sneer. Now what the fuck am I'm going to do with this thing? And just what the blue hell did she think I was going to do with this thing? And how the heck am I going to open that package on Christmas morning knowing that it contains a demonic Opie? What. Was. She. Thinking.

I managed to compose myself and pretend I wasn't home alone with an undoubtedly demented Chucky and faked my happiness at this bizarre gift on Christmas morning. The boy eventually was the recipient of many drunken teenage pornish pranks, and one day he just up and disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, but I like to think he went back to his own dimension. The one Tom Cruise apparently escaped from.

The most recent cherry on my paranoia cake came around Halloween a couple of years ago. I had joined some friends and their kids for dinner and a trek through one of those haunted house things that crop up everywhere. It was at Balboa Park in San Diego, which is spooky enough by itself, but outfitted for the season with a creepshow called The Haunted Trails.

Those things really don't scare me but it was fun to watch the four 15 year-old boys with us try to be tough while they're screaming like little girls and grabbing onto you for protection. Big tough boys, indeed. I was totally making fun of them and acting like the cool bitch I am, but revenge would be all theirs soon enough.

We were almost at the end of this thing and we came upon an outdoor "room" fashioned out of tall plywood walls. There was no way around it and we were forced to enter in order to exit. I hadn't thought anything about it since nothing had phased me so far. I stepped one foot inside the flashing neon-lit room with the deafening music when I realized I was indubitably fucked. This place was not inhabited by zombies. There were no giant rats or Freddie Krugers trying to suck us into the ceiling. This nightmare was swarming with Killer Clowns From Outer Space ghouls. And this is where I lost my shit.

I immediately flung myself over into a fetal position, covered my face with my hands and started yelling "I don't do clowns, I don't do clowns"!!! I was not going to get sympathy or help from my crew of friends and they immediately stepped away from me like I'd just peed in the pool. Leaving me alone in the middle of the floor being pounced upon on all sides by fucking psychotic clowns with jagged teeth and red eyes. At least I'm sure that's what they looked like because I was still hunched over covering my face and screaming "I don't do clowns"!!

Then one of my brilliant friends yells my name laughing hysterically so this one evil clown comes running over to me, bends down trying to get his face in my face and starts growling in this scary voice, "come on Betttttyyyyyyy, look at meeeeeee Betttttyyyyyyyyyy, ahhhhh Betttttyyyyy, loooooook Bettttyyyy". Nearly peed my pants. Clowns are the minions of the devil, I say. THE DEVIL.

And don't even get me started on that god damn Grinch.

Happy Birthday, Baby

30 years ago today you came into the world and made it a better place. I think I felt the earth shift on that Summer Saturday, since I was practically in high school when you were born, and I'm sure when you entered this realm it changed the atmosphere. Your presence on this big blue bean is large and your mark indelible. No one who crosses your path does so without taking notice.

I'd written a story of our short history, but it was getting rather long-winded so I'll save it for another time. What I want to say is simple:

You are so beautiful it's hard to put it all into words without cheating and using a thesaurus. Your talents are awe-inspiring and never cease to amaze me. You are loving and thoughtful. Accepting and discering. White-hot smart and a great kisser. You're funny as shit and sexy as hell. And I love you more than chocolate.

I looked at you last weekend while you were sleeping and had to choke back tears. Sometimes my feelings for you crush me under their weight. I knew people like you existed in the world, I just didn't know I'd be lucky enough to have one in my life. Here's to the future, baby. May it bring you everything you desire and more.

You are the noxema on my sunburn.

You are the vodka in my koolaid.

You are the love of my life.


Happy Birthday, baby. I love you!

You can't order courage on the internet

With yet another celebrity trial over and done with, we the public are left to scratch our heads and ponder just what the fuck happened. Again. I know we weren't in the courtroom, and our information is gathered from outside sources and shoved down our throats with news bias. But you have to admit, this is not a human being behaving normally. And more importantly, in my opinion, are these parents who are handing over their children on a silver platter. WTF?

Oh, by the way, I'm talking about Michael Jackson, just in case you haven't been saturated with that shit show enough.

Since I'm sure the blogosphere, TV, papers, ad naseum, are inundated with Whacko Jacko right now, the specifics of the case are not what I'm intending to comment on today. I'm not the political sort. It's not something I get into or enjoy discussing, nor do I have much knowledge in that area so I'm a smartypants and keep my mouth shut.

I picked up on something after hearing the jury speak the other day and it struck a nerve. A very important nerve. One that I'm sure we all deal with in a plethora of situations all the time. Keep in mind that these are my opinions, and I welcome feedback, since I think this is a very important multi-faceted subject and I'll fully admit I could possibly be narrowly sighted about it.

Juries in America, as a whole, are not qualified to judge anyone. Plain and simple. If you've ever served on a jury, which I have, you've probably experienced the frustration, change of beliefs and personal agendas found among your supposed peers. People who answered all of the lawyers questions then switched gears in the deliberation room. People who promised to listen to the evidence then discarded it all and went by feelings and their own past experiences. These people are not qualified to hold someone's life, future, and well being in their hands, whether guilty or innocent.

The Jackson jury solidified my bitter opinions on the matter. I heard them all say, over and over, that they decided in the very beginning that there wouldn't be any arguing among them. No disagreements. No strife. That seemed to be their main focus and goal. Not the evidence but their relationships to each other. It would be heavy on the bonding, amiability and sunshine enemas.

They mentioned again and again how they hoped to stay in touch and how close they've all gotten. They had many negative attributes to mention about the victim's crazy mother. How they didn't like her finger pointing and eye contact, never saying a word about this young boy with the fucked up parents and the crap end of the stick constantly handed to him. Yea, the mother is a nutball, but did you vote against her or for MJ?

And guess what fuckers? It's not about YOU. It's not about your feelings and it certainly isn't about how you all get along. It's about the case and the defendant and the witnesses and in this situation, little boys who were probably fucking ruined for life. It's not about forged friendships and getting together for bar-b-que's and backrubs.

I know some people can't stand confrontation of any kind. But there is a time and place for it and one of those is a deliberation room. I'm not talking about climbing over the table and punching someone in the face if you disagree, but for someone to change their vote because they don't want to hurt someone else's feelings, or go against the tide, or for fuckssake, because they don't have the balls to stand tall for their own convictions, then we might as well become a Stepford society and not bother with this ridiculous jury system we have now.

If I was on trial I'd want opposing viewpoints and people who are willing to challenge each other and use their fucking heads. To think that a guilty person got off because 12 people were too wimpy to butt heads or speak up makes me want to puke. And I'm sorry, but I did enough of that last weekend. We need professional jurors. Now.

I post on a couple of message boards. Well, one now, but I can tell you one thing that drive me shithouse batty. And I'll try to do in the hopes that I'm not insulting anyone I'm personal friend with because that is not my intention. I share cyber space with some very good people whom I adore even though I'm not afraid to disagree with them, which is what this is all about.

One thing that I cannot stomach is people afraid to offer their honest opinions and individual thoughts because it's going go against some false grain of lubricated affinity. When every conversation relegates into 50 threads of "I like you" "I like you too" I can barely stand it. There is a balance to everything and when something is lopsided it gets boring real fast. Conversely, constant crap and unvarying venom is no fun either. Trust me, I don't support that for a minute.

When someone is purposefully being an asshole, ignoring isn't always the best approach. If you had a turd floating in your punchbowl would you scoop around it or fish it out and flush it?

Debate is healthy. I'm not talking about arguing for the sake of fighting. Devil's advocates are usually annoying merely offering an opposing view just to be a stinker or get a rise out of someone or whatever their reason is. It's usually coming from a place of complacency and not sincerity. Usually, not always. But when someone is legitimately giving another side of the coin, it can open your eyes when you didn't even realize they were closed.

There are delicate lines everywhere. We must tread carefully every step of the way. But when you see something that is glaringly wrong, when someone is poisoning the waters with intent and malice, it's our obligation to do something about it. And you bet your ass I'll go right down to your level to do it. I don't have a problem with that.

Life is riddled with uncomfortable moments and we can't be afraid to burst through them for what is right. There is no pill for apathy and a select few should not be saddled with the burden of action. So the next time you see some jackhole giving someone a rash of shit they don't deserve, do something. Say something. At least once. Don't let another fucker get away with it, again.

Hey! I didn't order the side of splooge!

This always fucking happens to me. Try to do something right and blammo, blows up in my face. Why do I even bother? Pft and Oi!

Much drama will now commence.

Once again I wake up feeling like I haven't slept in 47 million years and drag myself through the rituals of morning. Shower, shampoo, try and get the cat hair off of my entire black wardrobe, give up and leave the house looking like a lint trap. And of course, I have no food to bring with me because I'm lazy and hate to cook. Therefore I have nothing to eat at work unless I'm craving a frozen raw chickencicle. Which I was not.

I decide that although the thought of anything prepared with even a hint of oil makes me want to poke hot needles in my eyes after our grease-fest on Sunday, I must get something to nosh or I'll turn into the hypoglycemia monster and kill someone whilst falling down the stairs faintly mumbling for cookies.

I figure those miniature, microscopic burritos from McDonald's can't be that bad, and I'll break my nothing good for you goes in my body if it isn't crammed with preservatives I don't want it why isn't this dipped in chocolate rule and get that new cut up apple thing with the walnuts. Imagine, me, eating an apple. The horror.

I get in the drive-thru line and order the burritos and the apple thingy with the nuts, which is exactly what I said because I don't know what the fuck it's called. At first the dude tried to give me an apple pie but sweet jesus, please don't make me eat anything deep fried unless you want me to ralph into your hairnet. I corrected my fast food engineer, got my breakfast and was on my way.

The burritos were just fine. Even though they contain some unidentifiable creamy substance, lets just pretend it's melted cheese, shall we? They were actually good. And crap, I think I have a new addiction. About 2 hours later I thought I'd take a peek at the fruit. It looked decent! 2 different types of apples, a few purple grapes thrown in, a little package of candied walnuts and some vanilla yogurt, that I only ate a little of cause, uh oh, lactose intolerant. I have NO tolerance for lactose. Or side ponytails, but I digress.

I ate a couple of grapes and they weren't so sour as to make my mouth pucker into a cramp, which is what I hate about grapes and the excuse why I don't eat those. But look at me, being all healthy. I grabbed a green apple slice and took a bite. It was crunchy, just the way I like it, so far so good. But wait. OMG! YUK! NOT SWEET. NOT APPLEISH. It was rank.

So I tried the reddish apple. That one wasn't so bad. I dipped a corner into the yogurt, again, not the greatest aftertaste in the world, but I haven't had an apple in a long time and thought maybe it was my jacked up tasted buds. I munched a bit more then saved the rest for later.

A couple of hours after lunch I was getting my afternoon sweet craving and thought I'd go back to the good stuff before I eventually went down to the candy machine because hell, I'm not giving up chocolate just because I ate a microgram of fruit. I decided to avoid the apples because I gave it like 6 tries and they all tasted like shit. I had a few grapes left and started popping them in my mouth. 1, 2, 3, 4, chew chew swallow. Darn, only 1 left.

I grab the last one. It's big and looks juicy. I'm so proud of myself. Maybe this can become a trend that will become a habit that will become a lifestyle. Go me!

For some reason, I twisted my little grape around to inspect the whole thing. More importantly, the side that had been nestled between the apple slices all snug and happy. And that's when I saw it...

GREY FUZZ!!

Grey fucking fuzz all over my grape. It was hairy. With mold. A moldy thing that I almost ate. And what are the odds it was the only fouled thing in the bowl? Not good my friends, not good at all! How much fungi did I ingest?? No wonder it all tasted like crap. Now I'm queasy and pissed.

God damn fruit. I'm going back to pop tarts.

I'd like my Karma points in diamonds, thank you

Going to be tooting my own horn today. Not loudly mind you, but I went above and beyond this weekend and damn, I need to share. There was grossness and sadness and hilarityness. I'm a relatively unselfish person by nature, albeit totally self-centered (yes, it is all about me, duh), but I am a giver. Experiencing pain is no exception. I'm like napalm. I'll get it all over ya.

Friday was a typical day, not so bad and the work tards had left me alone. I was picking up whitey at the mall by work since he car is still broken. (God damn Budget). We were planning on getting some sundries at Trader Joe's, going home and making dinner. Spending the rest of the night lounging and snogging on the couch. This was SO far from what happened.

After being stuck in traffic for a million and a half years, we decided we were starving and needed food before getting food. We piled at Olive Garden and were sufficiently stuffed. Went to TJ's and waddled our way through the store getting supplies and made our way home, skipping one last errand because my stomach was about to split and I was whining. I unpacked and put away our groceries and flopped onto the bed. As I tried to decide if I wanted to take a nice relaxing shower or never get up again, my cell phone rang. Uh oh...

It was my best friend Shawna and she was hysterical. I could barely understand a word she was saying, but I got enough to know that she was horribly ill, in pain, and was alone with her youngest son. I went through the obligatory questions of what can I bring and realizing my presence was the only thing necessary, rinsed my work stank off and flew over to her apartment.

I found her doubled over and sobbing with pain and frustration. I quickly assessed that this was not a normal range of symptoms and there was nothing I could do for her. We needed pro's. As she was trying to get ready to go, and I was stuffing diapers and toys into a miniature backpack, I heard the barfing. Oh christ. My kryptonite. Now, let me just say, I know I wasn't the sick one here but this is my blog and my story and we should all keep our focus on me. Heh.

I ran into the bathroom (she's going to kill me for this) and found the poor thing heaving red jello into the bathtub. Sorry for the graphics, people, but it's gonna get worse. We got her up and I threw everyone into her car and we took off. Half way to the hospital her son, who was directly behind me, rocket launches something yellow and cheesy practically onto the back of my head. Twice. Now I know I'm doomed. That's it. Point of no return.

The smell hit me and I lurched forward, trying to concentrate on not killing us all in a puke-filled car accident. We made it to the ER and I dropped them off at the doors while I tried to park the car. I was doing that whole self-talk chant. "You won't throw up. You won't throw up. You won't throw up". And I really thought I had it too. But, not so much. I'd only pushed in the emergency brake when it hit me. I flew out of the car and hurled in the parking lot. Twice.

I gathered our two tons of shit together and slunked my way into the ER where we all tried not to blow again. Shawna and I were successful, her son was not. They were both treated for a nasty virus and Shawna had gotten so dehydrated she required 2 bags of IV juice. The doc said we made the right decision to come in because drinking fluids would not have helped, she needed more.

Here's another lesson to listen to your instincts. I took one look at her and new it was bad. Her son's little contribution to the crap was an unpleasant surprise, however, and nearly put me off cheese for the rest of my life. But I am strong and will not give up my dairy delights, although I never, ever want to see a fucking goldfish cracker again. Ever.

But the point was, we could have tried to pour gatorade down her gullet all night and it wouldn't have done a thing, sometimes you need help and it's OK to go get it. I'm a firm believer that ER's should not be used as anyone's doctors office. I have very strong opinions on that and could do an ace rant, but it was late and if not a 911 emergency, definitely a situation where professional intervention was needed. Aren't I smart?

We rolled in at 9:00 and rolled out about 1:30. After getting them re-settled I didn't get home until 2:30 and needed another shower to wash the hospital off of me. Whitey was a doll and gave me extra hugs for not letting anyone puke alone. I was queasy for 24 whole hours too and was worried I'd get whatever crud they had, but so far so good.

I managed to make it for my early riding lesson the next morning where I learned a sick pony, that we thought was going to be OK, had actually taken a turn for the worse and had to be put to sleep. It was heartbreakingly sad. Her empty stall with bouquets of flowers in front. Her uneaten hay on the ground. It was awful. There's nothing you can do in a situation like that so I donated a hefty wad of cash to a memorial tribute being run in a local paper and a plaque to be displayed. Tough for everyone. Even tougher life lesson for the pony's 10 year-old owner.

By the time I got home on Saturday I was physically and mentally done. Whitey totally understood and had no problem with me turning into a slug for the rest of the night. I barely remember being vertical for more than a few minutes. I slept forever. Riddled with bad dreams, but I felt like I caught up as much as possible. A bit of a bummer, but I was needed the night before and there are lots of Saturday nights for fuckery.

Sunday we both woke up before 9, a miracle for me sleeping past 6, and sprang out of bed. Our plan was to go the local county fair that's in San Diego every summer. We got ready, coffeed up and headed over. Where we ran into the 100 thousand other people who had the same idea. Seriously, it was that crowded.

Whitey tried to make me take odds on how quickly I'd freak out at the throngs of buttmunches, but ha ha on you Mr. Funnypants, I did not freak out once. OK, I called that one little girl ugly but we both yelled at the kid in our way and made fun of the overly-loud obnoxious lady with the microphone. Actually, this place was rife with freaks and I'm not talking about the carnies who were surprisingly clean and toothfull.

We had such a great time I'm still smiling and laughing outloud today. We walked until our feet were dead, we ate so much greasy food we could wring oil out of our skin, and we laughed so hard it hurt. We saw just about everything, at least what we wanted to, and were blown away at the photography exhibit. Talk about inspiration. There was picture after picture more amazing than the next. I can't wait to start taking photog classes and really get into it.

To my complete delight, we got to pet a brand-new baby horse and watch it spaz out, testing its long legs and new ability to run and jump. It went off the cute charts and was all I could do not to climb into the ring and squeeze it. We pet a bunch of goats that were actually not very stinky and some were pretty cool, almost dog-like. They'd make good pets if they didn't shit all over your house. One took a nibble on my knuckle but it wasn't as bad as the cow who licked me. Ick. One warning, never go into the chicken house. It smells just like what that kid threw up in the car. Almost ruined me. Bleh.

When we were almost out of steam we headed for the Midway. Unfortunately, in my ripe old of age of 30flingenshmidlysomething, I've lost my ability to be spun upside down in a metal cage hooked together by rubberbands and super glue. Sorry, babe, no crap rides for you. And when I admitted that no past boyfriend had ever won me something at a fair I was met with shock and disbelief and a promise that that would be remedied post-haste.

And it was! My man was a stud and promply won me a big orange Nemo fish. On his first try! And so what if he had to kick that little kid's ass to do it. Suck it Beaver! That fish was mine! Then I threw a bunch of germ-infested ping-pong balls at floating bowls and won myself a Madagascar zebra to scare the cats with. Whitey was not done, however, and threw darts at balloons while I screamed and clapped and the carnie double talked us both into confusion and ended up with a lot of whitey's money. But I walked away with a white tiger and I was happy.

We got home a decent hour, washed off the goats and deep-fried sweat, and cuddled in front of the TV. Whitey was gratefully rewarded for his most excellent boyfriending and I went to sleep with a smile on my sun-burned face. It was a great, great day. And I didn't freak out once!

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber

Are alive and well...

I swear to all that is pure and holy, the average IQ of the average jacktwat I encounter on a frighteningly frequent basis is somewhere between a flatworm and a box of hair. It disturbs me greatly that such a large majority of the human race, we are at the mercy of in our daily lives, conduct themselves as adeptly as a dog with two dicks. This is scary. Pisses me off to high hell and scary. I shall illustrate for you now. Several fucking times.

I have tolerance for many things. Yes, it's true. Stop shaking your head at your screen. I do. Now stop laughing. There are pa-lenty of situations where I let the sphincter standing before me being a retarded tool flex and fart without batting an eye. I eat more shit sandwiches then fat Jared at Subway. But, it seems like there's something every damn day, and sometimes more than one something, and I for one think we who use more than .0135826% of our brains should revolt. With sharp sticks. For poking. Poking stupid people. Poke. Poke.

There are, of course, asinine situations that we can't do anything about and must wash down that crapadilla with a refreshing diet crap. It would be stupid to take that bait dangling before us, no matter how satisfying it would be to thrash it back-and-forth in our gnashing teeth until all that is left is a crimson wad. For instance, not that this is based on any kind of truth whatsoever because I love my job and don't want to get dooced so just indulge my totally fabricated (wink wink) example please.

Say you go to your awesome and highly intelligent boss with some real-life pressing issues, looking for advice and guidance. The most important being your health & welfare and the toll your soul-crushing commute and long hours are having on your less-than-perfect over-taxed system, worn-out body and questionable mental state.

Hoping that he'll...ah...she'll (ha ha, I don't have a male boss, noooooo) get the hint and perchance offer a reasonable compromise of maybe a few hours a week telecommuting since half of what you do can be done from home anyway and it's a proven fact that telecommuting saves companies money and for everyone's safety it might be better if I was self-contained away from the office. But all the brilliant micromanagers are too busy patting their own backs to implement that.

You pray that he, I mean, she thinks it's her idea because we all know that when you're dealing with a supervisor who's not the sharpest tool in the shed they have to be the originator of any great idea or it's shot down. In my case? Not f'ing likely.

My "hypothetical" dilemma was pondered for a moment, my boss looked at me with furrowed brow and concern, or was it constipation, I don't know, and started with a"hrm"...then suggested with a big bright smile that why don't I sell my house and move closer to work. Um, what? Sell my...WHAT? Are you seriously suggesting that I SELL my HOME and move? Into one of the top two highest priced areas in the entire city? Where my two bedroom condo would be the equivalent of a trash dumpster behind the local Starbucks and no free coffee? O.K. thanks! I'll get right on that! Moving is totally not stressful at all! That's a great idea! Idiot. (I totally said inside my own head as I smiled and chewed my torpooper).

Morons are everywhere. And I'm not just talking about those born with half a brain. I'm talking about lazy, useless nitwits that don't give a dink about doing anything the right way. Or they are blatantly trying to fuck you over and treating you like you're completely taking it wrong and you don't have the smarts or the cajones to keep up with their bullshit.

Take this stupid fender bender for instance. That dumb accident was 6 weeks ago and my insurance company has screwed up about 20 hundred times and have become completely pointless in the whole ordeal. Thanks for the back-up dicks!The other insurance company, of the kid that hit me, has tried to bend me over and force me to take it up the ying-yang about 50 times with a rusty fender. They lie, cheat and steal. I've gotten some letter or another from one of the two companies almost every day. And some days I'm extra lucky and I get 3! Woo hoo!

I've got claim #'s coming out of my ass, I've made 6 recorded statements. They decided that they'd only pay for 7 days of my 16 day rental car then the nastytude bitch had the balls to ask me why I had the rental car for that long. Oh, I don't know you stupid frothing cunt, because I wanted to drive a white non-discript Chrysler for more than 2 weeks instead of my OWN car. Or was it because it was not fixed yet you filthy puerile conniving ho-bag!

And now they've determined that I couldn't possibly have been hurt because their "accident reconstructionist" said so. Like I'm buying that one. This all causes my face to turn red and my butthole to twitch. It makes me so mad. So help me, I'd like to find one of these bastard scammers and ram them with my car until they proclaimed that I'm right and deserving and pretty and would write me a check from their own personal bank account with their bloodied fingers. But that would totally fuck up my new bumper and I'd have to put in another fucking claim!!

And as I briefly mentioned yesterday, my own personal health insurance woes are too gnarly to go in to. I'm past my eyeballs in debt and got some REALLY BIG bills on Monday. Bills I wasn't expecting. Bills that I'm not sure how I can pay for without selling a kidney and I can't even do that because mine is all defective from radiation (I had to take my organ donor sticker off of my license. How sad is that?). The thought of how much any impending treatments are going to cost me has me in a sincere panic. Like, I might have to sell my damn house to pay for this shit afterall. It's that bad. So, I hope there's a nugget of humor still leaking out of me because everything is as serious as a heart-attack right now and my panties are permanently twisted.

And we move on.

If you really think about it, these mental midgets aren't just working the drive-thru at Burger King where they forget your cheese and gyp you on the ice. They're in your payroll departments who don't bother to read your 2 sentence e-mail and hose up your paycheck that takes 4 weeks to fix. These botards are "repairing" our dishwashers, our cars, our airplanes. They're running our schools and passing laws.

They're the morons standing lazily behind the check-out counters in department stores and the health professionals casually mentioning that your scan was clean a week after telling you it wasn't then acting flustered and non-apologetic when corrected blaming the load of paperwork in their hands. They're ALL OVER THE ROADS.

I understand being overwhelmed. I get that our brains are not always going to work at maximum capacity. I sympathize that everyone has a weak area and an off day. The most brilliant and lovely man I know would lose his wallet if it wasn't attached to his butt with a chain. (Not that you heard that from me). And I've been known to spout some really ace things like walking into a library and telling the counter lady that I'm looking for "a book". Not my best moment, yo.

Intelligence doesn't necessarily equal self-awareness. But at least try to be cognizant of your surroundings and loosen up that tunnel vision. At least attempt to put a coherent string of thoughts together. I'm only asking for a marginal effort here. Not Ms. Perfect and Mr. Overenthusiastic. You know we all want to titty twist those people.

But sweet fancy Moses, use the four synapses managing to fire in your big dumb melon and think. And for the love of Jebus, quite being such an apathetic fuckface so those of us who aren't complete dumbasses don't have to do our jobs and all of yours. And then you just might avoid a hearty POKE. Cuz I'm seriously gonna get that stick.

Dear Employee; please burn in hell

Just received via Internal Corporate Slavery e-mail system:

This message is written to inform you of a planned Building G evacuation drill that will be taking place on the morning of Friday, June 10, 2005. The drill is currently expected to commence sometime between 8:00am - 11:30am. (rain cancels).

Wait. What? Rain cancels? Well isn't that just super!! The Southern California hysterics that lose their minds at the first sight of mist will bail on the disaster practice and I'll not know what to do in the event of an emergency!! Like, do I find the stairs and walk out? Or bang on a window, that doesn't open, hoping someone will cut a hole and save me? Or I know, I'll assume the position under my desk and wait for authorities to rush in and hoist me over their shoulders to safety!

When they pull my charred corpse from the remains of the building it will be all their fault. I Just. Couldn't. Figure. Out. What. To. Do.

Because, you know, it's not like I didn't learn how to do this...IN SECOND GRADE!!

God damn health insurance needs

Bad. Oh so very bad.

I would have traded with that chick in a second after the crap I put up with today.

Lucky slut.

Beware my kitchen

I got home from work last night and after recovering from the shock and awe of whitey’s broken car (god damn stupid people from Budget), I immediately launched into a whiny fit about how tired and hungry I was and how there’s no food in the house. We meandered into the kitchen where I proceeded to open the fridge and commence being grumbly about the empty shelves and Just. What. Are. We. Going. To. Do. Wah.

Whitey then admitted that he’d eaten the rest of my frozen taquito’s earlier in the day and I quickly snapped my head around in horror and proclaimed, “OMG! Those weren’t meat!! They were SOY!!”

His eyes immediately widened, his spine snapped straight, mouth dropped open, and he let out an audible gasp.

Ha Ha. Mr. Doesn’t Eat Green Things Vegetarians are Gay Kill it Grill it and Feed it to Me Carnivore ate soy.

Hope he’s still alive.

This just in: I did not fall off the planet

I'm a dick. I know it. You know it. My cats know it. Now that we have that established, I've been really crappy about reading, posting and commenting. I apologize. I grovel. I bribe with cookies.

I'm just chock-full of excuses, aren't I? It's one of my many talents. Right up there with growing mold in the refrigerator and ignoring the cat puke behind the sofa. Princess indeed. I don't mean to be a dick. And despite my renewed burst of happiness and peace mentioned in my last entry, I've caught a bad case of writers constipation and mental melancholy. There are blocks of ice attached to my feet and it doesn't take much to slip and break my crown.

Stress, thou art not my friend and press upon my shoulders thus making me wish to turn inside-out like a hedgehog and hide away in my own ass.

God. I wish I could really do that. But since I'm a homosapien and not a little furry animal with cool tricks and a built-in duvet cover, turning me inside out would be rather, uh, unsightly. Hi! Here's my ovaries! And lord knows someone would grab me while I was taking a nap or something and put me on display in a museum with those other gross fleshless people.

Digression:
Yes, I know hedgehogs don't actually turn inside out and it's more of a tight roll up maneuver but I couldn't do that on account of my gut and my boobs and I'd be more of a lump with my ass in the air than a ball. Also, these people are WAY into hedgehogs. Like, scary into it. And I quote, "It has been said that no other exotic animal has caught the attention of the public quite like hedgehogs have." Um, where? At the hedgehog convention with a bunch of freaks sporting animals in their pants? Riiiiight. And we move on.

I was hoping this week would have been a tad bit more manageable than last week. I was tired for days on end after my long weekend up North and there have been several really crappy things going on that took the wind right out of my sails and no amount of fluffing is getting them puffed all the way back up. They're better than they were a few days ago, but still, bleh.

Let me just say one thing that will make you understand one component of crap on my plate at the moment, Insurance Companies. See, needn't say more. I also don't want to go into all of it right now since there's one situation in particular where I've promised to keep my big yapper closed, but most of it is one of those, OK, if certain people don't keep their cryholes shut I will disappear for goddamn good and I'm not kidding.

Without giving too much away or confusing anyone further, someone said something to me within the last week that I'm sure they didn't intend to be incredibly hurtful nor did they understand the impact of the statement. But please, when someone has gone through a life-altering experience or illness, or is still in the grips of a shit-storm, please, please don't ever tell that person that you want the "old Betty" back. Or whatever.

It's an extremely damaging thing to say and I can tell you, plunged me into days of unable-to-lift-my-head depression. Yea, no shit, I'd like the old Betty back too. I cry for her too. But she's gone forever. I'm changed, forever, and it's not my fault. Doesn't mean I won't recover most of her when I do just that, recover, but right now I'm covered in poo and until it's all gone, things are not going to be the same. There are much better ways of communicating to someone than that. I'm just sayin'.

My desire for invisibility is also not an issue of not letting certain people get to me, because there are some who totally don't matter but think they do so save it ya'll cuz I have a healthy "whatever, ya crazy coont" on about that. It's an issue of not having the mental fortitude to spread around and handle my impending cancer treatments, tests, appointments, etc, daily shit we all have to deal with that sucks, and dickwads. I'm a'scarit and that takes a lot of energy.

And there's an element of, I totally suck and oh shit, I think I totally suck. Which sucks. So, there's been some crying. Suck.

Therefore, in my downtime when I'm being Miss Avoidance of All, and since all decent evening television has ended and we're left with some reality dance-a-thon with old has-beens and reruns of Reba, I've turned to my new obsessive compulsive disorder, JT's Blocks. This little exercise in torture and frustration can be found on Yahoo Games and is a constant taunting of my spatial skills, or lack thereof. Hours and hours of blocks. I'm dreaming of blocks. Blooooooocccccckkkkksssssssss.

Yahoo, unlike it's gentler and kinder counterpart Google, forces you to see the other shmucks wasting their life in front of a computer screen and lists the scores of other players. So, while I watch my game pause, mock my incompetence and flash "GAME OVER. YOUR SCORE IS 2" I can see the cyber geeks laughing at me while they furiously play to beat their own high score of 125,400,995. But I get offered lots of free porn, so I guess it's all good. Hey Jennifer! You're tits were not so tr00.

So...........I'm about ready to unravel and emerge from my self-imposed cocoon. About. Not yet. I'm stung all over like I was attacked by a swarm of angry ants and don't feel like jumping back into the cyber-fray today. Sometimes the internets is just too much to take and you have to check out for awhile. But I miss a bunch of awesome peeps and hope they understand. And they'd better fucking miss me too, dammit.

My rain cloud isn't covering my entire head, however. The bestest thing happened, finally, and I am very, very happy about that (at least). Whitey arrived promptly at 8 o'clock last night, safe and sound and sexy. I think we're both slightly stunned that this move has actually come to fruition. It's a lot to process and I'm looking forward to getting into a groove and letting it soak in that neither of us has to say goodbye to the other in 3 short days. But sweet Mary, he's finally here! FULL-TIME SNOGGING! How awesome is that? Let me represent my happiness in picture.



_______________________________________________________

Also, to a very special friend of mine (who I've also been hiding from and occasionally reads this drivel), super hugs and squeezes to you. She had a very painful and scary boob episode last year and endured many awful tests and one fucked up biopsy. Thank god everything came out OK and I have a good idea how terrifying and grueling the whole ordeal was. She had her follow-up tit-smashing today and got another all-clear. I choked up with relief and wanted to give her a shout-out. Get those digital mammograms girls and don't let any fucking doctor intimidate you, ever. 35 is sometimes too late. I give this news 2 smiling dogs. Love ya, babe.



Next up: One gnarly rant and a tale of childhood trauma. Should be fun. :)