Survivor Panama: Exile Island - episode 1

Cue the drums! Cue the Survivors! Cue the snakes! Wait! Cancel the snakes!

Oh wee oh wee ohhhhh....

The lush landscape is familiar but not much else. Even though this is the third visit to Panama for the infamous game of Survivor, there’s a whole new set of stakes this time around. Not like the last set of new stakes but some new new stakes. This installment of Outwit, Outlast, Outplay seems to be pushing the envelope of all three elements. The chance of drama could be high. We can only hope…

As the opening shots sweep across a small island we see a giant skull on the edge of a cliff and four boats arriving ready to deposit their passengers. 16 brand new Survivors gather with their boat mates in front of Jeff Probst and wait for the game to begin. And may I quickly add that our elusive and increasingly cranky host already appears a bit refreshed and excited for the highly antipated 12th season of Survivor.

Jeff welcomes everyone to Exile Island and explains a bit about the game and the first big twist being Exile Island itself. He tells the contestants that each week someone will be banished to the island alone, thus missing out on team unity and possible strategizing. But, there’s a catch.

An immunity idol is hidden somewhere on this particular island and if someone finds it they can use it to save themselves at any tribal council at any point in the game. And just to give us one more corkscrew to keep track of, the person who holds the immunity idol can use it after the votes are read. So, if they are the member being voted out they can save themselves and the next person with the highest number of votes is a goner.

Jeff then asked if anyone noticed any particular differences to the tribes in this game. Obviously, instead of 2 teams divided with random samplings of genders and ages the Survivors found themselves split into 4 teams of 4. They were also separted by gender and by age, which most had already figured out. The age thing brought up some discord with one group and I have to agree with the “older” women that being in your 30’s shouldn’t qualify for the “older” team although the “older” chicks are still pretty hard core so here’s a swift kick in the box for Mark Burnett. "Old" indeed.

I wasn’t super confident the younger men were up to speed about the whole different team split thing at all since they tended to look decidedly mouth-breatherish to me and Austin was not happy to be a member of a member’s only tribe. If ya know whatta mean. Like he has any chance in hell at getting ass out there. But I digress…

Anyway, after a small discussion about the tribal splits Jeff got right down to business announcing the first challenge would begin immediately. Each team would quickly choose a runner to cross Exile Island to the other side where they would find a pile of nasty skulls. Each person would have to smash a skull open where they would find an object wrapped in what looked like King Tut’s ripped up ass bandages. If you unwrapped a rock you’d have to grab another skull from the pile and start over. If you unwrapped an amulet, you were good to go.

The first 3 team representatives to make it back to the starting line with an amulet would win reward consisting of flint for their tribe to make fire. This might not seem like a big deal but since they stopped giving the tribes rice and matches and stuff and started trying to kill them, if you don’t have flint you practically don’t survive at all. Also, the losing team would have to choose one person to stay and spend the night on Exile Island alone.

This challenge wasn’t so much based on speed but luck of the skull. Terry from the older men was first to find an amulet, soon followed by Nick of the young men, then there was nothing. Minute after minute passed by. They cut back to the two women feverishly smashing open skulls and trying to get the wrapping undone to hopefully reveal an amulet. Finally, rushing footsteps could be heard and Tina emerged from the trees, winning the third piece of flint for her tribe. The young girls were SOL and had to choose someone to spend the night alone.

The young runner volunteered herself straightaway, and this is where they showed their age, no offense to the younger gals, but her mates fussed and fluttered and decided to play a game of rock/paper/scissors to make their decision. I would have just said , see ya, beotch, I ain’t spending the night alone on a friggen tropical island with snakes and shit. But hey, I’m “older”.

Misty the rocket scientist lost the rps game and spent the night not making shelter or trying to start a fire but rather pushed leaves around looking for the immunity idol since Jeff had previously mentioned that clues would be given out regarding the idol and after a short goodbye to Misty he proclaimed he’d just given her one. Um, yea, OK. Didn’t quite catch that. And she ate a huge pink worm. I’m not kidding.

Meanwhile, the tribes were arriving at their respective beaches/camps and starting to feel each other out, so to speak. They all got to work in varying levels of effort with Tina the lumberjill being the biggest work horse out of everyone. Cirie proclaimed her fear of leaves. LEAVES!

Shane confessed to going cold-turkey from a 3 pack-a-day habit and I’m pretty sure he started to morph into Vlad the Impaler right then and there. The younger guys screwed around playing baseball with sticks and rocks and the older men got right to wheeling and dealing, while the remaining young women cried over a dead turtle. And there's some praying/zen/yoga shit going on that's going to make us all sick at some point, mark my words.

On day 3 the players gathered for the first immunity challenge and Misty rejoined her tribe. This season they busted out a complicated competition right off. The teams would have to swim out to 4 bouys with a climbing wall. At the starting gun each person would have to climb the wall one at a time, jump into the water and swim to a raft. One person would have to dive down and unclip the raft from its anchor. Then each team would have to paddle back to the beach.

Once the tribes made it to the beach, they’d have to solve a giant puzzle with ropes and rings. If they wanted to, they could try and retrieve a hint to the puzzle buried in the sand. Once the ring was removed from the rope puzzle they’d have to toss it to a grappling hook that was connected to another rope and a flag. The first three teams to unfurl their flags would win immunity and a three part immunity idol consisting of 3 disgusting shrunken heads that would scare Tim Burton into his happy place.

All 4 teams made it into the water and struggled to get their rafts unclipped. The younger women began paddling first with the older men on their heels. The older women took off in third place after a little confusion where the hook was and the young lads blew chunks with Nik fumbling with the wrong end of his clip. Aras finally took over and they made up some good time. And there was A LOT of body part blurring going on. Yikes people, please wear properly fitting and supportive clothes Miss Boobalicious!

All 4 teams eventually dug up their puzzle clue but the older women had the hardest time finding it buried deep in the sand. One, two, three, and it was over. The older women just couldn’t hustle fast enough with the puzzle and would be the first tribe going to tribal council and losing a member later that night.

Back at their beach, the older women, now known as Casaya, were contemplating their team members worth. Cirie was doing some heavy campaigning with Ruth Marie and Tina was off by herself where she spoke about losing her 16 year-old son 4 months earlier in a car crash. In fact, she was slated to compete in the previous season of Survivor but her son was tragically killed a week before she was to leave. Brutal.

While she was out wandering the island, Tina came across a large fish who’d gotten stranded on a reef at low tide. She brought the meal back to her team mates and all were impressed and happy. Maybe this would be enough points to keep her safe. And she was clearly the out-doorsy woman with the skills they needed. Another point in her favor.

Night fell and the four women made their trek to tribal council and were instructed to light their torches. Jeff asked them about camp and how they were doing after the first 3 days in the jungle. Cirie admitted to having a hard time and probably belonged back on her couch at home. This is not a smart thing to say at tribal council. Melinda also admits to being in “Panamanian hell”. This is not a smart thing to say at tribal council. Jeff then asks Tina if the others were pulling their weight at camp. She says not as much as she’d like. This is NOT A SMART THING TO SAY AT TRIBAL COUNCIL.

Despite her skills, Lumberjill was strong but she was dumb. Tina, your torch has been officially snuffed. Buh bye.

Dear: Everyone

I find it very rude and somewhat neglectful for all of you bloggers out there to not write as much as I'd like you to. I mean, really, you guys are a large portion of my time-wasting management skills at work and the main escape from my own ruminating, self-serving thoughts going through my brain all day. The least you could do is take a moment to pen some brilliant anecdote or spin a yarn about your childhood so I can be fucking entertained.

I'm not feeling the love here. There's no gentle kissing on the neck from you. No courtesy reach-around. There's infrequent posting with nary a hint of existence. Not even a quick hello, Betty, I'm thinking of you. I just don't know what I'm going to do about this. Frankly, I'm hurt.

So if you love me at all, post more. It would really make me happy. And we all know my happiness is the most important thing.

Fondly,

Betty

p.s. I'm completely exempt from doing this because I said so.

Like a hammer

I don't know what it is. That thing that comes over me without warning. Well, one of the things, since there are about 1100 of them. You know, that thing when you get a rush of feelings that knock you back a few feet, the kind that make your heart hurt and your tingly parts tingle. The emotion that slams you into the floor like a love tsunami. You feelin' me? Because that's what's goin' on with my boy this very minute.

We live together. We see each other almost every day, unless one of us is out of town which rarely happens anyway. We talk about mundane crap. We talk about actual crap. We turn into zombies in front of the TV. We do our own things in separate rooms. Nothing especially special has happened or is going on, but I tell you what, I'm overwhelmed with love for that boy right now.

I think about him every other minute of the day, inbetween cursing doctors and dickheads. I stare at the back of his head when he's sitting on the floor doing the Sunday crossword puzzle on the coffee table. I want to reach out and pull his hair. I want to squeeeeeeeze his face. I want to lick the back of his neck. I want to crawl right inside him and hide.

I'm having so much fun just being in his presence. I constantly worry that I'm a total dud and any second now he's going to get sick of dealing with my utter lack of energy every day. But every time he laughs outloud at one of my jokes, or an awesomely snarky comment to an American Idol constestant, I hope he's happy and happy with me. I really don't doubt that, but I worry. I'm a chick, what can I say.

I understand relationships go through their phases, circling back and around over and over. At least I think the good ones do. But for now, I love him more than chocolate dipped in chocolate sprinkled with chocolate.

I have issues: part 1 million and 1

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred fucking phone calls to get that scan set up!

After fighting with no less than 5 cranky bitches at the doctor's office, making more phone calls in one week than I do in a year, multiple tears and tantrums, it's finally done. And I got the extreme pleasure, sort of like being ass-fucked by a cactus, of spending 3 hours on the phone with my lovely insurance company last Friday being told a variety of different things concerning the drug I have to get for said scan so I don't have to go off my medication and practically die.

I was told I couldn't get the drug at all. That it would cost me at least $700.00. That it would cost only $70.00. That it was covered. Wasn't covered. And the best pile of bullshit for the day, that I could get it but I'd have to inject it myself, not in this fucking lifetime, asshole, and that if I bought it at my pharmacy and had the doctor inject me it was considered a criminal act.

I just can't convey the stress last week caused me. I'd write a scathing letter about how we all hear over and over how stress causes illness, possible even cancer, when the people who are supposed to help you prevent disease make it 100 blargillion times worse than it needs to be because they are inept, fucker, rude, cold, uncaring, stupid, careless, heartless, bungling, incompetent, dickwads, but I don't think my company would appreciate me making 45 thousand copies of it!

I finally got hold of a woman who, shall I ever breed and under the assumption she would appreciate a gift of this nature, would be welcome to my first born demon spawn. She took the bull by the horns and we called the pharmacy division together and she ran buckshot all over their asses making sure they knew they'd been retarded and caused a patient undue anxiety and assured me she'd take care of it all and she called me honey like 3 times. It was glorious.

The doctor has chosen to ignore my messages to call me back directly, and he shall pay for that. Oh yes he shall. But at least the scan is scheduled and now we need to pray to the deity of your choice that I don't get fucked to the wall by the disability people. Fingers crossed!

________________________________________________________

In other news...

There is some darn good reality TV out there right now, peeps, so I hope you're tuning in. I'm now addicted, but not limited to, the following: The Gauntlet II (can't wait for Derrick to blow, dismember a team mate and smoke them in a beer-can bong), Runway II (who took my chiffon!?!), Roller Girls (I'll refrain from saying anything snarky because those girls could kick my ass from a hospital bed), and the new season of the Bachelor:Paris (can you believe that springer spaniel chick cut up an orange and stuck it in her mouth like redneck teeth? What the hell was she thinking?)

The boy and I are having a great time making fun of people and adding our own brilliantly hilarious commentary. And we have pa-lenty of material, let me tell you what. The problem is, this constant string of improv has caused me to become a chatter. Yes, I am morphing into one of those idiot people who can't shut their pie holes long enough to take a breath while watching anything on TV. I'm still OK at the movie theater, as long as a have a large popcorn to power shove in my maw the whole time.

I can't help myself. It just comes springing out of my mouth like verbal dystentary. Last night, as a preview to the reality TV we viewed later in the evening, during dinner we enjoyed Friday the 13th part 3. Now before you get all up in my grill for rotting my brain on such crap, the boy loves him some bad 80's horror and I recorded it on the DVR because I'm an awesome girlfriend like that. Unfortunately, I found myself nattering on every 2 bloody seconds without end. WTF?

I commented on everything. Their hair, their clothes, the girls camel toes, the music, the cars, the camera angles, the script, the acting, the murder weapons, the lack of neck by the supposed hunk, the lame special effects, the worn-out shlong spot on the black dudes jeans.

And perhaps worst of all, I made the goofy sounds this particular genre is famous for. FOR 2 SOLID HOURS. Chi chi chi shh shh shh eee eee eee ahh ahh ahh. I couldn't shut the fuck up! And I didn't even say everything I wanted to. My god. It's a wonder whitey didn't shove a pillow down my throat. I have the best boyfriend.

So let's just add this to my long list of "issues", shall we? Oh yes we shall!

Motherfuck!

When? When will it ever get easier? Will it ever get easier?? Will something ever fucking work out again? When will anyone pay attention or remember or do the right fucking thing? When? WHEN? WHEN WHEN WHEN WHEN WHEN?!?

The blood test results that were supposed to be in last Friday obviously weren't. I let that go. New doc, new facility, they get the benefit of the doubt, again. I waited through Monday and Tuesday and still heard nothing. Today I was going to call and see what the dealio was and inquire about the scan, since I have about 492 phone calls to make and a metric ton of shit to take care of.

Before I had a chance to call the doctor's office I received a brief message on my cell phone from a nurse with a of couple lab results, which were WAY off of the numbers from just a month ago so WTF about that, and instructions to start taking 2 different doses of thyroid meds but no mention of another perscription being written and how the blue FUCK do they expect me to take 2 different doses when I have no script for the second one, and a quick "he wants to see you in 2 months".

OK, assholefuckersmotherfuckdipshitgoddamnassholes. WHAT ABOUT THE FREAKIN' SCAN??? No mention OF THE FREAKIN' SCAN!! WHAT ABOUT THE GOD DAMN FREAKIN' SCAN?!?!?!

And yes, I called back, and yes, the chick didn't know what to do, and yes, they have to call me back.

Oh. My. God. I'm so pissed! And, AND, whenever you change doses of thyroid meds you're supposed to be retested in 6 weeks, not 8, 6!! And they totally forgot that I'm a FUCKING MENTAL PATIENT and have been waiting for another scan for 9 freakin' months already and I don't want to freakin' wait any freakin' more!!

What is WRONG with poeple??

I swear to Christ, I think the credit card industry and the medical industry should switch places. I'm 29 nano-seconds late on a Visa payment and those fuckers are all over me like Angelina on Brad but the entire medical community can't get one fucking thing right.

FUCK.

I usually look good in blue

Well, I've managed to get through the first 9 days of this new year in a haze of short-term memory issues and non-alcohol induced hangovers. I'm still waiting for the life-changing epiphany that will burst forth and rush over me creating an influx of energy and goal achieving but I ordered it from Amazon.com and you know how fucked up the shipping gets during the holidays.

As my previous post implicated, I'm so damn distracted. I'm not necessarily depressed, but I sure am stressed. Well, alright, I am a little blue, but you don't have to hide the sharp stuff right now. I have so much to think about. To take care of. To do. I can't seem to keep a thought in my head longer than it takes a wild bear to eat a self-indulgent crazy white boy from Malibu. (Guess who watched Grizzly Man last weekend?) I'm not doing a head in the sand thing but more of an I drank the bong water slow glazed scan of the room numbness and oh look, something shiny.

Wheneve I get this stressed out I have nightmares. This morning was no exception. I had a bad dream that lasted about 9 hours and has shaken me for the day. I dreamt that I'd just received a hefty dose of radiation and was supposed to be quarantined and all of these people kept coming around bugging me and not listening to my warnings. Then I got all freaked out that I was going to cause everyone who'd come in contact with me cancer and be the reason for their deaths, including my cats. It was fucked up.

Then I woke up with Boo between my knees pinning me to the sheets, because that poor anorexic feline somehow weighs 100 pounds at night, and I launched her off the bed thinking I was going to give her cancer too because I was still sort of in the dream so I feel kind of bad about that, but god dammit, don't sleep between my legs kitty cat, I fucking hate that.

One good thing though, I saw yet another new doctor last week and this one I liked. In fact, I got the best vibe from him than any other endocrinologist I've seen. I remain cautiously optimistic, but hopefully he won't be a monumental asshole wrapped in a condescending egotistical mother fucker. Wouldn't that be refreshing. His office was stuffed with toys so I thought that was a good sign. We ran more blood tests (thanks to both of the inept vampire girls, I got poked 3 fucking times with little result) and those should be in by today.

He also saw no reason to wait until March for another scan, thank the baby jesus. I'm going to lose my shit for good if I have to wait any more to take care of this crap. I've already accepted the fact I'm probably going to have more radiation so now I just want the fucker over with. The scans and especially the radiation sucks so fucking hard I can't tell you, but the waiting is killing me. It's been more than 9 months since that bad scan and I'm stupidly insane over it. This new doc suspects the "clean" scan in 2004 was a false negative and whoever read it didn't know what they were doing. Fabulous.

At least I didn't cry this time. Which is a bane to my current existence since I hate crying and especially hate crying in front of anyone else. Catharsis my arsis. But my emotions continue to be so fucking raw and sneak up on me at the dumbest times that I actually cried watching those gay nuns sing for the Pope in Sister Act last weekend. Yes. I know. Shaddup. I also cried at King Kong but you'd have to be a robot not to, and a preview for some new movie where 8 huskies get left in Anarctica, and The Chronicles of Narnia, and Michelle Kwan: Friends & Family ice skating special. I said, I KNOW. SHAD. UP. It's so pathetic.

I was really happy about this new guy and hopefully didn't scare him off when I lunged at him for a hug like a cheetah on a gazelle. I just couldn't help it. He was so cool it required bodily contact. (This good feeling lasted about 2 hours until work turned into a whore again. Man, I hate this job so hard I could punch an orphan).

Other than that, my head continues to swim like a turd circling the bowl with all of this continuing drama and some other stuff I'm just not ready to talk about. Life-changing decisions that make my asshole itch and sweat to pour from my chubby face. Eesh. Can't do it. Therefore I shall leave you with this:

Dear woman who sat in front of me at the movies yesterday,

Your perfume smelled like a mixture of weed killer and Summer's Eve vinegar douche with a hint of Glade industrial strength floral air freshener. I don't know what discount dollar store you bought your gallon of pee-yellow, cheap, offensive, knock-off fragrance in the bottle entitled Eau de Dawgsheet but you'd have been better off if you bathed in a vat of hair perm solution then lathered fermenting whale carcass behind your ears.

Your assault on my olfactory nerves was worse than the rampaging stink of nursing home I had to endure in another movie the weekend before. Is it not bad enough I had to go out in public and fraternize with all of you fucking freaks, dealing with whining toddlers and fat men with flatulence, but do I also have to try and enjoy a rare afternoon at the theater by inhaling the steaming stench coming from your clammy skin through the whole fucking film? I really think it's too much to ask. Even for a reasonable person like me.

So the next time you're going out with your high-water pants member's only jacket wearing mate, do us all a favor. Instead of pouring the liquid equivalent of a Shamu fucking stadium of your nasty, bargain-basement imposter perfume down your droopy cleavage, don't. Instead, slap a little unscented deodorant on your armpits and leave the poisonous cropdusting to the professionals. Then maybe next time you won't find yourself picking my popcorn out of your hair. Thank you and have a nice day.

New Year's Resolutions: 2006

1. Stop getting so damn distract...

The 7th Ring of Hell: Conclusion

Ack! The time! She is a whore! Where does it all go? I'll tell you where it goes! It goes to stupid work and stupid laundry and me being stupidly lazy and watching deliciously horrible reality TV like Project Runway and now the new show Roller Girls because if it's a crowd of crazy people expelling high drama and bad fashion I am SUCKED IN, baby, SUCKED IN LIKE FLYNN.

But I cannot leave you hanging and some good things have happened in the last week that I want to talk about but I must finish Christmas Shit: 2005 even though I'm mostly over it now.

______________________________________________________

Let me begin by clarifying that my mother did not shout out "Merry Fucking Christmas" in the car. That was the mantra screaming through my own head as we fated death on the freeway and headed to my brother's brand new and purchased by my parents house in a fucking dustbowl town outside of Phoenix. Yea, you heard me, my parents bought that house for him. And it's the SECOND ONE. Please, don't make me explain it. It causes me to vomit through my eyes.

My brother greeted me by fiddling with some tool or something and saying "hi" without raising his head to muster at least eye contact. Thanks, brother! Nice to see you too, dick. 46 years old and he acts like a petulant teenager. Too bad he won't go get high in the garage like he used to and shed this serial killer vibe he's got going. But whatever.

Then my parents new 5 month-old black lab puppy, Sadie came in from the back yard at mach 5 and launched herself 7 feet through the air at my head and nailed me right in the uterus and I fell so deeply, instantly in love with that floppy-eared little girl that it makes me ache not to be near her.

I was led to the den to put my stuff down on the ancient, single bed that I would not be getting any sleep on for the next 3 days because it sucked and where my mother promptly picked on my large suitcase, again, as I screeched like a howler monkey "I've told you 10 times it's half full of presents!!" and that shut her firmly. Jeeeeeez, Mommmmmmm. How many times did I have to say it? I didn't fucking pack my entire closet, it was gifts! I even brought my own wrapping paper and ribbon lest I use any of my brother's crap so BACK OFF. Oh, btw, she mentioned it one more time before I left. My mother = insufferable.

I was waiting for my brother to leave for the airport since he was doing a same-day round trip back to Cali to pick up my niece. My welcome had been so icy I knew my parents and I wouldn't be able to relax until he was gone. I'd spoken to my mom about training the puppy while I was there because for some unknown reason I'm really good at training stuff and my parents are horrible at it. She actually asked me to help. She. Asked me!

Case in point; When the puppy would get all riled up and bashing into furniture instead of saying a simple "no", or distracting her with a toy, my father would go into a full-blown lecture "you settle down now and stop all that rough-housing! Settle now! SETTLE DOWN NOW! You heard me, I said knock if off!"

Um...Dad? She doesn't know WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE SAYING. Sheesh. The exsaperation I suffered.

My mother agreed to try my ideas and I appreciated that. It's a very, very rare occasion that she thinks I do anything slightly more than not completely shittily and I had a boner over training this damn dog and being a success in her eyes. Even for only a few days. Plus I'm gooooood. Damn good at it.

My mom had mentioned that a friend had given them a device called a halti. It's used to get better control over dogs who pull or lunge or might do those things like pounce on a baby and eat its head. Mom had relayed to me that the one and only time her and Dad tried to get the halti on Sadie baby was to wrestle the panicked pooch to the ground and force the binding torture device over her head. Because you know, making the puppy terrified of the training aid is the best approach. Goofy parents.

I had an idea to sit down and let the puppy get used to the halti by letting her sniff it, chew on it, play with it, and laying it over her nose while she flipped around me like a furry fish out of water. My idea worked! Within 20 minutes I had her sitting still and letting me click the halti on her face without protest or freak out. And right in front of my mother!

I was SO fucking proud of myself. My mom was excited and exclaimed "I can't believe she let you put it on her like that".

I straightened up even taller and beamed.

I praised Sadie for being such a good, good girl.

Then as soon as the triumph started it was shit on by my grumbling asshole brother when he spat, "Heh, big deal, look how long it took her".

Motherfucker.

Can't say anything nice, can you? Can't acknowledge that I taught the dog something with positive reinforcement in 20 short minutes and didn't tie a 10 pound work boot onto the collar of a year-old puppy for a week when it chewed the mate like you did to one of your dogs huh dickhead? Maybe you DON'T KNOW IT ALL?!? Totally shit on one of the only, out of 2, things I think I'm actually good at. (The other thing is top secret.)

Motherfucker.

Then we talked about the jumping. The puppy jumps. She's a baby. She's a lab. She's a red-level spaz. I told my mom the best method is to turn around, pull your arms up, and say "DOWN". But the main thing is to try and ignore it. Dogs jump up to greet you. It's in instinct, just watch wolves, they do the same thing. The puppy wants eye contact and thinks "yay, hi, yay, hi, YAY!". If you take that away they'll get the message, but it takes time. My mom had been told to lift her knee. WRONG. I know it's a method some people use, but I wanted to try a positive approach that I'd learned from an actual dog trainer and not play crush the puppy's chest in.

I was right in the middle of showing her what I was talking about when Mr. Man pipes up with a your are an idiot tone, "a knee in the chest is the best thing". Sigh. I, as nicely as possible, said, "no, it's not. It's actually the opposite thing we should do and now we're going to try something else". He shook his nasty head and said nothing more. I naively thought that was the end of that.
And do you know what that butthole did? He finally left and collected my niece and when they got home later that night my niece walked into the house, the puppy ran up to her, and she lifted her god damn knee right into that doggie's face.

Motherfucker.

Wonder where she got that idea? I had to spend the rest of my mini-Christmas vacation undoing what he did.

Despite his initial snotty comments, he left me alone about the dog after the first day. And I was a smashing success. Or rather, Sadie and I were. She did do some of the work. In the span of literally one day, some things she did on the second try, I taught that sweet puppy to shake, high-five, lay down, roll over, and speak. And we got even farther with the halti to the point she'd sit still like a good girl and let me click it on her then wear it for a few minutes, then sit still again while I took it off. She's scary smart. And the sweetest, most loving puppy I've ever seen. Now, if she'd just stop humping her stuffed moose like a porn star in heat, we'll be O.K.

Tension remained semi-high on Christmas day and increased ten-fold when my brother's girlfriend came over with her high-needs little boy. I don't want to get into that because this poor kid has been handed a shitbag of problems and the U.S. isn't interested or equipped to handle these kinds of kids. And his mother, while nice, can't (and I suspect doesn't want to) handle it either. My brother clearly has no love for this kid and decided to handle the boys ADHD squirms at the Christmas dinner table with a booming exclamation that went something like, "THIS IS MY HOUSE AND IN MY HOUSE YOU DO WHAT I SAY AND IF YOU DON'T SIT STILL AND EAT WITH US THEN YOU'LL GET NOTHING FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT ROWR GRUMBLE GROWL".

Motherfucker.

OK, first off, you can't strong-arm a kid with autism, OCD, and ADHD. It's not your house it's Mom and Dad's. And nice prelude to dinner, asshole! We're all SO relaxed now! And maybe this little boy shouldn't have sucked down an entire sugar soda you gave him before dinner? Hmmm?

Dinner was completed with only one other incident that I fixed because the one adult at the table with no children figured out that the high needs kid with food triggers (and now that you mention it, non-heathens who detest food touching each other on the plate and who refuse to eat any bastardized combo like peas/mashed potatoes because ew, disgusting, and that's not abnormal in the least) don't like to eat pickles tossed into old ketchup and why don't we wipe all that red goo off the pickle with a napkin, there, all better. Jesus. H. must I do everything?

The rest of the weekend got stuck on some kind of loop of thinly vieled snotty comments from my brother, my parents crabbing at each other, me spending as much time as I can with the puppy, my mother turning from appreciation and awe at my training skills to making fun of me for spending so much time turning her dog into a well-behaved and incredibly cute circus puppy by calling out in a sing-song sarcastic voice "uh oh, school is in session" every time I did a little refresher, and a couple more near-misses of me launching a howizter at my brother's face for being a dick but he never took the bait, with some laughs inbetween. There were a few laughs, I won't discount that.

And oh, there was the expensive laptop case my mom got me for Christmas that, in theory, would have been a nice gift if 1. I owned a laptop, and 2. I was partial to Eddie Bauer looking green canvas/brown leather luggage, and 3. If she had any idea that it was the opposite thing I would ever buy for myself. But I'm sure she agonized over another gift for me so I wasn't going to give her too much shit and she did kick in a 100 bucks. So that was nice.

Unfortunately, she obssessed obssessively over the bag since my initial reaction was one of perplexion and dammit, I couldn't wipe that quizzical look off my face before she saw it and I was asked about 295 times if I wanted to return it for something else and she was assured by the crack-smoking lady at the catalog place that it could double as a weekend bag and I'd like to know what woman could get more than a thong and an eyeliner in this thing let alone shit for an entire weekend. I'm the person who brings 7 pairs of shoes for an overnight. You know, just in case.

And I'm sorry, but the thought is only good enough when thought is actually part of the equation. When you consistently get shit that makes no sense but at the same time points out the glaringly obvious gaps inbetween who you are and what your loved one pays attention to, it kind of sucks. Anyone need a food dehydrator? Cuz I have one from Christmas 1999. Never opened. Because I. Don't. Cook. Eh, oh well. My mom was actually pretty cool all weekend so I'm not going to throw her under the bus. This ruined vacation was all about my brother.

The day after Christmas was spent shopping a bit with my mom and niece and it went pretty well. I ran out of steam and patience about 2:00 but that's par for the course with me. We were able to manage to watch some movies and relax that night and I had one decent conversation with my dad about moving to another state because California, it's been nice, but we're over. I was ready to go home Monday night but had to wait until the next day. Poo.

My brother left for work before I got up on Tusdays and our brief "thanks for my stuff" had been covered the night before. No hug goodbye either. Whatever. Despite the small respites of pleasure, it had been such a stressful time I vowed I was not going to do that again. 2 Christmas's in a row and a summer vacation thrown in the middle all spent watching everyone walk on eggshells around my brother and me holding my tongue is enough for me. Which of course leaves me with a very painful bout of meloncholy since my father is 80 years old now and I want and need to cherish every minute I can spend with him. But I just can't do that with my brother around. It's shaving time off my own life.

I mentioned to my parents before we left for the aiport that being around my brother is just plain unpleasant. He's mean and grumpy and mean. I made sure they understood it wasn't a reflection on them and that I know he's like that to everyone, but it sucks and I don't want to be around it anymore. I didn't say I'd never join them for a holiday again, but proclaimed the next one would be at my house so at least some things will be on my terms and turf. I'm sure they understood but it was a moment of collective dissapointment. My parents have both had a lifetime of heartache concentrated in the last 4 years and I don't want to add to that, so maybe next year I can help us all avoid it. Hopefully...hopefully.

Then we drove to the airport where dad almost killed us twice on the way.

Merry Fucking Christmas!

The 7th Ring of Hell: Part 1

All I can say is, I won't be doing that again.

I woke up early on the 24th and put the finishing touches on my packing, able to get all the Christmas presents I was hauling to Phoenix and my clothes and stuff in one suitcase. I only had to carry a purse and a couple of framed prints onto the plane. I'd made a reservation at the Park-n-Ride and got there in plenty of time, despite the desperate dash to Denny's on the way to the airport to um...well...let's just say I had a very pissed off tummy and thank god for Denny's and their clean and available bathroom. (This always happens when I fly and I just know one of these days I'm going to crap my pants going through security which would serve them right for making it such a fucking hassle!!)

I got up to the gate without a problem and figured it would be a good idea to hit the bathroom since approximately 40 thousand people decided to fly Southwest out of San Diego before 10:00 on Christmas Eve. There literally wasn't any more room to stand with all the people hogging the chairs and sitting all over the floor. And wouldn't you know it, the line for the 5 stalls in the ladies room was 50 bitches deep. I took my place and was only there for a minute when a man pushed a little old lady in a wheelchair right onto my heels and said "this is far as I can take you" and fucking walked away!

Of course I couldn't not do anything so I leaned over and told the sweet grandma that I'd help her get into the narrow and crowded restroom. She was so nice and continued to thank me profusely. My gesture seemed to spread as we got closer to grabbing our own stalls and people were making sure I could get her and her chair in there and get a handicapped stall, although I did politely decline her invitation to join her in there. I might have been having a moment of altruism but I ain't watching some strange blue-hair pee.

I made sure she knew I was right next door and would wait to help her wash her hands and get back out. We did just fine and I resisted the urge to light my jacket on fire after it fell onto the bathroom floor because, ew, public lavatory floor. While we were drying our hands another stranger told the lady that I was a Christmas angel and I thanked her but gave an assurance that I was only making up for all the rotten things I regularly do all week. I pushed the wheelchair past the line that had grown even longer while I was performing this feat and was again thanked for my efforts by the woman and completely ignored by the dude that dumped her at my feet. What a dick.

Anyway, I slalomed through the throngs for awhile then was able to snag a real chair, only to hear an announcement that my flight was at least an hour delayed. Fuck. And this is where I swore to never do this particular travel plan again. God damn Southwest. I called my mom and delivered the warning. Hoping we'd find each other without a problem.

After an uneventful flight I landed in Phoenix, quickly gathered my suitcase and went to the North curb where my mother and I had planned on meeting. I found my mom's car and opened the door. She didn't even say hi but quickly shouted, "where's your father??". Fuck. He had gone into the cavernous baggage claim area in the hopes of finding me. Jesus Christ. Now I have to go find him because bless his 80 year-old heart, he'll fucking sit in there until midnight unless I find him first and I knew he wouldn't have a clue where to go.

I hadn't eaten anything all day and I'd been up since 5:00 a.m. I could feel my sugar levels start to crash and new I was going to hit the deck if I didn't collect the old man and throw some food down my face. I roamed the baggage claim and went back to where my flight was listed on the giant overhead scrolling in bright red letters on the huge screen that my father insisted DIDN'T FUCKING EXIST. He wasn't there. I looked high and low, left and right, at this cute guys righteous ass. Finally, as I was heading out back to the car I glanced over to the exact opposite place I had been in the entire airport and there he was.

I called out "Dad". He didn't hear me. He started to walk away. I started running. I yelled again, "DAD!!". He was still walking. I yelled out again. Damn man won't admit he's deaf as a fucking stone. He kept walking. Now people are staring at me. I ran a bit more, hauling my fat ass as fast as it would go and then screamed his actual name. This he heard and finally stopped. Then I fainted.

OK, not really. But I was all kinds of out of breath from my 50 foot trek across the carpet. We tried to say a quick hello but I needed to get his wrinkly butt back into the car before my mother blew a fuse. We climbed back into her 4 acre SUV and started to drive slowly away, since my mother has somehow mastered the ability to press the gas peddle but only go about 3 miles per hour, you know, so slow that it doesn't even register on the speedometer. It's actually physically painful to ride in a car with her.

And then she yelled at my dad for going into the airport and he yelled that there was no such damn thing as a sign above the baggage carousel that shows the airlines and flight numbers and then my mother got confused about which exit to take and stopped in the middle of a median and almost got us smashed by another SUV then she slowly got onto the freeway while screaming at my dad that she needed help because she's all turned around you know and my dad told her that if he stopped on a freeway onramp she'd take his head off with a rusty spoon and they yelled some more while I shoved m-n-m's in my mouth because I was so hungry I could have eaten a kitten but we couldn't go out to lunch because my mom was now irritated threat level orange and I could just get some cottage cheese back at my brother's house even though I've been lactose intolerant for about 10 years now god forbid she remembers anything about me and then she almost missed another offramp and nearly crashed us into one of those giant yellow barrels full of rancid water and dad yelled look out and she yelled well I don't know where I'm going and MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!


to be cont.

Christmas 2005

Well. That sucked.



More to come...

Merry Friggen Christmas!

Well, I'm leaving for the 7th ring of hell in the morning, or as it's more commonly known, Phoenix. I was summoned, once again, by my mother to join my parents at my brother's house. The same house that I've only been to once back in the summer of 2003 when he and I got into such a huge row that we had to leave each other's general vicinity because shit was about to be thrown down. I think our screams of FUCK YOU! NO, FUCK YOU! were heard somewhere around Madagascar. It was not good, times infinity.

Since that fateful fight, my brother and I have only spoken a few times, even when our small family was together last Christmas and for a week this summer at my parent's house. The story behind all of this is long and tedious, but he is one crazy mo-fo mamma jamma butthole and me doesn't like hims very much. And he's my mother's favorite. Can you fucking believe that? Me and all my fabulousness and she likes the poopy kid more.

I'm really hoping the next 3.2 days doesn't suck like donkey dick. We'll have 4 cranky adults, one puppy, and one spoiled 8 1/2 year old. Parrrrrtay. But I'm sure I'll survive. They might not, but I will.

Dear Santa,

I'd like a dolly that pees, diamond earings, and a industrial sized bottle of Ativan.

Love,

Betty.

That being said, I hope you all have a lovely holiday and I can't wait to read about the melt downs and food fights sure to come. I shall leave you with me at 4. I knew even then I could take the fat man down if need be so I wasn't a'scared like all those other kids wailing at the sight of a deranged stranger in a red suit. And please ignore his apparent inappropriate hand placement. It was the early 70's, we didn't worry about that shit. Merry Christmas everybody!



P.S. Rascal says fuck Christmas too. (Not pictured, Boo, who had a fit when I tried to put the Santa hat on her.) I'm a naughty mommy.

Ack!

Can't post. Server at work crap. Have to make it quick.

Proof that I've nearly lost my mind. Yes, nearly. Shut up.

Said in a scarily parental sing-song voice perhaps channeling my own mother holy crap kill me now to my fat kitty while she was munching at the food bowl for the 29th time that day who eats too much then pukes sometimes actually in the bowl itself:

"Better watch your consumption!"

The hell?

There is something very wrong with me.

Still stewing in my stew

You'd think I'd be over that total and utter RIP OFF of a party gift from last Friday, wouldn't you?

BUT I'M NOT!

Not even close.

Feh.

I told you!!

Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say I would get totally ripped fucking off? Yes, I believe I did!

_____________________________________________________

It was my 4th daytime "Holiday" party with these idiots. A stupid white-elephant gift exchange which I DETEST by the way, because I always bring something really cool and I always get ripped off and end up with something heinous. This year I brought a stylin' martini set. OK, it was slightly gay but it was a thousand times better than the K-mart bullshit I'm going to take home and accidentally throw away tonight!

We'd already enjoyed our lunch of sweating cheese and bone-dry tandori chicken skewers covered in congealed sweet-n-sour sauce that tasted more like the sticks peirced through them than meat and it was finally time to pick numbers for the gift exchange/rip off. Or what I like to think of as the one chance a year to say naughty shit to your bosses and get away with it. (Which I did when my boss eyed something in front of me and I sneared "bring it on, bitch").

I was hoping for something in the middle of the pack. That way I might be ensured a coveted prize that hadn't been stolen enough times to be owned, or maybe, just maybe I'd open something that I actually wanted.

The hat went around the entire room and I was one of the last ones to choose. I reached in and shuffled the folded papers. Picked the one that felt right and took a look. Number 17. Not too darn bad! Right there in the middle. Woot.

Then it came time to start the game. The first gift was unwrapped showing a pile of pine cones, or pine "corns" my obnoxious foreign co-worker said, and a bunch of lottery tickets. YES! That's exactly what I was going for. Please Jebus, let me get those tickets and win enough money to escape from this corporate hell.

Gift after gift, some enviable like booze, and some complete klinkers like a used Mr. Potato Head with a mystery sheen covering his bald noggin. It was coming close to my turn and even though I could have taken one of a few different bottles of spirits, I ran to those lottery tickets and snatched them away like a tiger taking down a gazelle. Ah ha! Take that!

And then, the bitch who hasn't said 2 words to me since she joined our office 6 months ago promptly stole them.

But. BUT! There was some rum available. Ah ha! Take that again! I ran to the Coconut Bicardi Holiday Gift Package with the Roll-y Glasses and sprinted back to my seat, giving a hearty warning to all who dare take my prize away. There are a few who are either brave to my warnings or too dumb to realize my ability to curse you like a zombie master, but alas, my alcohol spent about 2 more seconds in my possession before it was again stolen for the final time and out of my reach forever. Damn. It.

I had to choose again and the pickin's were slim. A giant 40 pound 2 foot substandard chocolate Santa, um, yea, no. A CD of William Hung singing your Christmas favorites. Not on a bet. A soda can organizer for your fridge, ha, enjoy that sucker. All the good alcohol was formally owned and I had no interest in the animatronic dog that sang fucking Barry White.

I cruised the table. There were only a few packages left. I furrowed my brow and scanned the gifts, hoping for something slightly better than a home-made oven mit. I picked the biggest bag left, it's shiny red paper calling my name.

I was buzzing with anticipation. Please Santa, let it not be complete and utter useless shit. Please let it be something I can pour down my throat and make the bad people go away. Please let it not reak like Anna Nicole Smith's crotch on a Saturday night.

I reached in the bag to find a box of considerable weight. Hmm, what could it be what could it be? Paused for a moment of anticipatory joy, unwrapped the paper and with a huge smile of hope on my face, saw this...

Behold, my gift of TOTAL CRAP.



Fucking. Robbed. Again.

Bah to the Humbug

Today I'm not going to talk about the doctor's appointment I had this morning with yet another sanctimonious prick who would make a nice bookend to the other poop sniffer I saw last week. I'm also not going to bring up my unrelenting fears that something really wrong is going on, again, and I'm being swept under the proverbial rug with the rest of most women who are deemed hysterical and silly then end up in a casket for their 40th birthdays. Their guts rotted from the inside out with some horrible disease. I'm also not going to mention that I'm afraid I'm giving out some violent skunky pheromone making medical professionals hate me upon sight.

Nope. Gonna keep my lip zipped about all that today. I just need to mention one teeny tiny thing and then we'll all move on.

God damn mother fucking condescending unhelpful know it all smug stupid contemptible asshole buttwipe selfish prick superior god complex flippant no regard for patients feelings or well being lazy forgetful negligent fuckface preoccupied pre set agenda prejudiced dickwad irresponsible unreliable untrustworthy uncaring apathetic giant steaming piles and pieces of shit dickhead tightass ignorant preoccupied jackfucks who should be kicked in the twig as soon as they open their arrogant fat mouths sucking a new level of dickless wonder mother humper bunghole stink suckitude times ten to the nth power infinity fucking fuck fuck doctors .

____________________________________________________

I like cheese.

____________________________________________________

Company Christmas parties.

~blorp~

Oh, excuse me. I just mini-puked onto my keyboard.

Yes, I will be subjected to a Chris...oh, my apologies, A "Mandatory Holiday Non-Denominational Gala Celebration Please Only Refer to the Decorated Tree as Festival Foliage Since We're in No Way Singling Out Any One Faith" tomorrow complete with white-elephant everyone always steals my gift exchange and lovely appetizers provided by our very own crapateria. Last year they served liver wrapped in wiggly bacon. It was yummy.

Without getting too detailed, since I'm being oh-so-secretive today, I fucking hate this party. I also get jacked every year and end up with some shitty gift like a wooden moose made from some fuckers kid's 10th grade shop class that shits jellybeans or a brick of plastic wrapped mystery meat that does not require refrigeration. I'm forced to spend 2 hours with 25 people I can't stand and watch everyone kiss our big bosses ass. And they even don't serve booze!

I have to go buy my contribution to the gift-exchange tonight and I really want to bring something horrible like a hand made toaster-oven cozy bought at a church bazaar made from pink and gold yarn with little plastic baby Jesus' sewn in. But no. I'm an attention whore and get off on bringing the best present so I won't rip anyone else off and further screw my tainted Karma with an electronic fart maker. I'll go out tonight and get something awesome in hopes that someone will recognize my awesomeness but will probably be glossed over by the asshole who out-impresses me with the remote control car that launches rockets from the roof rack.

I hate this stupid party. Bah.

Tis the season

I'm feeling a bit melancholy today. I've been hit by a wave of wistfulness like rogue spray coming over the bough of a boat when you didn't expect it, the icy water stunning your face and making you blink and sputter then get bummed out because fuckity, you're all wet now.

The holidaze are a weird time. We're entering into what I like to refer to as the Holiday Trifecta of Hell. Christmas, New Years, and Valentines Day. When your self-worth is all about being a couple thus proving someone out there wants you and you can avoid those awwww isn't that sad she doesn't have a boyfriend for this special day total bullshit. Some people would be perfectly content being alone.

I wish people would keep their yappers shut tight and save their condescending comments to themselves and not make singles feel like boiled crap for being unattached. You'd think I'd be able to avoid stupid comments now that I actually have a boyfriend. A man whom I love very, very much and am so grateful to be sharing my life with. We happen to not be spending Christmas together for the second time since we've been together and that's fine by us. It's no big deal, except to other people. My mother keeps using that tone. You know the one. The one that says "Ooooooohhhkaaaayyy. If you saaaaaaaaayyyyyyy sooooooo". Yes, mother, I say so. And she's not the only one who's done that.

So, on top of some people trying to plant this seed of depression in my already depressed head, I'm having a bit of heartache today about ghosts of relationships past. I was logged in to IM a little while ago and an old friend popped up. This person and I aren't talking anymore and it was a very painful "break-up" for lack of a better term. I don't know why I haven't deleted his name from my list. I just haven't. I guess I wonder if he'll ever say anything to me ever again. So far he hasn't.

I understand that whole friend for a reason, friend for a season thing, but sometimes a person comes through your life and leaves a hole behind. Circumstances make the thing go sour, or they move on, or it simply fades. Sometimes the person had too many broken things about then and it would have never worked but it still hurts. And this is making me think about all the people who have had a special place in my heart who are no longer in my life.

Like my friend of 30 years who stopped talking to me when she found out I had cancer. That one still stings fresh. I didn't just lose her, I lost her whole family. The ones who cause a scar always come back to haunt me, especially this time of year, and it has made me sad today.

Really, really sad.

I'm a hundred million years old

While watching the finale of Survivor last night;

me: That chick looks like Sigmund the Seamonster.
him: Who the hell is that?
me: Are you fucking serious?
him: Yes. Who is Sigmund the Seamonster?
me: Are you telling me you don't know who Sigmund the Seamonster is?
him: Yes. I'm telling you I don't know who that is.
me: Holy shit.
him:...
me: Seriously? You don't know?
him: No, I don't know who that is.
me: What about H.R. Pufnstuf?
him: I think I've heard of him.
me: Unfuckingbelievable.
him:...
me: ~bitterly~ You probably don't even know what a Sleestack is either.
him: ~clearly getting irritated~ No. I don't.
me: ~immediately subscribes to AARP~

My arsenal runneth over

Are you all sufficiently suspended? Great. Now I feel all of this pressure to tell a great story and you all might think it's a total dud then I'll get all verklempt and anxious and will have to take a pill and go shopping and stuff 14 pounds of chocolate down my gullet to make myself feel better. In other words, it'll be a normal day for me.

______________________________________________________
It was a dark and stormy night ,another exciting weekend packed with fun and frolic, an average Saturday night sitting around in jammies staring at the idiot box trying to find something better than rotting road kill or the Lifetime all-Tori-all-the-time channel to watch. Or, dog forbid, something that involves paint swatches and an endless supply of the word "space".

I was fading fast and had nearly given up on any speck of entertainment I might encounter. Bored stiff I was. We decided to buy a movie that musn't have kept my attention for more than 3 seconds cause fuck if I can remember what it was. And we kept having to pause it because one, we didn't care since it wasn't grabbing us by the balls, and B, stuff kept having to be done like smoking and drinking and teasing the cats.

About an hour into it whitey got up for the 10th time and headed for the bathroom. I thought nothing of this since he was enjoying some beer and has the bladder of a field mouse when drinking so it's not unusual that he takes a pee-break oh, every 9 seconds. I thought I'd be nice for the one minute I allot to not being a raging bitch every day and paused the flick once again so he wouldn't miss a millisecond of enrapturing footage. This is important to the story, trust me.

Normally, I wouldn't be paying attention to the myriad of sounds emanating in my house. Half the time I don't even hear the cat puke anymore, which is nice, but since I was sitting in front of a frozen screen with nothing to do but ponder my own thoughts (yea, right) I heard a muffled comment coming from the hallway bathroom where my beloved was taking a whiz. And also, we've gotten to that horrible point in our relationship where the bathroom door does not get closed all the way and even sometimes left completely open and I'm just waiting for the day when we actually take a crap in front of one-another which will be a sad, sad day because that shit is just wrong.

My ears perked up a little when I realized there was some chatter coming from the crapper and I quickly assessed what I thought I'd heard. Yep, I think I was right. I heard something akin to "Aawwww, man. Fucking hell." Now what could this possibly mean? Did the TP roll fall into the water with a pee-pee kerplunk? Did someone shake it too hard and splash his wee eye? Did a cat sneak up and tongue the bung? I didn't hear any more comments and figured all was well.

Then I heard the shower running.

Now what the fuck is going on. I have a movie sittin' on pause here and we're out of decent food in the fridge for me to raid in the meantime, and the internets had been boring me all day, and my new People was lame. The cats were hiding so I couldn't torture them and I had nothing to do but sit there with my thumb up my butt and now he's taking a fucking shower? The hell?

I got up and walked to the almost-shut bathroom door, creaked it open a little, got hit in the face with an odor that was decidedly not roses, and said "Baby? You OK? Why are you in the shower?"

There was a purposeful pause. A deliberate delay. An obvious omission of information.

And then, with an edge of self-disdain and slight annoyance although absent of any embarrassment he said, "I fucking sharted!"

*The author needs to take a break to finish laughing like a moron because 5 days later it's still so god damn funny that she cannot contain herself and must wait until the tears streaming down her face are dried and she gets the strength back in her hands to type.

O.K. I'm O.K. now.

Of course whenever anything of this nature happens to someone, even strangers, I must have every dirty detail. Had a horrific experience giving birth? Tell me all about it. Had to have a cyst the size of a baby's fist lanced off your hoo-ha? Sister, come sit by me. Shart your pants so badly you have to GET IN THE FUCKING SHOWER? It's what I live for!

At this point I'm now laughing so hard it's difficult to squeak out the questions I'm trying to ask. How did this happen? Didn't you feel anything on deck down there? Were you sitting? IS IT ALL OVER THE TOILET SEAT OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE AREN'T WE?

I was finding it difficult to stand and talk at the same time so I let him finish "cleaning up" and managed to calm down a little. He joined me back on the couch fresh as a little daisy where I commenced my interrogation and relentless teasing. Between giggling I began peppering my conversation with the word shart as often as I could. Most of the time laughing so hard I couldn't sputter anything coherent out of my mouth much more than "sha sha shahahahah", which of course caused whitey to begin laughing again with me and off we went.

I finally couldn't take anymore and had to calm down before I had a stroke. The dumb movie was over so I went into the bedroom to go screw around on the computer and try to get the cramp in my ribs to go away. However, I was still curious about how the hell this could have happened to someone who has so much freakish control over his sphincter he should be studied by science. I have to be within 20 feet of a shitter at all times but he could shut down the poop shoot for a week if necessary and not bat an eye. And I still couldn't figure out how a little shart would cause someone to bath their entire body.

Whitey walked into the bedroom and I hit him with one last question. "But baby, how come you had to take a whole shower?" He stopped. Put his hands on his hips and said, "DUDE! THE SHIT WENT DOWN MY LEG!!".

And then I went completely limp, flopped onto the ground in hysterics, broke my spleen with maximum capacity howling laughter, and peed my fricking pants.

You're just gonna have to wait

Something hysterically funny happened this weekend. So pricelessly comical that I literally fell out of chair and onto the floor with a sound coming out of my mouth that was entirely foreign to me because I don't think I've ever laughed that fucking hard in all my life and my laughter didn't know what to do with itself. It tried to keep up but was clearly ill-equipped and out of shape for the hilarity that had ensued. My normal ha ha ha was all over the map with ha ha's and tee hee's and huh huh huh's and I'm pretty sure a haaaaaaaar.

In addition to the involuntary catapult to the floor from the funny, there were streaming tears and lungs stretched to capacity and aching rib cages and a near drowning in the shower when I was unable to get my giggle fit under any kind of control. It lasted a good hour and I suspect I'll be able to milk this for years if not the rest of my life because the mere thought makes me start to chuckle with the threat of a full-blown torrent and there wasn't a moment the memory passed over my brain since this happened that it didn't at least make me chortle a little.

I have to give this adequate attention to detail and proper accolades so I can't tell it today. But I have been given permission to spill the proverbial beans and intend to do just that. So just hold yer horses, it's comin'.

This is not the time of MY life, muthafuckas

Dear People In Charge of Television Programming:

Hi. I know you're probably busy lining up next weekends infomercials and stuff, since everyone clearly needs a Magic Bullet to keep a 14 gallon supply of guacamole on hand at all times so lets make sure that you play that one at least 4 hours back-to-back on Sunday mornings as I really have nothing better to do with my time after the cat walks across my head at 5:45 a.m. and I'm fucking awake now and the only thing to do at that time of the morning is watch the idiot box and what better to see then that 15 minutes of fame chick from Three's Company who replaced the annoying blond who replaced Suzanne Somers when she got all full of herself and wanted a gazillion dollars to run around in Dolphin shorts and a tube top but you have to admit she had a great rack anyway but that third replacement chick now looks like a bullfrog in a wig and she freaks me out every time I see her giant mouth stretching across my entire screen sipping on a frucking fruit smoothie.

~huge inhale~

But I digress.

The point of my letter is to give you a suggestion. And I assure you, this will make all of our lives better. Like, microwave better. Hybrid engine better. Paris Hilton being shot into space better.

Is it not bad enough that there are eleventy million channels out there and it can take an entire day to find something decent to watch rendering my remote button pushing thumb stiff from overuse? Are we not being teased into a frenzy by HBO who insists on repeating the same 4 horrible flicks on their 8 channels, including the Spanish one and why am I paying extra for this crap? And do you not think some of us have caught onto your immense laziness in your telecasting when some of us who have spent at least 35 out of their 38 years sitting in front of the TV would notice that the endless supply of better theatrical endeavors are probably locked up tight in Michael Jackson's vault right next to the elephant man's bones and some classic all-male "erotica" art?

Well, let me tell you, I've had it. I cannot take it anymore and if the powers that be don't do something about this gross injustice to some of us who spend every waking moment at home viewing the boob tube well, I'm going to write a terse letter. OK, I can barely manage fluffing the pillow behind my head these days so I'm never writing a letter, but I'm surely gonna complain a lot! And yell. Really loud.

WHAT THE BLUE FUCK IS UP WITH PLAYING DIRTY DANCING 14 TIMES A DAY EVERY DAY AND I USED TO LOVE THIS MOVIE BUT NOW YOU'RE RUINING IT!!!

It started out as a lark. A mere "huh, will you look at that, it's on again". Then I started getting a little freaked out that I was managing to flip past Jennifer Grey pre nose-job in her white jeans being lifted over Patrick Swayze pre bad-brow-lift in what I can only surmise was a scummy pond in the Poconos and I'll never stop wondering if families really went away to some smarmy resort together all summer and danced the Cha-Cha with someone named Trixie and why didn't Johnny get arrested for statutory rape since Baby was what, 16 and he was 28 and I always think that dude is gonna drop those two watermelons but he doesn't and do the lift, Baby, come on, you can do the lift!!

BUT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SUSPEND MY BELIEF IN REALITY IF YOU PLAY THE FRIGGEN MOVIE ON A FRIGGEN LOOP EVERY FRIGGEN DAY?!?

Next you'll get all obsessed with Grease or something and you'll kill that one too. So quit it already and play something else! Gosh.

Sincerely,

Betty

Let's just get to the pie already

Lance Turdicken the Disco Pimp and I would like to wish you a Happy Thanksfuckinggiving.



I hope everyone celebrating today fills their belly's till the busting point, laughs until you pee a little, spends non-psychotic time with loved ones, and maybe even gets a little sumpin sumpin. When you come out of your tryptophan comas of course.

The color scheme has been chosen, the house is coming along nicely, the food preparations will begin shortly, Boo is feeling much better, I'm looking forward to spending the next 36 hours with the man I love so much it hurts and one of the most riteous bitches in the world, and I'm uncharacteristically calm and happy. Yes, I said happy. Shut up.

Tis not my nature to make a long list of things I'm thankful for, frankly I think it jinxes me, but I will say that I'm so f-ing grateful to have some of the most incredible friends a dumb, grumpy girl can have, for whoever stops by here and reads my ramblings and rants, and especially for those of you who honor me with comments because I love that so much you don't even know. I appreciate it more than this cranky Princess can ever express without getting all misty and embarrassed and then I'll have to punch you in the eye to even things out.

Have a good one people, and stay safe.

Love,

Betty

Martha Stewart, I smite thee

This is all her fault. Or my mother's fault. Or someone else's fault. But it's clearly not my fault because that would mean that I'm ~nervous laughter~ a little crazy and ~wild eyed grin~ we all know that I'm solid as a ~crossing fingers behind back~ fucking rock. Um. Yea. So, anyway...

I'm OBSESSED with Thanksgiving. Normally I wouldn't give a rats ass about a holiday because I've been around for awhile now and the charm of sitting around some table with a bunch of people you're going to get pissed at after bringing up for the millionth fucking time that dumb thing you did when you were ten ha ha yea it was so funny when I pooped my pants on the school field trip to the Museum of Natural History thanks for sharing that little ditty in front of my new boyfriend mother and wearing a pair of pants that get so tight by the time you finish your mashed potato volcano with the gravy lava that you can't breathe without severe chest pains is gone.

This year, for the first time in many, I'm having a guest. A real live house guest who will not only eat Thankgiving dinner with whitey and I, but will spend the night. In my house. And I'm freaking out. Obligatory GAH.

I would have been pulling out all the stops for my man if we hadn't been living together since June but the bloom was off that rose the minute he discovered I am indeed a slob of epic proportions and it was no use trying to fake it with fancy meals and tidy rooms since he's seen the hairballs on my bathroom floor and witnessed me eating spaghettios right out of the can. Sigh. Sorry, baby. My ruse was nice while it lasted.

On Thursday the lovely Ginny (write something already, bitch) is traveling down from the slight north to feast and frolic with us and I'm very much looking forward to it because she's so funny that you'd piss your pants if you didn't keep up with bathroom breaks while hanging with this riteous chick and she's easy on the eyes too. Rowr.

I'd invite more people but I don't like hardly anyone and the pressure of having just one person in my house is driving me batshit insane and I suspect whitey too since, and you men can all do a collective groan now, I've already made a big long list of shit to do, dragged him (not really he volunteered to go with me because he's awesome like that) to buy "prospective I'm not sure they're gonna work out lets take them home and see" placemats with matching cloth napkins, and he cleaned out the fridge. My blowjob tally is now gone into January.

I don't know what takes over my normally lackadaisical (piggish) persona when someone is coming over. I'm compelled to clean like the ghost of Joan Crawford, redecorate the entire house, spend exorbitant amounts of cash on high-brow treats like goat cheese and crackers hand molded by Italian virgins, buy enough liquor to keep Nick Nolte happy, and I clean stuff. This is perhaps the sickest transformation of them all. Right next to buying live plants for fucksake. I can barely keep myself alive. What on earth am I doing buying plants.

Yesterday I was so frazzled with the 40 hundred frillion things I need to do that I was caught imobile and only managed to push a candleholder an inch across a table with my pointer finger. But it's in the perfect spot, now. Sweet Jebus, what has happened to me? I've actually been looking for more perhaps perfecter placemats online. At work. For an hour.

Today's current infatuation is my color scheme. Should I go with an orangy thing or go back to my blue stuff because that matches my good china so much better but I really like the yummy pumpkin pie candles I bought and we can always use the everyday white plates but that sort of looks stark against a nice autumnal linen and what about the sterling silver my mother gave me no that needs to be polished and I'm not going to have the time what with the flower planting and the dusting and the laundry and the light demolition because holy shit my kitchen sucks and I CAN'T HAVE SOMEONE SEE MY CRAPPY COUNTERTOPS.

I need help. Please send medication.

Guess what I did today?

"Can you scoot down a little more? A little more? Just a little bit more? Thanks"

Yea, you know what I'm talkin' bout.

Gah.

My mind is like a steel sieve

I had a great post planned for today. It hit me while I was driving home last night and I jumped a little in my seat and I smiled and said to myself, yes, that is pure genius. I shall pen it after I wake and the people, they will laugh. And the ire, it will be clear. And I'll be adored. And envied. And loved.

I floated home on a cloud of stardust with the birds of brilliance gaily fluttering over my obviously talented head thinking, it will be the most clever thing anyone comes across today. Perhaps this week. Nay, the year.

The masses will smack their foreheads and think, "why am I such an enormous idiot? Curse the Gods and my inferior brain for never considering that". The children will print my pages and take them to their mummy's and tell them they want to be just like me when they grow up. Full of piss and vinegar and fabulous shoes.

The men will contemplate sending me steamy e-mails of invitation then dash the idea after they realize I am far to good for their common souls and they couldn't possibly measure up to the Princess and her needs. Conversely, the women will contact me with reverence and veneration and beg me to reveal just one small snippet of my personal wisdom so they may too someday be as dazzling and clever as I.

And so today I sat down in front of my computer, poised my dainty fingers over the keys, ready to share with the entire world the most intuitive, original, humorous, passionate, biting, shrewd, sassy, and life-changing thing anyone in the history of the world has ever written...


...and I fucking forgot what it was.

By Thursday she was better

Even I, Princess Crankypants ruler of Crabbytowne, her Royal Highness of Snippyville, and the raven-haired favorite daughter of Poutyburg, cannot be a depressed mess 24/7. The last couple of days have been relatively asshole-free, until this afternoon, but I'm only slightly warm over that one. One Ativan with a diet Dr. Pepper chaser and I'll be right as rain. And tonight is a fresh episode of Survivor, so I have that going for me. Not to mention I've been on fiah with the funny. Cracking my shit up, I is.
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After a retardedly disastrous appointment at my GP's office on Monday, I wanted nothing to do with anyone resembling anything in a white coat. Not a doctor. Not a gay mechanic. Not the cute butcher at my market. I know I was all bawling and shit but I was wearing a scratchy germ-infested blue gown open up the back and it barely fucking fit. Shoving more drugs down my gullet is not what I was after. And I meant it when I said no 15 fucking times in a row. Jaysus.

I managed to look beyond the idiots I keep encountering and took a gamble to find someone who might be able to help. Even just a little. I called my company's mental health line and got an authorization number for the whopping 3 free visits they allow. We're apparently on the sitcom plan for resolving problem's. All of your life's issues handled in 23 minutes plus commercials and a free laugh track. So. Stupid.

Anyway, I called the first name listed since he was close to my office, had expertise in my particular afflictions (being koo-koo), and answered the phone himself. He was cool and calm and could get me in this week. I went to his office yesterday and opened the door with trepidation. I think I've made a mistake by not talking to a professional about my adventures in cancer-land these last 2 years but I just couldn't handle one more commitment of the doctoring kind. Or the financial drain. But now it's time. Sigh.

There were 2 girls behind the glass and neither acknowledged my presence. Oh shit, I thought, here we go again. One finally turned towards me and I was quickly told to have a seat and my head shrinker would be out in a minute. I managed to not saying anything snotty after being ignored, although I really wanted to bean the smarmy girl who saw me walk in with a jolly rancher from the candy bowl.

Doc. G. appeared from the hallway with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. He looked sort of like a throw-back from the 70's, judging by his feathered hair and office decor, but no matter. If he can help me get my head straightened out I don't care if he lives in a van down by the river.

We spoke easily for an hour. Our conversation peppered with nonconsequential subjects having nothing to do with my constant and pending anxiety attacks or my general hate for everything, although that was covered too. Just wait until we talk about my mother!

He also mentioned that he's a puppy raiser for a local assistance dog program and could arrange things so I have appointments when the puppy is in the office, if that was OK with me. God damn, dude, why don't you just offer me a chocolate IV drip and Johnny Depps penis while you're at it. With this kind of therapy he won't even have to be in the damn room.

I was only able to briefly mention my idea of taking a leave from my job (he's familiar with my company and its uncanny ability to turn their employees into angry mutants), but we'll talk about it next week. Or at least I'll try to blurt a few words out inbetween kissing all over that puppy! He seemed supportive considering the stress I've been under and I think almost said "no shit" a couple of times, but not in the no shit I know that way but no shit you're stressed you poor girl let me call my old friend Johnny Depp right now!

I don't think I've given myself enough credit for spending the last 7 months walking around not knowing if I have cancer growing in my neck and what my fate will be. I nearly lost my mind waiting the 2 days for word after my biopsy in the beginning of all this mess, I guess I thought waiting for another scan 6 months after that bad scan last March wouldn't be a big deal. Um, yea, WRONG.

I compared being diagnosed with cancer to being an innocent victim in a bank robbery. The kind where the robber grabs you and holds the business end of a gun to your head for 3 days while his accomplice negotiates with authorities. You spend what seems like an eternity not knowing if your brains are going to become part of the industrial art on the walls or if you'll walk out fairly intact. Then left with the uncertainty that you might not ever again sleep through the night without a nightmare that wakes you up soaking wet and gasping for air.

These last 7 months have been more like being a prisoner in a third-world country. Or at least I keep picturing that bad movie with Clare Danes where she and her friend get popped for smuggling heroin and end up in a hell hole prison for women in Laos or somewhere. Sort of the same, sort of not. But the anxiety never ends.

But, but, but. I won't give up. Even when I want to. I won't. I might be at the end of my rope and someone's pissing down the threads, but I haven't dropped yet. And one day I'll figure out the right combination for the kind of catharses I need. And let's just keep Johnny Depp's penis on the list for now, alright? I know I can work that in somewhere.
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In order to keep myself from going fetal, I make an effort to let myself be entertained, spoil myself with certain luxuries, and take the time to have some quality me-time every day. Since my last post was such a fucking bummer, I thought I'd share. Maybe we can make this a regular thing. What do you think?


The Funny

Laughter is the best medicine, blah blah, yes we know. I think a big fat valium is the best medicine sometimes, but I must admit, I love to laugh and it does send out those good endorphins pumping through my brain. (See you stupid cunt doctor, I don't need more drugs I just need more funny. Stupid bitch). If you haven't caught any episodes of the American version of The Office, I highly recommend that you do that right damn now.

I simply adored the British version and a pox on those limey bastards for only churing out 2 season's worth. This shit is comedy gold. Both of them. Rent the DVD's for the episodes made over the big pond and please, I beg of you, start watching The Office on NBC, Tuesday nights, or fucking record it. I didn't have high hopes for a remake but I was wrong wrong wrong. This weeks episode had whitey and I laughing so hard last night (see, I recorded it) that we nearly choked on our burritos. Literal screaming occured.

Also, if you haven't caught onto this yet, please swing by stuffonmycat.com. I've mentioned it before and it's been on my side-bar for awhile now, but I just can't get enough. Watch your spleen, seriously, you might damage it from the laughing. And crap, I need to send my pictures in because you know I stacked some shit up on my cats for that site. Ha.

The Luxury

I'm a makeup freak. I'm a die-hard M.A.C. fan and only use a few different high-end brands for things. I'm not a slave to department store brands but after being on the planet for 38 years and spending a great deal of those buying crap at the drugstore, you have to admit, the nicer stuff is better. In most cases. And if you're anything like me, an oversensitive freak inside and out, you can't mess around with cheap shit when it comes to your skin.

One thing I'd heard about a long time ago but could never justify was this. We are all so bombarded with choices and choices and more choices. Who the hell knows what's the best of anything? But let me tell you, if you're one the majority that shaves your legs, and do not live in France, then I can't applaud this Sweet Satin Shave cream enough. It's pricey, but the jar is huge. You can make it last a loooooooooong time.

It doesn't smell the greatest, but the consistancy is nothing like I've ever put on my body before. It's not greasy but it moisturizes your legs better than any lotion I've tried, and I hate lotion. It makes your legs smooth as a baby's butt and I swear my leg hair doesn't grow back as fast. Go get some or order it online. The whole Benefit line is pretty cool too. Just spend the fucking money. You'll thank me.

The Me Time

Almost every night without fail, I turn off the TV and pick up a book. I do this for 3 reasons. To enjoy reading, which I do, to let my brain relax, and to fall asleep. It's about my favorite time of the day and I've found myself turning off the idiot box earlier and earlier so I can dive into one of my books. Problem is, I have reading narcolepsy and sometimes I can't get past 2 pages without snoring. Then I wake up at 4 in the morning. Wide awake. Fun!

I just finished a book that I was given a couple of years ago and now I'm positively kicking myself for not reading it sooner. I had no idea it was in the same genre of Sedaris and Burroughs. A Girl Named Zippy is another book of memoirs written with an artistic flare, sharp wit and incredible recall. I'll admit that when I've read all 3 of these authors I questioned their ability to remember whatever happened on the third Thursday in 1973, but if you can get beyond that then you'll really enjoy the read.

Zippy is a spitfire and the author manages to put an unexpected twist to her stories over and over. And her imagination is enviable. I was jealous and in awe of her writing talent and completely entertained throughout. She manages to write the entire book in a child's voice without being contrite. The style was a little quirky, but I always admire anyone who breaks the rules and gets away with it. This was a breath of fresh air and I suggest you put this one on your book list. Laugh outloud funny.
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OK, kids. That's all I've got today. Time to go home and squeeze the cats. And that's is not a euphemism for sex, although it would be funny. I'm on FIAH!

And my hair looks like shit too

Hello internet. How have you been? I've been slowly going insane, thanks for asking.

Thank you for the comments. It's nice to know people are thinking about me. Things have been pretty darn shitty for an extended period of time and I seem to be wearing a stink on me much like a dog in the rain after rolling in a pile of cat shit laced with hair perm solution and Texas road kill.

It's all gotten rather serious and I'm sort of hanging on by a thread. Shit is stressful, yo. Lot's of crying and hair pulling and feeling like a caged animal being poked by sticks through the bars. Bah. My faith in the human race is at an all-time low and my attitude matches. The lightbulb at the end of my tunnel burned out. Depressing, ain't it?

A short list of just some things that have happened to me in the last 4 weeks:

1. A jackhole fuckface apparently did a jig or sat their fat ass down on my brand new fucking hood and put a fresh dent in it.
2. I'm post-poning my scan because 99% of the medical field is employed by incompetent pricks who don't return calls, order the wrong tests, spell my name incorrectly, are frothing cunts, and fuck with my health.
3. I have to find new doctors, see #2.
4. I went to my GP begging for help and was pushed towards drugs, again.
5. My home PC was invaded by some new virus resistant to every spyware, ad-aware, anti-virus checker known to man and someone is probably now buying whores in Taiwan with my credit card and no I don't want to play that online fucking casino game, thank you.
6. I'm $1800 in the hole trying to fix my kitty with the mystery disease and one more trip to the vet's doesn't have us any closer to a reason why she's skin and bones and now I have to go back to shoving pills down her throat every day and it's broken my heart because she's my baby and how long will she hang on?
7. I might get fired because I pissed off a dick who treats everyone, especially women, like shit and I don't take kindly to misogynistic buttholes and mouthed off after he growled at me like a rabid dog but he's practically untouchable and has a very big title and my boss has let me dangle since last Thursday not knowing my fate and I'm an anxious mess.
8. My asshole hurts. Don't ask.
9. Number of migraines: approx. 5
10. Days feeling like broiled shit: every damn one.

I'm trying to get in as much appreciating the small things in as I can, but it's a daily struggle. Thank god for whitey and I managing to laugh at something every day. I just feel trapped and miserable and overwhelmed and am tired of being an over-sensitive pussy. Which has been a theme for me for far too long. I need a hug from Oprah.

I'm considering putting in a leave of absence with my job, but they don't have to hold my position for me. I could end up a janitor, or worse, a security guard. I'm considering quitting and taking some much-needed time off. But there goes my bank account. There's no guarantee I'll be approved for time off for my scan, that will hopefully happen in December, and it's pretty much a given that I'll need more radiation too. Suckfest.

And the questions that keep swirling in my addled brain are, how much of this can I control? Is it hormonal? Is it my attitude? Is this permanent? Will I be trapped in crappy jobs for the rest of my life because I'll never be able to get private fucking insurance ever again? Should I move out of state? Should I get a dog? How do I start over? Should I go to grad school. Am I qualified for anything? Is this all worth it? Am I worth it? WHAT. DO. I. DO?

Man, I wish I had something funny to write about, or even a good rant, but I'm drained to the last drop. Sorry. I'm sure everything will work itself out, but right now it's all in panic mode. And I apologize to my friends who shouldn't have to worry about anyone or anything this much.

I don't even want chocolate. And it has nothing to do with the 29 pieces I ate yesterday.

She who is tardy

I know it's been 2 weeks. I'm a wee bit angry, a'ight? Too pissed to post.

Like, I'd make Bjork seem perky.

Don't hate me because i'm mad.

OK, I'm not just surly right now. I'm also so fucking tired and stressed out that I can barely think and I'm slightly verklempt that I am a loser with a loser blog, but I'll try to come back soon. God, don't you hate it when people write shit like this?

p.s. Don't Google "pissed" in images without your strictest filter on. I'm just sayin'.

The good, the bad, the Boo, + 1

Spent the day yesterday at Disneyland with whitey and our friend Ginny. We had a most excellent time. I even got to visit with my friend Chris and her husband, who popped over for a bit, although it was too short. We had so much fun. It was a perfect end to the birthdaypalooza I'd managed to stretch out for 2 whole weeks. Go me! The day was awesomely great but I'm so, so tired. Will write details later. And please skip misspellings and bad grammar, I'm too tired to proof.
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We got caught in some bool-shit traffic on the way home. There's nothing like going 2 miles in a hour. So fun. It was suckass but I'm sure not as bad as it was for the people in the 2 vehicles that looked as if they'd been sent the junkyard, smashed in one of those crusher things, then dropped back onto the freeway. We had sobering thoughts for aabout a minute then went back to bitching about how we'd be delayed by a friggen hour in getting home. So, so tired.
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Boo is still not doing well. :( She seems to be on a steady downfall physically while getting more and more sweet with the purring and snuggling. Figure that one out. My heart is being held together with a ratty old bandaid I found in the bottom of an old box under the sink and the glue is losing it's sticky hold. The smile I had all day yesterday is back in my pocket for safe-keeping since I'm worried sick and feel horrible for the pain she's still in and the not knowing if she's going to make it.

We had our fifth trip to the vet's on Saturday on a please-squeeze-me-in-right-now basis since it looked like the cornea on her left eye had ripped. The vet was super nice and assured me that her heart sounded good and her gums were pink but yes, she's way too thin and damn, they don't know what the hell is wrong with her and we're all so sorry. It's so frustrating and awful.

Boo already had an appt. for the eye specialist scheduled for this morning to do a re-check, but now she'll have yet another new something to look for. And poor baby, the right eye did the same wrinkled, painful hazy thing yesterday. More money, more drugs, more pain and scary car rides for her. She's down to less than 11 pounds and started out at 14 lbs, at least. It sucks and I don't know what to do differently. -sigh- It's all so sad. Hate it hate it hate it. I'm trying to love her to health, but it's not working.

This is all I have in me today, kids. Thought I'd leave you with a little diddy I wrote the other day. A flashback from highschool, which pretty much all of my memories from those 4 haunting years are. Blinding and uncomfortable. This is one of the exceptions. Enjoy.

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The Best Chick Fight I Ever Did Saw

It was a blistering day on the quad. School had been back in session for about a month and the kids would be looking forward to a sweltering Halloween night suffocating in their Freddy Kruger masks. This being Southern California and mostly desert, even though you can't tell because of the bright green 4 acre lawns that must be sustained by intricate sprinkler systems and all of the Colorado river, it was fucking hot. In October. HOT.

Everyone but the 4H kids were sweaty and cranky. We didn't have the benefit of an indoor school pumped frigid with air conditioning like some of you kids living in the east or the square states in the middle, and the 30 year-old AC units sputtered forth not much more than musty, tepid air. It was like an old man breathing on your neck. These conditions lend to quick tempers and us being teenagers anyway, an excuse to blow any kind of evil steam was easily obtained and pure entertainment.

The lunch bell rang promptly at 11:44 and close to two thousand students dispersed across campus to their respective safe zones to shoot the shit and have some sub-standard grub. We did not have quality tots, yo. I was melting with my drama buddies at our usual wall near the theater, which just happened to be directly across from the main offices. It wasn't the best place to claim on the first day of school, since it was home-base for the yard dogs and authoritarians in charge, but it was our version of home for 3 times a day.

On this particular day, we could do hardly more than weakly chew our e-coli baloney and carefully sip cans of warm Hawaiian punch making sure we weren't swigging a swimming yellow jacket with our sugary swill. We certainly weren't prepared for the show that would soon fall literally at our feet. Without nary a warning or warm-up, blasting before us like a double-human tumbleweed, a whirling dervish of white jeans and bleached blond hair came flying between our 2 groups who were split by the walkway. It was a wonder none of us were sucked into the screaming vortex of what we soon realized was a honest to goodness chick fight!

You see, chick fights in my town were few and far between and therefore the excitement level was especially high. We could count on some scrotum scuffle between the boys at least once a week, but as we all know those mostly consist of 2 testosterone poisoned dudes staring each other down, circling occasionally and pumping their clenched fists at the ground. A connection is made more by accident than not and they're pulled apart by their buddies in record time. A chick fight is viscous and wild, like 2 wet cats in a cage, all claws, hair pulling, and shrieks.

Although the cat fight being played out right in front of us was over practically before it began, it was brutal and awesome. Both girls had long hair and had managed to entagle a fist each with her opponents scalp. They were both bent over at the waist and attempting to pummel each others faces, occasionally going down to a knee then yanking each other back up with violent force. There was much scratching.

Grunts of "bitch" and "whore" were peppered between the screams and one perfectly connected slap was heard across the city. None of us could move a muscle from shock and we were smarter than to get in the middle of that. Plus it was the coolest thing ever. Before we knew it, the principal and vice principal were on top of the situation and plucked these 2 brawlers apart, requiring more effort than they'd obviously thought.

The girls were finally stopped, given a little shake by each man and a brief moment for everyone to catch their breath, then quickly led away towards the offices to face their impending punishment. Just when we thought it was all over, the bigger girl pulled a slippery eel Ninja move I will never forget.

While they were all beginning to walk away, the larger girl and obvious instigator of the fight twisted like a circus contortionist, and while still in the principals grip, in one swift move reached out and plucked my friends full but open carton of warm milk off the wall, leaned back and with her left arm, rocketed that carton behind the vice principal and pegged her opponent square in the head. Causing her victim to lurch forward from the force and soaking her and the VP with curdled milk. We would have cheered but our wide-eyed, gaping mouthed, stunned silence was appreciation enough.

And we never saw those girls again...