Thank you all who left me comments. My readership has grown from 4 to 8 and that's all the proof I need that I MUST. KEEP. GOING. Actually, about 30 seconds after posting the previous (and somewhat pathetic) entry I had about 9 things I wanted to talk about and then felt like an asshole because I'd just said I didn't know if I wanted to keep going and then I smacked myself in my dumb head thinking I could pull the whiny post or post something new right away and pretend that the whiny post didn't exist but then thought no, that would also be dumb because I figured some people had already read it and I don't like pulling the words I've committed to and I'd recently pulled another post that although I thought was funny even if it was a wee bit over-the-top love-fest for Pamprin and when you're smack dab in the middle of the Pamprin Days if someone doesn't give you accolades in one half of one second you cry a little then get hot about the face and maybe blush bright red and pull the post down convinced that you are unfunny in all manners of funny and man, was that dumb too.
However, another round of Pamprin Days were partially to blame for my plunge into writing despair and rendering of garments over my measly comments, not that I don't appreciate the one I do have, don't have a cow, and I reserve the right to flip-flop back and repost it. Because it was kinda funny and I can't help it if I'm suddenly overcome with feelings because I'm convinced I have a Niagara Falls supply of them and it's not my fault.
Are you still with me?
My point is, I guess I should employ the swimming-after-a-big-meal rule and NOT POST whatever despair is scrolling across my brain at the very moment it's happening.
Have crazy, whiny thought, wait 1 hour before posting.
I'm going to have that carved onto a chunk of wood, apply 10 layers of shallac and hang it above my monitor. Not-to-mention I'm pretty sure I heard a collective eyeroll of the internet at yet another person boo-hooing over something stupid and trivial. I get that. Still doesn't excuse you from lovingly stroking my insane ego, though. ~points finger at you who did a drive-by reading~
So, therefore and another thing, I've changed my mind. It's something I do often. Well, it's more like I've swirled around again in a complete circle like a turd in the bowl wanting to write and having some confidence about it and realizing that I should be writing for me and it's just icing on my cake if anyone reads and likes it and why do I need so much god damn outside fucking feedback anyway what are you Anna Nichole? "Lack mah wratting?"
And I need to suck it up and accept the fact that some bloggers are hugly popular and got that way from a host of approaches and reasons and maybe just dumb luck and who cares if I'm not one of them? Well, I do, but not all the time. And if I can make one person smile or laugh or think than it's all worth it so just stop expecting anything you lovely moron.
~swirl~ ~swirl~
I'm insane. But I'm cute insane so it's OK. So, for the time-being, I will not say goodbye. There's really no reason for this stupidity except my own insecurities which are my own damage. Luckily they are a smaller percentage that my ass-kickingness so insecurities, fuck off. I have some stories to tell. And that's that. I will continue to wrestle with my demons and you'll get to watch it all.
Crisis averted. Chocolate consumed. There will be no quitting. Amen.
_________________________________________________________
I had an epiphany last weekend. We'll see how long that lasts, ~swirl swirl~, but for now I'm still riding high. Ha, riding.
I almost died, you see, and I'm feeling the appreciation of still being here in one piece and for the luck I had on Saturday. I've mentioned before that I ride horses. Hunter jumpers to be exact. I've been doing this for years after learning how to ride as an adult. (Even though I grew up in horse country I was raised to fear them [thanks dad!] and carried that fear until I was in college where they had a stables and riding classes and I was weakened by an almost constant state of hangover, and I fell in love with it.)
I ride every Saturday in a lesson which is a mixture of therapy, commaraderie, and exercise. It's extremely important to me on many levels. I literally do not feel the same for the whole week if I don't get to ride on Saturday. I've had to take week after week off as my physical therapist tries to fix old injuries that have decided to flare up and render me cranky, in chronic pain, and set me up for a life of immobility if I don't do something about it now. Which, no fucking way will I let that happen if I can help it. Because of this I've skipped a lot of Saturdays this summer and I don't like it. Makes for one extra Princess Crankypants.
I'm taking September off for a few reasons so last weekend would be my last lesson for awhile and there was no way I was skipping it. Everything was going great. The weather was warm but not unbearable, my horse was behaving and we were almost done. One last excercise and we were finished. I had the bright idea to canter a serpintine pattern across the ring and just before we were done. KABOOM. My horse tripped and I ATE SHIT.
It was hhe scariest tumble I've ever had. My horse tripped and did a full face-plant into the dirt, both of his knees hitting the ground which then caused me to smash my face and chest into his neck and head. I literally saw my life flash before my eyes and my first thought was, oh fuck, we're both going to do a front sommersault with him landing on top of me and this could be the end of either one of us or both.
But that good boy managed to yank his front end up before he went all the way down. Unfortunately my centrifugal force of falling forward paired with his swinging head flung me all the way over and I landed on my back with a thud. I'd like to think it was very Cirque du Soleil. With horse poop.
Thankfully, a million times thankfully, I was pretty close to the ground and the landing wasn't too bad. I thought at first I'd broken my jaw and my neck muscles and shoulder blades were screaming and my chest was on fire. But I caught my breath and realized I think I was, for the most part, OK. My eyes wouldn't focus too well but I figured that was from adrenaline.
We checked out my horse and despite a small chunk taken out of one knee and nostriles full of sand, he was ok too. I got back on and we walked around a bit then called it a day. We were very, very, very, very, very lucky. I've felt a little wacky all week so I might have a slight concussion, I have some nasty bruises and my right boob is off limits, but still feel Lucky. As. Hell.
Nothing like a near-death experience to make you remember that life is precious and you'd better make the god damn best of it. So I went and bought me a fancy new Nikon D50 digital 35mm SLR camera with a Quantaray lens.
Fuckit, life is too short and I wanted it. Deserved it. And got it.
And it made me smile.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
So ah....yea....
This whole blog thing? I dunno...I just don't know.
I'm not sure it's working out.
Feeling a bit inadequate.
Maybe 2 years is enough.
Maybe.
I'm not sure it's working out.
Feeling a bit inadequate.
Maybe 2 years is enough.
Maybe.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A few tidbits of advice
Smashing a whole, blackened banana into your hair as a homemade backwater low-rent conditioner then sitting out in the sun for an hour does not enhance the luster of your hair in any way. It turns into a paste similar to quick-set cement and you'll be picking banana fiber off your skull for approximately 7 days or 20 washings. Whichever comes first.
Do not get drunk and decide it's a good time to go "pet the horses" at midnight by climbing into their dark pasture. The thunderous sound of hooves will not feel good across your Reebok hightops and you might likely die while wearing neon blue spandex "running" pants even though the only time you've ever "run" is when you were being chased by a rabid duck at the lake.
Do not rely on the sexual inexperience of your boyfriend who wants to experiment with the South Pole Hole and thinks spit is a sufficient lubricant.
When the man offers you a helmet, pay the rental fee.
Do not let your friends ride on your hood as you do doughnuts in the high school parking lot. They'll scratch the shit out of your paint and their parents will be really mad at you when they get back from the emergency room.
Peach flavored wine colors apparently sting freshly shaved balls.
Your girlfriend will not find it festive after you drink all of the Malibu rum and shove the hook end of a red ball ornament from the Christmas tree through your lobe while yelling "Hey baby, I pierced my ear" as blood flows down your neck at an alarming speed.
Yes. I do know the size of your dick. She told me. They all told me. Get used to it.
Denny's waitresses do not think it's funny to receive a nickel tip under a turned over full glass of water.
Never mess with one of those rifle-flipper chicks in the school band. She'll fuck you up two ways to Sunday.
Do not put your nose on the open vial when a stranger says "hey, smell this". You're next memory will be waking up in a pile of some boys dirty laundry while you try to extricate your left leg from between the washer and dryer.
Stop and go to the bathroom when you have the chance. Then the people at the gas station won't be hollering through the door while you're throwing away your "oops" underwear.
Cashews DO NOT soak up alcohol.
If you get crazy glue on your finger do not panic and try to get it off with your thumb. You will have effectively made a useless lobster claw and it's impossible to dial a fucking phone.
Do not put the vacuum attachment hose around your mouth. You'll end up with a red mark akin to ring-worm for about a week.
There's a reason why girls bikes don't have the middle bar. Nuff said.
When the crazy costume lady making your outfit for your friends Ren Faire wedding asks if you'd like a "little cleavage" tell her no. You will end up with the nickname The Bike Rack.
Do not eat a tuna melt from the lunch truck and sushi from the grocery store on the same day. The dude doing your IV in the ER the next morning will make fun of you.
Never give a crazy stalker man your home phone number.
Never snort Sweet-n-Low from your fingernail. Not even for comic effect. Especially when no one laughs.
Do not marry the man who routinely does the Silence of the Lambs penis tuck. There's something very, very wrong with him.
Do not wait longer than 30 seconds after turning on the gas to light the bar-b-que. Unless you enjoy the smell of burnt hair.
Do not put the drunk girl in charge of making sure the ribs don't burn. You will, in fact, be eating burned ribs.
Do not attempt your first front somersault off the diving board after consuming said burnt ribs with a six pack of cheap beer. You will puke black coal.
Dust busters will not suck up cat barf and you will ruin the dust buster.
Proclaiming with pride to your girlfriend, in the middle of her third time having sex ever, "I think that's the whole enchilada" is NOT romantic. She will get you back with perhaps a peach wine cooler sometime in the future.
Do not get drunk and decide it's a good time to go "pet the horses" at midnight by climbing into their dark pasture. The thunderous sound of hooves will not feel good across your Reebok hightops and you might likely die while wearing neon blue spandex "running" pants even though the only time you've ever "run" is when you were being chased by a rabid duck at the lake.
Do not rely on the sexual inexperience of your boyfriend who wants to experiment with the South Pole Hole and thinks spit is a sufficient lubricant.
When the man offers you a helmet, pay the rental fee.
Do not let your friends ride on your hood as you do doughnuts in the high school parking lot. They'll scratch the shit out of your paint and their parents will be really mad at you when they get back from the emergency room.
Peach flavored wine colors apparently sting freshly shaved balls.
Your girlfriend will not find it festive after you drink all of the Malibu rum and shove the hook end of a red ball ornament from the Christmas tree through your lobe while yelling "Hey baby, I pierced my ear" as blood flows down your neck at an alarming speed.
Yes. I do know the size of your dick. She told me. They all told me. Get used to it.
Denny's waitresses do not think it's funny to receive a nickel tip under a turned over full glass of water.
Never mess with one of those rifle-flipper chicks in the school band. She'll fuck you up two ways to Sunday.
Do not put your nose on the open vial when a stranger says "hey, smell this". You're next memory will be waking up in a pile of some boys dirty laundry while you try to extricate your left leg from between the washer and dryer.
Stop and go to the bathroom when you have the chance. Then the people at the gas station won't be hollering through the door while you're throwing away your "oops" underwear.
Cashews DO NOT soak up alcohol.
If you get crazy glue on your finger do not panic and try to get it off with your thumb. You will have effectively made a useless lobster claw and it's impossible to dial a fucking phone.
Do not put the vacuum attachment hose around your mouth. You'll end up with a red mark akin to ring-worm for about a week.
There's a reason why girls bikes don't have the middle bar. Nuff said.
When the crazy costume lady making your outfit for your friends Ren Faire wedding asks if you'd like a "little cleavage" tell her no. You will end up with the nickname The Bike Rack.
Do not eat a tuna melt from the lunch truck and sushi from the grocery store on the same day. The dude doing your IV in the ER the next morning will make fun of you.
Never give a crazy stalker man your home phone number.
Never snort Sweet-n-Low from your fingernail. Not even for comic effect. Especially when no one laughs.
Do not marry the man who routinely does the Silence of the Lambs penis tuck. There's something very, very wrong with him.
Do not wait longer than 30 seconds after turning on the gas to light the bar-b-que. Unless you enjoy the smell of burnt hair.
Do not put the drunk girl in charge of making sure the ribs don't burn. You will, in fact, be eating burned ribs.
Do not attempt your first front somersault off the diving board after consuming said burnt ribs with a six pack of cheap beer. You will puke black coal.
Dust busters will not suck up cat barf and you will ruin the dust buster.
Proclaiming with pride to your girlfriend, in the middle of her third time having sex ever, "I think that's the whole enchilada" is NOT romantic. She will get you back with perhaps a peach wine cooler sometime in the future.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Eureka!
Dear Medical Community,
I would like to inform you of my incredibly exciting and progressive discovery that answers age-old questions and resolves the mystery that so many of us have struggled with for years. After, just to name a few, more doctors appointments, consultations, painful and/or embarrassing tests, surgeries, lost test results, unreturned phone messages, unanswered questions, rolls of eyes, condescending speeches, nasty office staff, and fuckass god complex patronizing careless asshole experiences, I present to you with all the confidence of someone who's seen enough and had even more than that, my diagnosis of any and all of those who have taken the oath to first and foremost do no harm and you can hardly even manage that on a good day.
98% of you are suffering from the following:
Ego·ti·tis - Pronunciation = ee-go-tye-tis - n.
Latin - fateous headous or swollenium skullium
An excessive inflammation of the ego, caused by infectious or toxic agents in the conceit lobe of the brain, characterized by pompous behavior, excessive frowning, engorged cranium, and disdainful attitudes.
Symptoms and Signs
Egotitis, also known as butthead disease, is characterized by a variable degree of cranial enlargement, absence of sympathy, and a self-limited understanding of patients feelings, often followed by dismissive demeanors, rude behavior, surly staff, unsupportive or fearful inclinations towards patient self-education and the internet, un-returned phone calls, and incessant blathering on and on and on.
Egotitis is due to a depleted empathy node and a possibly fractured sympathy bone.
Diagnosis
Egotitis is relatively easy to diagnose although unfortunately rarely treated successfully. Determinations of egotitis are frequently made by the patient after an off-handed or condescending remark has been said. However, some medical personnel have an obvious affliction upon first glance. This can be supported by the observance of an upturned nose or a noticeable scowl. The eyes might travel from the patients head to toes with a disapproving grunt. Most notably, a patient will be asked a question and repeatedly interupteded by physician when attempting to reply. These sufferers should be avoided at all costs, as this will affect patients mental and possible physical well-being.
Treatment and Prognosis
Since egotitis is a self-limited transient disorder lasting an unknown amount of time, treatment is conservative, usually requiring a change of physician for best results. Anti-egotitis drugs are not currently available, although trials are being conducted in my home laboratory (a.k.a. laundry room.) Surgical treatment is only an option when removal is required of a well-placed foot from infected physicians buttocks after a particular pretentious episode has occurred with a severely pissed of client.
Most doctors are terminal, however, some, with intensive verbal lashings and/or required attendance at patient care conferences where they are publicly flogged and verbally bashed, or if the physician becomes a patient themselves and gets treated like a chart and not a person, can overcome this ailment. However, more trials are necessary at this time since this disease has undoubtedly been around for centuries and it will take a virtual miracle to eradicate.
Recommendations
If you are treated like a stupid cow, have symptoms ignored, or are patted on the head as if a small, drooling child, chuck the jerk and find a new doc. Find a new office. Find a new way.
This is your body. You are in charge of it.
I would like to inform you of my incredibly exciting and progressive discovery that answers age-old questions and resolves the mystery that so many of us have struggled with for years. After, just to name a few, more doctors appointments, consultations, painful and/or embarrassing tests, surgeries, lost test results, unreturned phone messages, unanswered questions, rolls of eyes, condescending speeches, nasty office staff, and fuckass god complex patronizing careless asshole experiences, I present to you with all the confidence of someone who's seen enough and had even more than that, my diagnosis of any and all of those who have taken the oath to first and foremost do no harm and you can hardly even manage that on a good day.
98% of you are suffering from the following:
Ego·ti·tis - Pronunciation = ee-go-tye-tis - n.
Latin - fateous headous or swollenium skullium
An excessive inflammation of the ego, caused by infectious or toxic agents in the conceit lobe of the brain, characterized by pompous behavior, excessive frowning, engorged cranium, and disdainful attitudes.
Symptoms and Signs
Egotitis, also known as butthead disease, is characterized by a variable degree of cranial enlargement, absence of sympathy, and a self-limited understanding of patients feelings, often followed by dismissive demeanors, rude behavior, surly staff, unsupportive or fearful inclinations towards patient self-education and the internet, un-returned phone calls, and incessant blathering on and on and on.
Egotitis is due to a depleted empathy node and a possibly fractured sympathy bone.
Diagnosis
Egotitis is relatively easy to diagnose although unfortunately rarely treated successfully. Determinations of egotitis are frequently made by the patient after an off-handed or condescending remark has been said. However, some medical personnel have an obvious affliction upon first glance. This can be supported by the observance of an upturned nose or a noticeable scowl. The eyes might travel from the patients head to toes with a disapproving grunt. Most notably, a patient will be asked a question and repeatedly interupteded by physician when attempting to reply. These sufferers should be avoided at all costs, as this will affect patients mental and possible physical well-being.
Treatment and Prognosis
Since egotitis is a self-limited transient disorder lasting an unknown amount of time, treatment is conservative, usually requiring a change of physician for best results. Anti-egotitis drugs are not currently available, although trials are being conducted in my home laboratory (a.k.a. laundry room.) Surgical treatment is only an option when removal is required of a well-placed foot from infected physicians buttocks after a particular pretentious episode has occurred with a severely pissed of client.
Most doctors are terminal, however, some, with intensive verbal lashings and/or required attendance at patient care conferences where they are publicly flogged and verbally bashed, or if the physician becomes a patient themselves and gets treated like a chart and not a person, can overcome this ailment. However, more trials are necessary at this time since this disease has undoubtedly been around for centuries and it will take a virtual miracle to eradicate.
Recommendations
If you are treated like a stupid cow, have symptoms ignored, or are patted on the head as if a small, drooling child, chuck the jerk and find a new doc. Find a new office. Find a new way.
This is your body. You are in charge of it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Tricked you!
Today I was going to write about something completely different than what I'm really going to write about. You all narrowly escaped reading a depressing diatribe of depression and the annals of my anxieties that I'm currently having but after a breakfast of chocolate and Ativan, and a little sumpin' sumpin' last night, I'm feeling a little better. Plus I have more half-cocked entries to clean up and make into a cohesive post that hopefully won't make people want to put a bullet in my (or their) brains from reading yet another "depression blog".
However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.
___________________________________________________
In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.
And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.
I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.
Alright, there is more to that one.
Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.
Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!
This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.
I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)
Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.
I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!
I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.
WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!
What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!
I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.
Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!
Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!
ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.
GAH. OOF. FUCK!!
I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.
However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.
And. I am stupid.
However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.
___________________________________________________
In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.
And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.
I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.
Alright, there is more to that one.
Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.
Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!
This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.
I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)
Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.
I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!
I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.
WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!
What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!
I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.
Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!
Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!
ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.
GAH. OOF. FUCK!!
I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.
However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.
And. I am stupid.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Wadded panties for everyone!
OK. Fine!! I'll stop ignoring you and write something. SHEESH. Have a cow, whydon'tcha. A girl can only take so many begging and pleading e-mails. Threatening phone calls. And one packaged unmentionable delivered by a poor, unsuspecting UPS man.
I am of course lying.
The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa
See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.
I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.
Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.
Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.
_______________________________________________________
I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.
The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.
After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)
To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.
This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.
Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;
"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"
And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;
"What's wrong?"
And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;
"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"
So I asked;
"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"
And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;
"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"
Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;
"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"
And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.
_______________________________________________________
I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.
She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.
Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.
_________________________________________________________
Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.
I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.
Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!
After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.
_____________________________________________________
Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.
First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.
Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.
Then there was the poo ball incident.
Yes, I said poo ball.
I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.
So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.
I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!
Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??
I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.
I am of course lying.
The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa
See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.
I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.
Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.
Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.
_______________________________________________________
I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.
The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.
After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)
To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.
This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.
Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;
"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"
And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;
"What's wrong?"
And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;
"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"
So I asked;
"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"
And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;
"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"
Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;
"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"
And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.
_______________________________________________________
I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.
She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.
Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.
_________________________________________________________
Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.
I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.
Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!
After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.
_____________________________________________________
Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.
First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.
Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.
Then there was the poo ball incident.
Yes, I said poo ball.
I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.
So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.
I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!
Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??
I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Rockstar: Superlame-o
Me: I bet her vagina has teeth.
Him: Yea, she'd totally eat your dick.
Me: She's so scary.
Him: I dig her.
Me: Totally. She rocks.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
On anniversaries
Tis the season for momentous occasions for me. June. July. August. September. Those months mark milestones. Important milestones. The holiday's I used to pay attention to, the ones that were marked on the calendar and waited for with anticipation, like normal people, have been replaced by the summer months and there's no damn presents involved. Dammit.
Today is especially, um, interesting? No. Poignant? No, that's not right. Melancholy. That seems to fit. I'll take melancholy for 500, Alex.
July 18th is the day I found out I had cancer. 3 years ago today my life changed forever in an instant. A horrible, crushing instant.
I wrote about it in here somewhere but I can't find the exact post and frankly I don't have the energy to go look for it. And I suspect I would cringe at some of the things I said and how I said them because I never like the finished product 100% and every time I re-read something I've written I find changes that should be made and am I not crazy enough already?
I do not live my life in a constant state of depression or negativity and I see you looking at me that way, I swear I do not. I'm a cranky crankypants but I laugh a lot and try to pay attention to good stuff. Last weekend I was overcome with a moment of happiness and I savored it for as long as I could.
On the flip side of Happytown is the reality of my existence and my life as it is now. More complications from this asshole disease than even I like to think about and the never-ending fear that I have lung cancer. Or breast cancer. Or butthole cancer. Or will get them someday. Or the thyroid cancer will come back, because unfortunately there's a good chance it will.
And I still don't feel good. After 3 motherfucking years, I still don't feel good. And on days like today, when the memories come flooding back like a busted pipe in the basement soaking all your keepsakes and treasures making the house stink of mildew and it's a fucking mess to clean up, I have a hard time keeping my head up.
On days like today the sky is not blue. The air is not cool. The sugar is not sweet.
On days like today the tears do not cleanse. The hugs do not comfort. The words do not mend.
On days like today I need to be sad. I need to reflect. I need to hurt.
And then I can move on.
After days like today. I will move on.
Today is especially, um, interesting? No. Poignant? No, that's not right. Melancholy. That seems to fit. I'll take melancholy for 500, Alex.
July 18th is the day I found out I had cancer. 3 years ago today my life changed forever in an instant. A horrible, crushing instant.
I wrote about it in here somewhere but I can't find the exact post and frankly I don't have the energy to go look for it. And I suspect I would cringe at some of the things I said and how I said them because I never like the finished product 100% and every time I re-read something I've written I find changes that should be made and am I not crazy enough already?
I do not live my life in a constant state of depression or negativity and I see you looking at me that way, I swear I do not. I'm a cranky crankypants but I laugh a lot and try to pay attention to good stuff. Last weekend I was overcome with a moment of happiness and I savored it for as long as I could.
On the flip side of Happytown is the reality of my existence and my life as it is now. More complications from this asshole disease than even I like to think about and the never-ending fear that I have lung cancer. Or breast cancer. Or butthole cancer. Or will get them someday. Or the thyroid cancer will come back, because unfortunately there's a good chance it will.
And I still don't feel good. After 3 motherfucking years, I still don't feel good. And on days like today, when the memories come flooding back like a busted pipe in the basement soaking all your keepsakes and treasures making the house stink of mildew and it's a fucking mess to clean up, I have a hard time keeping my head up.
On days like today the sky is not blue. The air is not cool. The sugar is not sweet.
On days like today the tears do not cleanse. The hugs do not comfort. The words do not mend.
On days like today I need to be sad. I need to reflect. I need to hurt.
And then I can move on.
After days like today. I will move on.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Some best laid plans...
We had big hair and loud shirts. Neon plastic wasn't just for traffic cones and fishnet adorned way too many body parts. I wouldn't be caught dead in a side ponytail but I wore my lavender moccasins out. Dolph Lundgren slept above my head and I saved my babysitting money to buy records. For a turntable. For records. That people now turn into servingware.
It was 1980-something and my best friend S. was turning 18. I thought I'd be the extremely nice person that I am, was, err, am (har) and throw her a surprise party. Our local pizza hangout had an upstairs loft that you could reserve and it was outfitted with a big screen complete with a Betamax, a Miss Pacman table game and had heavily lacquered wooden furniture that obnoxious teenagers couldn't (barely) hurt. It was the perfect place.
I managed to procure the private area for a Friday night and started planning the party. Invitations were sent to our core group of friends and a few new ones, the food was arranged, the decorations bought, and helpers recruited. It was looking like a good time to be had, even absent the wine coolers and clove cigarettes which would be consumed and smoked later that night. It was going to be very John Hughes. Very Breakfast Club. Very Cool. Well, except it was just pizza and not at school and we were drama nerds, but you get my drift.
S. had no clue what I was up to. I was totally stoked that I was hopefully going to pull this off. And I barely had to threaten anyone with a grizzly and bloody death if they flapped their lips and spoiled the surprise. I managed to weave an elaborate and expertly bullshitted story about the night and how S. needed to meet me at the pizza place rather than us going together as usual and arranged for another one of our friends to pick her up.
The night finally arrived and my helpers and I met early at the pizza place to decorate with streamers and birthday signs and balloons all in S's favorite colors. At the last minute I got the super mega brilliant idea to fill one of the balloons to capacity with glitter. Lot's of glitter. A metric ton of glitter.
My plan was to pop it over her head, imagining a beautiful scene of sparkles and silver snow gently floating over her strawberry blond tresses while she throws back her head and squeals with laughter, slowly spinning in a circle through the tiny diamonds raining down on her perfect night and thinking to herself that she has the bestest friend in the whole wide world. Teen movie worthy. Totally.
Everything was coming off without a hitch. We were gathered and ready for the birthday girl to arrive. We finally spotted her and I ordered everyone quiet while S. made her way cautiously up the stairs. When she reached the top a hearty SURPRISE was screamed in unison and she was stunned with happiness. I was equally pleased for pulling this off and making my best friend's birthday a special one.
As things got underway with food and chatter I remembered my "extra" surprise. I snuck behind her, grabbed the balloon and a pair of scissors, and raised them both above her head. And just as I brought the sharp tip of my shears to the thin skin of the balloon she turned around to see what I was up to behind her back and LOOKED DIRECTLY AT IT.
I hadn't realized that my best girl had the reaction time of a drunken two-toed sloth who hasn't slept in a week, but in the time between the deafening POP and the avalanche of glitter onto her face she didn't manage to close her mouth OR her friggen eyes.
She was positively blinded with 4 pounds of multi-colored glitter and could hardly breathe due to her mouth jammed-packed with the stuff. While I tried to contain my fit of hysterical laughter (I'm such an asshole) we spent the next hour trying to clear her vision and lessen the pain of having tiny shards of sharp material plastered across her corneas and attempted to subdue her coughing fits that looked something like a circus clown spewing sparks onto an unwilling audience.
I did not come out smelling like the rose I'd hoped for, (many looks of that god damn Betty) and I swear we found glitter in her hair for about 6 months after that, but all was well in the end and our friendship remains intact today.
I'm just not allowed near balloons.
Ever.
It was 1980-something and my best friend S. was turning 18. I thought I'd be the extremely nice person that I am, was, err, am (har) and throw her a surprise party. Our local pizza hangout had an upstairs loft that you could reserve and it was outfitted with a big screen complete with a Betamax, a Miss Pacman table game and had heavily lacquered wooden furniture that obnoxious teenagers couldn't (barely) hurt. It was the perfect place.
I managed to procure the private area for a Friday night and started planning the party. Invitations were sent to our core group of friends and a few new ones, the food was arranged, the decorations bought, and helpers recruited. It was looking like a good time to be had, even absent the wine coolers and clove cigarettes which would be consumed and smoked later that night. It was going to be very John Hughes. Very Breakfast Club. Very Cool. Well, except it was just pizza and not at school and we were drama nerds, but you get my drift.
S. had no clue what I was up to. I was totally stoked that I was hopefully going to pull this off. And I barely had to threaten anyone with a grizzly and bloody death if they flapped their lips and spoiled the surprise. I managed to weave an elaborate and expertly bullshitted story about the night and how S. needed to meet me at the pizza place rather than us going together as usual and arranged for another one of our friends to pick her up.
The night finally arrived and my helpers and I met early at the pizza place to decorate with streamers and birthday signs and balloons all in S's favorite colors. At the last minute I got the super mega brilliant idea to fill one of the balloons to capacity with glitter. Lot's of glitter. A metric ton of glitter.
My plan was to pop it over her head, imagining a beautiful scene of sparkles and silver snow gently floating over her strawberry blond tresses while she throws back her head and squeals with laughter, slowly spinning in a circle through the tiny diamonds raining down on her perfect night and thinking to herself that she has the bestest friend in the whole wide world. Teen movie worthy. Totally.
Everything was coming off without a hitch. We were gathered and ready for the birthday girl to arrive. We finally spotted her and I ordered everyone quiet while S. made her way cautiously up the stairs. When she reached the top a hearty SURPRISE was screamed in unison and she was stunned with happiness. I was equally pleased for pulling this off and making my best friend's birthday a special one.
As things got underway with food and chatter I remembered my "extra" surprise. I snuck behind her, grabbed the balloon and a pair of scissors, and raised them both above her head. And just as I brought the sharp tip of my shears to the thin skin of the balloon she turned around to see what I was up to behind her back and LOOKED DIRECTLY AT IT.
I hadn't realized that my best girl had the reaction time of a drunken two-toed sloth who hasn't slept in a week, but in the time between the deafening POP and the avalanche of glitter onto her face she didn't manage to close her mouth OR her friggen eyes.
She was positively blinded with 4 pounds of multi-colored glitter and could hardly breathe due to her mouth jammed-packed with the stuff. While I tried to contain my fit of hysterical laughter (I'm such an asshole) we spent the next hour trying to clear her vision and lessen the pain of having tiny shards of sharp material plastered across her corneas and attempted to subdue her coughing fits that looked something like a circus clown spewing sparks onto an unwilling audience.
I did not come out smelling like the rose I'd hoped for, (many looks of that god damn Betty) and I swear we found glitter in her hair for about 6 months after that, but all was well in the end and our friendship remains intact today.
I'm just not allowed near balloons.
Ever.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Honesty dichotomy
I've been thinking about this dilemma for awhile now. After encountering what seems like daily situations that call for some type of personality altering, unable to say what you really want to say but instead having to juggle 14 flaming bullshit balls and/or mustering from the deepest depth of the better, nicer part of your soul, restraint and a thin smile of control followed by a calm retort instead of the double fisted neck punch you'd rather wield, I ask you this;
Are we truly honest?
For those of us running around bragging about how we tell it like it is sistah friend z-snap! Do we really? Do we really offer up genuine frankness to family, friends, strangers alike or do we only think we do. Or an even better question, is it even fucking possible to do so? Can we, you, I, whatever, actually say what's scrolling on the message board in our heads? I don't know.
Mind you, I'm not talking about the runny verbal malaria that some people dribble down their falsely stoic chins that leave you saying, now was that fucking necessary? Or the inappropriate utterings that some people can't manage to keep inside their size 16 brains crammed into a size 4 skull, such as, my GOD your hair looks like a birds nest that was blown out of a tree in a class 4 hurricane then torn apart by wild hamsters right after a tribe of pygmy's shit on it. Because that would not be cool.
I'm talking about being able to, having the right to, is it alright to, state facts. Not to injure, but to alleviate the incredible amount of god damn bullshit we have to take in and dish out when in fact a nice hot steaming plate of candor would smell as sweet as summer roses in the sun. At least sometimes. Sweet jesus, just sometimes.
For instance, I recently had a conversation with a known dingbat at my company. This person has always been a dingbat and will forever be a dingbat. She used to send me paperwork that was never, ever correct. Fucking hell, how hard is it to remember to sign something? The first few times I always give someone a break, understanding that most people need to get into the swing of things. But after 4 SOLID YEARS of calling and correcting the dingbat I realized she gave much, much less than a cheeto-sized shit about any of it and my patience went out the window right with my kindness. Or my version of kindness which is the absence of irritation because I am a nice person. See?
Anyway, I saw her in the cafeteria and thought I'd stop and say hi. It was the first Tuesday of the month you see and that's the day I always set aside to be nice to one person for five minutes. We proceeded to have this strangely passive-aggressive chat where I'd say something like, "yea, I really prided myself in being the expert" and she'd reply with an uppity air about her, "oh yes, I had a whole list of things I had to do so I wouldn't get screamed at by Betty." ~snotty smile~
OK, first thing, I rarely if ever scream. If I did, people 2 states away would hear it and something would be mentioned on your local 5:00 news. Secondly, you smug slut, maybe if you bothered to read company policy or my directions oh, lets say, just one of the 17 thousand times I sent them to you you wouldn't have to get continually schooled by me after doing them consistently wrong for YEARS ON END. And please excuse me while I fantasize about shoving your dingbat face into your beef with broccoli until you're blowing meat bubbles through your nose.
This retardation went on for a few more minutes until I rolled my eyes and walked away. While thinking what a waste of time that crap was and why did I do that I also thought to myself, how awesome would it have been to have busted out with some unadulterated, pure honesty? I imagined putting my hand 2 inches from her nose in the universal sign for STOP and simply saying, "OK. This conversation is over. You are stupid and I don't like you. I've never liked you. You're kind of a bitch and we don't have to ever talk again. OK? OK." See? No blood shed, just an end to CRAP.
Calling someone to the carpet wouldn't have to be a throw-down all the time, but more like a revelation that we don't have to do that dance with each other any more. The relief would be palpable and the satisfaction sweet. But of course you can't do that, especially in the corporate world where things are run like a high school gym locker where you titter and gossip behind the head cheerleaders back that she's a drunken whore but you have to kiss her ass in person or your life is ruined. Come to think of it, that sounds like life in general.
I dream of a time when we'll all be able to tell some fucker on the other end of the phone who has some aspect of your life in their hands that they need to stop talking to you like you're a petulant child with the IQ of Paris Hilton minus the bank account. Oh, you wanted to see the doctor soon? Does 4:00 a.m. September 2015 work for you? Please hold.
But as it stands now, you can't call them on their ego trip because they can fuck you up. And trust me, many, many times I have verbally smacked someone around for being a dick and it's has come back to haunt me. Even when I had every right to tell the nasty piece of work that they were as ridiculous as a pig in a prom dress and save the attitude Mary, you're a RECEPTIONIST.
And don't even think that you can tell someone who's supposed to be your friend that they're shit-nut crazy and nearly every one of their personal crises are lame. That is impossible. Might as well tie yourself to a stake and light the match.
Years ago I took some American Sign Language classes and I was really interested to learn that deaf people don't have as many fiberglass walls of fabrication like the rest of us do. They just tell it like it is. I can't remember the genesis of that cultural difference but it made sense. They were naturally tougher skinned and it took a lot less time and effort to communicate with each other, especially if you were trying to eat a 1 pound super mega burrito or something. You'd need both hands.
But we're really not groomed to do that and in our world of the uber-PC, it's hardly possible. God forbid you tell someone the truth, they'll sue you for emotional bruising and I really think a large percentage of people have turned into control freaks and in this wacky world we live in people need to exert any tiny speck of control they can.
This is why the kid in customer service for your local cable company is such a god damn nasty assbusting shitstain smacking gum in your ear and audibly sighing with boredom when you call to complain that your internet connection has gone down for the 19th time and then "transfers" you to the repair department which ends up being a dial tone.
Furthermore, we women naturally get the short end of the stick in the honesty bizness since we are raised to just smile and look pretty, don't make waves dear, be a good girl. Or in other words, keep your mouth shut. Well, I say that's crap. We all need to carry a pair of balls in our Kate Spades and be brave enough to take them out and shake them in someone's face and speak up for ourselves when it's warranted.
But if you can't do this as often as you'd like, blog. For fuckssake, write about it.
________________________________________________________
I'd starting writing this slightly disjointed please forgive me I'm distracted post before I saw a great meme on my friend Kat's blog. She's a kick-ass chick with a chili pepper sense of humor and more brains than should be allowed. Go read her stuff when you have a chance. In the meantime, I'm taking her challenge.
The idea is to write 15 honest statements to anyone you want to, dead or alive, past or present, but no names. And I'd love it if you'd join me (all 4 of you) on your own blogs or better yet, say something in my comments. And remember, you can say anything you want to, just leave out the names, especially if you're writing about me.
Here are mine:
1. You should be banished to a small island with only enough food to keep you fed for a week at a time but you only get supplies once a month.
2. I think you're a really bad parent and shouldn't have had kids.
3. I purposefully manipulate your feelings because you fucked me over once, bad enough that you need to pay for it until I think you're done.
4. I knew you were bad from the start but I dove in anyway.
5. You were not as smart as I am and I respected you less because of it.
6. No, it was not good for me too. I looked at my watch over your shoulder the whole time.
7. I think you're stupid for letting him back into your life over and over and over.
8. We get along OK but really I think you're a creepy serial killer who probably has people buried under your house.
9. I don't read your blog because I'm seething with jealousy over your fan base and the attention you receive.
10. I know you've had a hard time loving me but I've learned you did the best you could.
11. I hate you for what you did and I'll never forgive you.
12. You are certifiably ca-razy.
13. I know you only come to me when you need something.
14. I'll always regret not having the guts to kiss you when I had the chance.
15. I. See. Right. Through. You.
Are we truly honest?
For those of us running around bragging about how we tell it like it is sistah friend z-snap! Do we really? Do we really offer up genuine frankness to family, friends, strangers alike or do we only think we do. Or an even better question, is it even fucking possible to do so? Can we, you, I, whatever, actually say what's scrolling on the message board in our heads? I don't know.
Mind you, I'm not talking about the runny verbal malaria that some people dribble down their falsely stoic chins that leave you saying, now was that fucking necessary? Or the inappropriate utterings that some people can't manage to keep inside their size 16 brains crammed into a size 4 skull, such as, my GOD your hair looks like a birds nest that was blown out of a tree in a class 4 hurricane then torn apart by wild hamsters right after a tribe of pygmy's shit on it. Because that would not be cool.
I'm talking about being able to, having the right to, is it alright to, state facts. Not to injure, but to alleviate the incredible amount of god damn bullshit we have to take in and dish out when in fact a nice hot steaming plate of candor would smell as sweet as summer roses in the sun. At least sometimes. Sweet jesus, just sometimes.
For instance, I recently had a conversation with a known dingbat at my company. This person has always been a dingbat and will forever be a dingbat. She used to send me paperwork that was never, ever correct. Fucking hell, how hard is it to remember to sign something? The first few times I always give someone a break, understanding that most people need to get into the swing of things. But after 4 SOLID YEARS of calling and correcting the dingbat I realized she gave much, much less than a cheeto-sized shit about any of it and my patience went out the window right with my kindness. Or my version of kindness which is the absence of irritation because I am a nice person. See?
Anyway, I saw her in the cafeteria and thought I'd stop and say hi. It was the first Tuesday of the month you see and that's the day I always set aside to be nice to one person for five minutes. We proceeded to have this strangely passive-aggressive chat where I'd say something like, "yea, I really prided myself in being the expert" and she'd reply with an uppity air about her, "oh yes, I had a whole list of things I had to do so I wouldn't get screamed at by Betty." ~snotty smile~
OK, first thing, I rarely if ever scream. If I did, people 2 states away would hear it and something would be mentioned on your local 5:00 news. Secondly, you smug slut, maybe if you bothered to read company policy or my directions oh, lets say, just one of the 17 thousand times I sent them to you you wouldn't have to get continually schooled by me after doing them consistently wrong for YEARS ON END. And please excuse me while I fantasize about shoving your dingbat face into your beef with broccoli until you're blowing meat bubbles through your nose.
This retardation went on for a few more minutes until I rolled my eyes and walked away. While thinking what a waste of time that crap was and why did I do that I also thought to myself, how awesome would it have been to have busted out with some unadulterated, pure honesty? I imagined putting my hand 2 inches from her nose in the universal sign for STOP and simply saying, "OK. This conversation is over. You are stupid and I don't like you. I've never liked you. You're kind of a bitch and we don't have to ever talk again. OK? OK." See? No blood shed, just an end to CRAP.
Calling someone to the carpet wouldn't have to be a throw-down all the time, but more like a revelation that we don't have to do that dance with each other any more. The relief would be palpable and the satisfaction sweet. But of course you can't do that, especially in the corporate world where things are run like a high school gym locker where you titter and gossip behind the head cheerleaders back that she's a drunken whore but you have to kiss her ass in person or your life is ruined. Come to think of it, that sounds like life in general.
I dream of a time when we'll all be able to tell some fucker on the other end of the phone who has some aspect of your life in their hands that they need to stop talking to you like you're a petulant child with the IQ of Paris Hilton minus the bank account. Oh, you wanted to see the doctor soon? Does 4:00 a.m. September 2015 work for you? Please hold.
But as it stands now, you can't call them on their ego trip because they can fuck you up. And trust me, many, many times I have verbally smacked someone around for being a dick and it's has come back to haunt me. Even when I had every right to tell the nasty piece of work that they were as ridiculous as a pig in a prom dress and save the attitude Mary, you're a RECEPTIONIST.
And don't even think that you can tell someone who's supposed to be your friend that they're shit-nut crazy and nearly every one of their personal crises are lame. That is impossible. Might as well tie yourself to a stake and light the match.
Years ago I took some American Sign Language classes and I was really interested to learn that deaf people don't have as many fiberglass walls of fabrication like the rest of us do. They just tell it like it is. I can't remember the genesis of that cultural difference but it made sense. They were naturally tougher skinned and it took a lot less time and effort to communicate with each other, especially if you were trying to eat a 1 pound super mega burrito or something. You'd need both hands.
But we're really not groomed to do that and in our world of the uber-PC, it's hardly possible. God forbid you tell someone the truth, they'll sue you for emotional bruising and I really think a large percentage of people have turned into control freaks and in this wacky world we live in people need to exert any tiny speck of control they can.
This is why the kid in customer service for your local cable company is such a god damn nasty assbusting shitstain smacking gum in your ear and audibly sighing with boredom when you call to complain that your internet connection has gone down for the 19th time and then "transfers" you to the repair department which ends up being a dial tone.
Furthermore, we women naturally get the short end of the stick in the honesty bizness since we are raised to just smile and look pretty, don't make waves dear, be a good girl. Or in other words, keep your mouth shut. Well, I say that's crap. We all need to carry a pair of balls in our Kate Spades and be brave enough to take them out and shake them in someone's face and speak up for ourselves when it's warranted.
But if you can't do this as often as you'd like, blog. For fuckssake, write about it.
________________________________________________________
I'd starting writing this slightly disjointed please forgive me I'm distracted post before I saw a great meme on my friend Kat's blog. She's a kick-ass chick with a chili pepper sense of humor and more brains than should be allowed. Go read her stuff when you have a chance. In the meantime, I'm taking her challenge.
The idea is to write 15 honest statements to anyone you want to, dead or alive, past or present, but no names. And I'd love it if you'd join me (all 4 of you) on your own blogs or better yet, say something in my comments. And remember, you can say anything you want to, just leave out the names, especially if you're writing about me.
Here are mine:
1. You should be banished to a small island with only enough food to keep you fed for a week at a time but you only get supplies once a month.
2. I think you're a really bad parent and shouldn't have had kids.
3. I purposefully manipulate your feelings because you fucked me over once, bad enough that you need to pay for it until I think you're done.
4. I knew you were bad from the start but I dove in anyway.
5. You were not as smart as I am and I respected you less because of it.
6. No, it was not good for me too. I looked at my watch over your shoulder the whole time.
7. I think you're stupid for letting him back into your life over and over and over.
8. We get along OK but really I think you're a creepy serial killer who probably has people buried under your house.
9. I don't read your blog because I'm seething with jealousy over your fan base and the attention you receive.
10. I know you've had a hard time loving me but I've learned you did the best you could.
11. I hate you for what you did and I'll never forgive you.
12. You are certifiably ca-razy.
13. I know you only come to me when you need something.
14. I'll always regret not having the guts to kiss you when I had the chance.
15. I. See. Right. Through. You.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Cooperation Please!
Today is my baby's birthday and it would be aces if anyone and everyone who cruises past my blog (all 3 of you) would go over to his and give him some good wishes and internet lovin'. He's the most super awesome person (even if he does leaves the fucking lights on all over the house) and he deserves an awesome birthday. So indulge me, please! Thanks!
LOVE YOU, BABE!!
LOVE YOU, BABE!!
Friday, June 16, 2006
Another One of My Very Good Ideas (patent pending)
I think all cars should come with a choice of horn honks. No, not the kind like the AAAOOOOOGAH crap that old men with handle bar mustaches dyed black as shoe polish put in their souped up "jalopies" that they drive in the Fourth of July parade while they toss the cheap Brach's candy at kids with painted faces and secretly ogle teenage girls boobs. I'm talking about a noticeable difference in pitch and tone and sound that will convey a clear and definite message to the asshole, I mean, driver you wish to communicate with.
Something like a friendly little beep beep that emits the auditory equivalent of Snow White singing her gentle song to the sparrows in the forest while smiling down on Bambi who's lovingly licking the forehead of Thumper and yes I know I'm cross-pollinating Disney epics here but stick with me. A sweet wee announcement made without causing anyone's heart to stop, anger to flare or handgun to be retrieved from the glove compartment to make the person in front of you aware that:
beep beep. The (fucking) light turned green like beep 10 seconds ago could you please (fucking) beep go now? Thanks!
And then there's also the need for a medium-level honk when you have to get a little more forceful in a situation that calls for something akin to asserting your rights without getting into a knock-down-drag-out like when stop for gas and go buy some water or whatever and the freak behind the counter keeps trying to talk you into a cookie and you don't want a cookie because you have raging fucking PMS and the current craving of the moment is for salt so you have to get a little forceful and raise your voice a little bit while still smiling so he'll fucking shut up about it and ring up your mini can of cheese pringles before you shove them up his grimy ass.
Hoooonk, hey buddy, you're gettin' a little close there hooonk get back over in your fucking hoooonk lane don't make me hoooonk come over there. Thanks!
And clearly we need a signal bigger and badder than regular cars have now for those times when a grievous injustice has been served upon you and the gloves are off baby I'll take you down, down to China town like when your less than three-year-old gas water heater inexplicably dies on a Friday night and the bitch who's so fucking lucky is not within reaching distance that you get on the phone to ask about the warranty keeps telling you that it's your responsibility to take the damn thing apart and check for dust bunnies before she'll give you the info when there's no way you're ever touching a gas appliance and she is so fucking snotty that you finally scream EAT SHIT into the phone and hang up.
BLAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP HOLY CHRIST DAMN YOU FOR TURNING RIGHT FUCKING IN FRONT OF ME WHEN I HAD THE BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GREEN FUCKING LIGHT AND PROCEEDING TO GO BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP 10 MILES A FUCKING HOUR YOU ALMOST KILLED ME YOU BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP FUCKING MOUTH BREATHING MORON YOU SHOULD HAVE YOUR BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GENITALS REMOVED AND GROUND INTO A FINE POWDER TO ENSURE YOU'LL NEVER BLAAAAAAAPPPPP BREED AGAIN YOU WALKING TALKING SHIT STAIN. THANKS!!
Anyone have Honda's phone number? I think this could work.
Something like a friendly little beep beep that emits the auditory equivalent of Snow White singing her gentle song to the sparrows in the forest while smiling down on Bambi who's lovingly licking the forehead of Thumper and yes I know I'm cross-pollinating Disney epics here but stick with me. A sweet wee announcement made without causing anyone's heart to stop, anger to flare or handgun to be retrieved from the glove compartment to make the person in front of you aware that:
beep beep. The (fucking) light turned green like beep 10 seconds ago could you please (fucking) beep go now? Thanks!
And then there's also the need for a medium-level honk when you have to get a little more forceful in a situation that calls for something akin to asserting your rights without getting into a knock-down-drag-out like when stop for gas and go buy some water or whatever and the freak behind the counter keeps trying to talk you into a cookie and you don't want a cookie because you have raging fucking PMS and the current craving of the moment is for salt so you have to get a little forceful and raise your voice a little bit while still smiling so he'll fucking shut up about it and ring up your mini can of cheese pringles before you shove them up his grimy ass.
Hoooonk, hey buddy, you're gettin' a little close there hooonk get back over in your fucking hoooonk lane don't make me hoooonk come over there. Thanks!
And clearly we need a signal bigger and badder than regular cars have now for those times when a grievous injustice has been served upon you and the gloves are off baby I'll take you down, down to China town like when your less than three-year-old gas water heater inexplicably dies on a Friday night and the bitch who's so fucking lucky is not within reaching distance that you get on the phone to ask about the warranty keeps telling you that it's your responsibility to take the damn thing apart and check for dust bunnies before she'll give you the info when there's no way you're ever touching a gas appliance and she is so fucking snotty that you finally scream EAT SHIT into the phone and hang up.
BLAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP HOLY CHRIST DAMN YOU FOR TURNING RIGHT FUCKING IN FRONT OF ME WHEN I HAD THE BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GREEN FUCKING LIGHT AND PROCEEDING TO GO BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP 10 MILES A FUCKING HOUR YOU ALMOST KILLED ME YOU BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP FUCKING MOUTH BREATHING MORON YOU SHOULD HAVE YOUR BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GENITALS REMOVED AND GROUND INTO A FINE POWDER TO ENSURE YOU'LL NEVER BLAAAAAAAPPPPP BREED AGAIN YOU WALKING TALKING SHIT STAIN. THANKS!!
Anyone have Honda's phone number? I think this could work.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Rest in peace, P
She passed away last week...
It's amazing how 5 little words can shake your foundation like a 7.2 quake and when you live in tremor-land you know how earth shattering that can be. Leaving jittery knees, a deep frown and an instant plunge down memory lane while it shoves the mirror of your own life right into your face for a good, hard look.
I'd only been at work for a short time this morning when I saw the little yellow envelope alerting me to a new message. I'd just cleared out my inbox and was curious and excited since I don't get many e-mails any more, (you'd think that would be a good thing but fuckshit I'm bored.) My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the name, an old friend and co-worker I'd lost touch with and carried just a bit of animosity for since she was one that actually got pissed at me for getting cancer. Yes, I know that sounds retarded but it's true. Well, she might not have been pissed at me for getting sick but she railed my ass for how I told her and I was equally pissed at that reaction and we haven't talked since but I'm getting off track.
I was trepidatious to open the e-mail since I had no idea what it might say, and since I talked a little shit about her a few weeks ago to another mutual friend I was anticipitating a potential thrashing but so be it. What I read couldn't have been farther from what I thought it was going to be.
And there were those 5 little words.
She passed away last week. My breath got caught in my chest and I had to read it again. Then again. Then once again. But this can't be right. She wasn't that old, maybe late fifties, younger than my own mother for sure, and one of the orneriest bitches I've ever known. Surely I'd read something wrong. If only that were true.
She was not only the kick-ass mom of some high-school friends I was pretty damn tight with for a few years but she was the woman responsible for taking me out of retail hell when the lame, fake marketing company I had been working for went belly-up and didn't pay me my last months wages. She saw me working a counter at Nordstrom, stomped across the carpet right over to me and shoved her business card in my hand while saying "What the hell are you doing? We need to get your ass out of here, now!" She hired me the next week.
In my shock I managed to pick up the phone and call another old co-worker to get the details. A massive stroke. She made it about a week then her body couldn't hold on any longer. She'd never really taken care of her health and had been battling a host of problems in the last few years and this is why she didn't make it. Needless to say, that fact has scared the shit out of me today.
For those of us left to mourn, we find solace in the fact that she died with her family around her. Unfortnately it was the same day as her only grand-baby's first birthday but we all agree she'd want it that way so no one ever fucking forgets her. She was never one to pass an opportunity to be the center of attention and I know she's laughing over that karmic joke.
I have a lot of mixed feelings about this today because to be brutally honest, she was fucking mean. She was one of the most nasty people I've ever known. I worked with her for almost 8 years and saw her routinely scare the piss out of people for the fun of it. She was so passive aggressive she used to walk up to me, size up my outfit and say something like, "Wow, Betty, it's amazing how you can look so good in such an ugly color."
I used to say her heart was made of a small lump of coal but you know what? That lump had a diamond in the middle of it and she'd be the first one to tell you the karat weight. She was smart, really smart, and dealt with a Mt. Everest pile of shit in her life and never, EVER let anyone see her sweat. She worked for a mother fucker for years and made it work. She would eat glass before she'd let you see a tear roll down her face. I admire that. I really fucking admire that. I wish I was like that.
She intimidated the hell out of people and pushed you to grow a thicker skin. She wanted you to show your strengths and not your weaknesses, she just made you bleed a little first. She'd also listen to you and hug you when you cried and laugh so loud it would rattle your brain and if you were lucky she'd throw you a compliment and you knew she meant it. She was honest to a fault and took life by the balls.
I believe some people come in and out of your life for a reason. We can't possibly remember everyone but some make an idelible mark. She was one of those people. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be where I am today, wherever that is, or have the career I have, as much as I hate it, but the roads I've traveled have led me here and this is where I'm supposed to be. I learned a lot from her and I hope my crappy memory doesn't fail me so I can reminisce all of the good times in the 20 + years I've known this incredible lady.
She was only 61. She was too young to die. She was a character and a half. And I'll miss her.
It's amazing how 5 little words can shake your foundation like a 7.2 quake and when you live in tremor-land you know how earth shattering that can be. Leaving jittery knees, a deep frown and an instant plunge down memory lane while it shoves the mirror of your own life right into your face for a good, hard look.
I'd only been at work for a short time this morning when I saw the little yellow envelope alerting me to a new message. I'd just cleared out my inbox and was curious and excited since I don't get many e-mails any more, (you'd think that would be a good thing but fuckshit I'm bored.) My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the name, an old friend and co-worker I'd lost touch with and carried just a bit of animosity for since she was one that actually got pissed at me for getting cancer. Yes, I know that sounds retarded but it's true. Well, she might not have been pissed at me for getting sick but she railed my ass for how I told her and I was equally pissed at that reaction and we haven't talked since but I'm getting off track.
I was trepidatious to open the e-mail since I had no idea what it might say, and since I talked a little shit about her a few weeks ago to another mutual friend I was anticipitating a potential thrashing but so be it. What I read couldn't have been farther from what I thought it was going to be.
And there were those 5 little words.
She passed away last week. My breath got caught in my chest and I had to read it again. Then again. Then once again. But this can't be right. She wasn't that old, maybe late fifties, younger than my own mother for sure, and one of the orneriest bitches I've ever known. Surely I'd read something wrong. If only that were true.
She was not only the kick-ass mom of some high-school friends I was pretty damn tight with for a few years but she was the woman responsible for taking me out of retail hell when the lame, fake marketing company I had been working for went belly-up and didn't pay me my last months wages. She saw me working a counter at Nordstrom, stomped across the carpet right over to me and shoved her business card in my hand while saying "What the hell are you doing? We need to get your ass out of here, now!" She hired me the next week.
In my shock I managed to pick up the phone and call another old co-worker to get the details. A massive stroke. She made it about a week then her body couldn't hold on any longer. She'd never really taken care of her health and had been battling a host of problems in the last few years and this is why she didn't make it. Needless to say, that fact has scared the shit out of me today.
For those of us left to mourn, we find solace in the fact that she died with her family around her. Unfortnately it was the same day as her only grand-baby's first birthday but we all agree she'd want it that way so no one ever fucking forgets her. She was never one to pass an opportunity to be the center of attention and I know she's laughing over that karmic joke.
I have a lot of mixed feelings about this today because to be brutally honest, she was fucking mean. She was one of the most nasty people I've ever known. I worked with her for almost 8 years and saw her routinely scare the piss out of people for the fun of it. She was so passive aggressive she used to walk up to me, size up my outfit and say something like, "Wow, Betty, it's amazing how you can look so good in such an ugly color."
I used to say her heart was made of a small lump of coal but you know what? That lump had a diamond in the middle of it and she'd be the first one to tell you the karat weight. She was smart, really smart, and dealt with a Mt. Everest pile of shit in her life and never, EVER let anyone see her sweat. She worked for a mother fucker for years and made it work. She would eat glass before she'd let you see a tear roll down her face. I admire that. I really fucking admire that. I wish I was like that.
She intimidated the hell out of people and pushed you to grow a thicker skin. She wanted you to show your strengths and not your weaknesses, she just made you bleed a little first. She'd also listen to you and hug you when you cried and laugh so loud it would rattle your brain and if you were lucky she'd throw you a compliment and you knew she meant it. She was honest to a fault and took life by the balls.
I believe some people come in and out of your life for a reason. We can't possibly remember everyone but some make an idelible mark. She was one of those people. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be where I am today, wherever that is, or have the career I have, as much as I hate it, but the roads I've traveled have led me here and this is where I'm supposed to be. I learned a lot from her and I hope my crappy memory doesn't fail me so I can reminisce all of the good times in the 20 + years I've known this incredible lady.
She was only 61. She was too young to die. She was a character and a half. And I'll miss her.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Holy Crap!!
Is it June already? Seriously. JUNE? As in, almost half-way through the year? The start of yet another summer where I will swelter and swear and swoon in the sun, and fuck, I haven't even written my New Year's resolutions yet.
And don't you just hate it when people are all like, oh my stars, is it really ~insert random date and/or holiday~and you're all, yes, dumbass, it is, time marches on you know, the calender doesn't wait for you so stop living with your head up your ass and pay attention!
Unless of course I say it then you must nod in agreeance and say, yes, yes Betty, it's unbelievable that it's already June. I hadn't even thought about it until you, in your brilliant wisdom, pointed it out. Thank you for making me realize that I've been living in a fog of my own retardation. You are smart and pretty.
And speaking of foggy retardation...
I've had severe writers block lately. And conversation block. And now that I mention it, my shitter ain't workin' neither. But then it never does. I can't even tell you how annoying it is when your entire lower half has a mind of it's own and a devilish sense of humor. Hmm, today you have 3.2 seconds to get to the bathroom! HA HA, almost didn't make it, did ya? Tomorrow you'll take a seat in el baño with cramping and pain but nothing will happen! Nyah nyah, gotcha! And I even ate that salad that one day so there was fiber! WTF?
I could say that I don't really know what's going on, but I do. Unfortunately I know exactly what I'm doing, or rather, not doing. I'm in EXIST mode. I'm not necessarily depressed, at least I don't feel depressed, but I don't want to do, well, anything. I'm still super bored at work and feeling like I'm contributing jackdiddlydoodleshit to the universe, still hating my commute and not enjoying my passive-aggresive beasts from beyond co-workers, but hell, you can pay me XX a year to play 10 games of spider solitaire every day and surf the net.
Or is it really a bad thing? Am I making things worse by staying here? And I'm not moving forward because it's comfortable? Fuck. I don't know.
I don't feel like writing or reading much or stepping foot out of the house. I'd rather lay in bed all day and flip through 275 channels of crap and snuggle with Boo when she's not crabbing at me to leave her the fuck alone. I'm just friggen tired and never feel good. Ever.
I don't want to think about dishes or laundry or paying bills, which I don't do until the thumb breakers call me and say, would you like to give us some money or would you prefer to cook your dinner by butane torch? I drove past my chiropractors office the other day, skipping my appointment, and didn't even care. And I don't want to make the hundredjillion doctors appointments I should be making.
I have a lot of interests and ideas and pontential goals, but I've stepped into quicksand and simply shrugged my shoulders about it. And this is all not fair to anyone, especially the love of my life who deserves more than a chronically migrainy ailing sloth in yoga pants who doesn't have the energy or will to warm her cooked the night before scrambled eggs with spinach and onions in the microwave and eats them cold and dewey with a dirty spoon from the bottom of her desk drawer.
I've always been high on wants and low on motivation, but this is rigoddamndiculous. I'm not the kind of person who should take it easy. Cruising through life for me means wasting oodles of time doing nothing, and that's where I am right now. I know that I could never work full-time at home because if that was the case I wouldn't even shower every day and most likely spend the majority of the day napping and whacking off and those are things you're only supposed to do on Sunday.
It's important to have goals. To think about them then set them then strive for them and one day achieve them. Shit, they taught us that in fucking first grade, you'd think by now I would have believed it, because if you don't, then you become complacent and apathetic and LAZY. Just like me. And dammit, now I'm kinda depressed!!
___________________________________________________
On a lighter note. I'm obsessed with The Dog Whisperer. I'm talking stalker-level unhealthy I want to be him for Halloween please don't shoot me if I show up at your front door obsessed. He's a genius, has some questionable taste in shirts, but a GENIUS. He can fix any dog with any problem 99% of the time by taking it for a walk. A walk! That's it? Yes! A walk.
It doesn't matter if the dog is a killer pitbull who ate your great grandmother last Thanksgiving or a chihuahua that humps your dress shoes. A walk is the cure. Got a mutt who's afraid of it's own shadow? Take it for a walk. Does your poodle piddle? Get the leash.
It really is amazing how he can teach people to fix unwanted and super f-d up behaviors in such a short time and with what ends up being simple techniques. And it's equally amazing how many dog owners don't know fuckshit about dogs or how to treat them. I'd rather these people have another screaming child the world has to endure than someone who's ruined an innocent puppy by letting it lick their ballsac because they think it's cute.
It would change my life forever if I could do what he does, train dogs and rehabilitate people. I'd be an awesome pack leeeeeder. But that would take effort and we all know I'm a quart and a half low on that.
Maybe I need to go for a walk.
And don't you just hate it when people are all like, oh my stars, is it really ~insert random date and/or holiday~
Unless of course I say it then you must nod in agreeance and say, yes, yes Betty, it's unbelievable that it's already June. I hadn't even thought about it until you, in your brilliant wisdom, pointed it out. Thank you for making me realize that I've been living in a fog of my own retardation. You are smart and pretty.
And speaking of foggy retardation...
I've had severe writers block lately. And conversation block. And now that I mention it, my shitter ain't workin' neither. But then it never does. I can't even tell you how annoying it is when your entire lower half has a mind of it's own and a devilish sense of humor. Hmm, today you have 3.2 seconds to get to the bathroom! HA HA, almost didn't make it, did ya? Tomorrow you'll take a seat in el baño with cramping and pain but nothing will happen! Nyah nyah, gotcha! And I even ate that salad that one day so there was fiber! WTF?
I could say that I don't really know what's going on, but I do. Unfortunately I know exactly what I'm doing, or rather, not doing. I'm in EXIST mode. I'm not necessarily depressed, at least I don't feel depressed, but I don't want to do, well, anything. I'm still super bored at work and feeling like I'm contributing jackdiddlydoodleshit to the universe, still hating my commute and not enjoying my passive-aggresive beasts from beyond co-workers, but hell, you can pay me XX a year to play 10 games of spider solitaire every day and surf the net.
Or is it really a bad thing? Am I making things worse by staying here? And I'm not moving forward because it's comfortable? Fuck. I don't know.
I don't feel like writing or reading much or stepping foot out of the house. I'd rather lay in bed all day and flip through 275 channels of crap and snuggle with Boo when she's not crabbing at me to leave her the fuck alone. I'm just friggen tired and never feel good. Ever.
I don't want to think about dishes or laundry or paying bills, which I don't do until the thumb breakers call me and say, would you like to give us some money or would you prefer to cook your dinner by butane torch? I drove past my chiropractors office the other day, skipping my appointment, and didn't even care. And I don't want to make the hundredjillion doctors appointments I should be making.
I have a lot of interests and ideas and pontential goals, but I've stepped into quicksand and simply shrugged my shoulders about it. And this is all not fair to anyone, especially the love of my life who deserves more than a chronically migrainy ailing sloth in yoga pants who doesn't have the energy or will to warm her cooked the night before scrambled eggs with spinach and onions in the microwave and eats them cold and dewey with a dirty spoon from the bottom of her desk drawer.
I've always been high on wants and low on motivation, but this is rigoddamndiculous. I'm not the kind of person who should take it easy. Cruising through life for me means wasting oodles of time doing nothing, and that's where I am right now. I know that I could never work full-time at home because if that was the case I wouldn't even shower every day and most likely spend the majority of the day napping and whacking off and those are things you're only supposed to do on Sunday.
It's important to have goals. To think about them then set them then strive for them and one day achieve them. Shit, they taught us that in fucking first grade, you'd think by now I would have believed it, because if you don't, then you become complacent and apathetic and LAZY. Just like me. And dammit, now I'm kinda depressed!!
___________________________________________________
On a lighter note. I'm obsessed with The Dog Whisperer. I'm talking stalker-level unhealthy I want to be him for Halloween please don't shoot me if I show up at your front door obsessed. He's a genius, has some questionable taste in shirts, but a GENIUS. He can fix any dog with any problem 99% of the time by taking it for a walk. A walk! That's it? Yes! A walk.
It doesn't matter if the dog is a killer pitbull who ate your great grandmother last Thanksgiving or a chihuahua that humps your dress shoes. A walk is the cure. Got a mutt who's afraid of it's own shadow? Take it for a walk. Does your poodle piddle? Get the leash.
It really is amazing how he can teach people to fix unwanted and super f-d up behaviors in such a short time and with what ends up being simple techniques. And it's equally amazing how many dog owners don't know fuckshit about dogs or how to treat them. I'd rather these people have another screaming child the world has to endure than someone who's ruined an innocent puppy by letting it lick their ballsac because they think it's cute.
It would change my life forever if I could do what he does, train dogs and rehabilitate people. I'd be an awesome pack leeeeeder. But that would take effort and we all know I'm a quart and a half low on that.
Maybe I need to go for a walk.
Friday, May 12, 2006
What a week, what a world
Things I have learned in the last week:
1. People are assholes.
2: Cats can puke a lot.
3. People are assholes.
4. People are dumb.
5. My boyfriend is awesome.
6. People are assholes.
OK, so I already knew all of that stuff but Jesus fuck, why must I be reminded in such technicolor fucking brilliance?
The women who's supposed to be training/giving me all of her work because she has new duties and responsibilities is a beast. A downright snarling stinking passive-aggressive dyke haircut but she's not a lesbian that shouldn't be allowed Hawaiian shirt wearing unpleasant to be around beast. And I found out she's been holding out on me but won't tell me why. So for the last 2 months I've been stretching out a whole fucking week with about 4 hours of real work to do and trying to keep myself from jamming a mechanical pencil into my fucking skull when all along she had a shitload of stuff to give me but didn't. Bitch.
Oi with the puking! It's like that pie-eating contest scene from Stand By Me. Every. Goddamn. Day. Sometimes more than once. Both of them. Oi!
I got a letter from the accounting firm that used to do my taxes that they'd filed an extension for me. Exsqueeze me? I already did my taxes this year all by myself thankyouverymuch! Why didn't anyone fucking call me before doing that? So, I called them. And I hardly yelled at all. And the asshole got mad at me for not being appreciative of their favor. Um, hello, dickwad. Filing an extension when I didn't need one, not consulting your client, and setting me up for a possible audit and definate charges from the IRS is NOT A FUCKING FAVOR. Asshole.
The internet and all the freaks on it. Need I say more. No. I didn't think so.
I was home sick yesterday because Boo and I had a really bad night and didn't sleep what with the puking and hot flashes and crawling over my face 100 billion times. I felt like broiled crap and needed a day in bed. Then my tummy got wonky and I e-mailed whitey to please bring me home some crackers and diet Sprite and maybe some chocolate chip cookies too. Which he did. And he even remembered everything and got all the brands right. I loves him.
You just can't go anywhere, talk to anyone, deal with anything, without encountering surly fuckers. Try to shop at the mall, teenage surly fuckers. Try to drive on the freeway, entitled surly fuckers. Call your cable company that fucked up the billing and you ended paying them twice, and a hefty $150 sum at that, bitchy surly fuckers. It all gets so damn tiring. Customer Service departments should be renamed Surly Fuckers. And I still don't have my credit! Fuckers.
____________________________________________________________
In other news, I'm still doing research on moving somewhere in the great Northwest but not putting all my brain power into it since I'm not doing anything with Boo in this limbo state of health. Therefore the panic attacks have decreased which I'm not sure is a good or bad sign because I know something must be done but will I ever have the balls to do it. Meh.
We went to the Del Mar Grand Prix last weekend (which is a horse jumping show for all you people popping a boner over the thought of cars whizzing around a track because, hell,
I don't think so, or for anyone scratching their head saying huh?) It was just an OK night for me but whitey had a great time. The competition itself was sort of dull with no one doing a clean round and some of the crashes were horribly spectacular. A horse actually went down then ran off limping which was one of the most awful things I've ever seen. The rider was better off than his mount and I hope they're alright. And I only spent $80 on stupid shit I won't use which is way better than the $150 I laid down last year.
____________________________________________________________
Conversation watching TV:
him: Man, that Michael Douglas sure is creepy.
me: Yea, he's the kind of guy who'd stick his finger up your ass without even asking.
1. People are assholes.
2: Cats can puke a lot.
3. People are assholes.
4. People are dumb.
5. My boyfriend is awesome.
6. People are assholes.
OK, so I already knew all of that stuff but Jesus fuck, why must I be reminded in such technicolor fucking brilliance?
The women who's supposed to be training/giving me all of her work because she has new duties and responsibilities is a beast. A downright snarling stinking passive-aggressive dyke haircut but she's not a lesbian that shouldn't be allowed Hawaiian shirt wearing unpleasant to be around beast. And I found out she's been holding out on me but won't tell me why. So for the last 2 months I've been stretching out a whole fucking week with about 4 hours of real work to do and trying to keep myself from jamming a mechanical pencil into my fucking skull when all along she had a shitload of stuff to give me but didn't. Bitch.
Oi with the puking! It's like that pie-eating contest scene from Stand By Me. Every. Goddamn. Day. Sometimes more than once. Both of them. Oi!
I got a letter from the accounting firm that used to do my taxes that they'd filed an extension for me. Exsqueeze me? I already did my taxes this year all by myself thankyouverymuch! Why didn't anyone fucking call me before doing that? So, I called them. And I hardly yelled at all. And the asshole got mad at me for not being appreciative of their favor. Um, hello, dickwad. Filing an extension when I didn't need one, not consulting your client, and setting me up for a possible audit and definate charges from the IRS is NOT A FUCKING FAVOR. Asshole.
The internet and all the freaks on it. Need I say more. No. I didn't think so.
I was home sick yesterday because Boo and I had a really bad night and didn't sleep what with the puking and hot flashes and crawling over my face 100 billion times. I felt like broiled crap and needed a day in bed. Then my tummy got wonky and I e-mailed whitey to please bring me home some crackers and diet Sprite and maybe some chocolate chip cookies too. Which he did. And he even remembered everything and got all the brands right. I loves him.
You just can't go anywhere, talk to anyone, deal with anything, without encountering surly fuckers. Try to shop at the mall, teenage surly fuckers. Try to drive on the freeway, entitled surly fuckers. Call your cable company that fucked up the billing and you ended paying them twice, and a hefty $150 sum at that, bitchy surly fuckers. It all gets so damn tiring. Customer Service departments should be renamed Surly Fuckers. And I still don't have my credit! Fuckers.
____________________________________________________________
In other news, I'm still doing research on moving somewhere in the great Northwest but not putting all my brain power into it since I'm not doing anything with Boo in this limbo state of health. Therefore the panic attacks have decreased which I'm not sure is a good or bad sign because I know something must be done but will I ever have the balls to do it. Meh.
We went to the Del Mar Grand Prix last weekend (which is a horse jumping show for all you people popping a boner over the thought of cars whizzing around a track because, hell,
I don't think so, or for anyone scratching their head saying huh?) It was just an OK night for me but whitey had a great time. The competition itself was sort of dull with no one doing a clean round and some of the crashes were horribly spectacular. A horse actually went down then ran off limping which was one of the most awful things I've ever seen. The rider was better off than his mount and I hope they're alright. And I only spent $80 on stupid shit I won't use which is way better than the $150 I laid down last year.
____________________________________________________________
Conversation watching TV:
him: Man, that Michael Douglas sure is creepy.
me: Yea, he's the kind of guy who'd stick his finger up your ass without even asking.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Reason number four million and two why I'm crazy
I'm thinking of selling my house and moving to another state.
It's giving me panic attacks and stomach distress.
Gah.
It's giving me panic attacks and stomach distress.
Gah.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
My sweet girl
Well. It's official. She's blind.
My little sweet girl Boo can't see a damn thing. Despite everyone's efforts. Despite all the vet visits and the money (over 2 1/2 K) and the drugs. Despite the promise this wouldn't happen. She went blind anyway. She wasn't cured. She'll never recover.
Some days it breaks my heart and makes me cry. Some days I'm overcome with guilt that maybe I didn't do everything I could have. Some days I feel so sorry for her it makes me ache.
She's so sweet and such a weird, funny kitty. The one who used to play fetch like a dog and act like she was a junkie and I was cutting her nice big fat line whenever she heard paper crunching. The one who'd steal my water bottle caps and flick them under the dresser. But she can't do those things anymore because she can't see.
But most of the time I appreciate every single extra second I get to spend with my Boogaloo because the vet says we're in "support mode" and I need to keep her comfortable and as happy as possible and that's just what I'm going to do. I'm going to give her as much love and attention she'll let me give.
She gets around pretty darn good since her world went to black last month and we try not to move stuff around so she doesn't konk her cute pink nose too many times. She still purrs like a motor boat, which is odd since she didn't do that very much before she got sick last August, and she tolerates the moments I get mischievous and put something on her head and call it her lovely new hat.
I feed her as many treats as she wants and lift her onto the sink to drink out of the tap. I don't mind (so much) when she crawls on top of me and just has to sleep somewhere on my person starting at 5:00 a.m. every morning. I'm even letting her slink around outside on the patio since that's her new obsession. And I respect her when she just can't take one more squeeze from her mama and gives me her annoyed meow that says "jesus h, get off of me already".
I'm convinced that the universe sends me special animals. I've never sought out any pet I've ever had, they've somehow fallen into my life and taught me so much, shown me so much love, and been pretty high fricken maintenance. But the universe knows I'll take care of the ones other people wouldn't and I'm grateful every damn time.
So, even though my heart will eventually suffer, I'll make sure my Boo Kitty won't.
My little sweet girl Boo can't see a damn thing. Despite everyone's efforts. Despite all the vet visits and the money (over 2 1/2 K) and the drugs. Despite the promise this wouldn't happen. She went blind anyway. She wasn't cured. She'll never recover.
Some days it breaks my heart and makes me cry. Some days I'm overcome with guilt that maybe I didn't do everything I could have. Some days I feel so sorry for her it makes me ache.
She's so sweet and such a weird, funny kitty. The one who used to play fetch like a dog and act like she was a junkie and I was cutting her nice big fat line whenever she heard paper crunching. The one who'd steal my water bottle caps and flick them under the dresser. But she can't do those things anymore because she can't see.
But most of the time I appreciate every single extra second I get to spend with my Boogaloo because the vet says we're in "support mode" and I need to keep her comfortable and as happy as possible and that's just what I'm going to do. I'm going to give her as much love and attention she'll let me give.
She gets around pretty darn good since her world went to black last month and we try not to move stuff around so she doesn't konk her cute pink nose too many times. She still purrs like a motor boat, which is odd since she didn't do that very much before she got sick last August, and she tolerates the moments I get mischievous and put something on her head and call it her lovely new hat.
I feed her as many treats as she wants and lift her onto the sink to drink out of the tap. I don't mind (so much) when she crawls on top of me and just has to sleep somewhere on my person starting at 5:00 a.m. every morning. I'm even letting her slink around outside on the patio since that's her new obsession. And I respect her when she just can't take one more squeeze from her mama and gives me her annoyed meow that says "jesus h, get off of me already".
I'm convinced that the universe sends me special animals. I've never sought out any pet I've ever had, they've somehow fallen into my life and taught me so much, shown me so much love, and been pretty high fricken maintenance. But the universe knows I'll take care of the ones other people wouldn't and I'm grateful every damn time.
So, even though my heart will eventually suffer, I'll make sure my Boo Kitty won't.
Monday, April 24, 2006
I don't need no stinkin' title
Last week I was hit with yet another Hormone Storm that rendered me occasionally violent and more than occasionally panic-stricken and anywhere from slightly tearing with little hot water droplets that just sat on my eyelashes to openly weeping with the slobbering and the snorting. It was particularly bad. (Hint - do not watch Animals Cops when hormonal.)
Since I've changed jobs within my company and went from a hateful stressed-out crazy freak lethargic sloth to a bored comatose unmotivated jaded lethargic sloth it's been one extreme to another. Either way getting hit with a PMS Patriot Missile left me just the slightest bit INSANE. Which in turn magnified the self-imposed and circumstantial crap I'm dealing with and man, was I cranky.
There was one day that I had a five minute bout of the worst depression I've ever felt. Thank Jebus that one didn't last long. And it hasn't totally gone away but at least today I don't feel like running down a couple of nuns leading a kindergarten class across the street. (100 points!)Since I'm all blah and shit and NONE of you fellow BLOGGERS ever fucking E-MAIL me or TAG me with FUN shit, I done went and STOLE some meme thing or whatever the fuck THOSE things are but they look fun so POO ON YOU FOR NOT INCLUDING ME EVER.
~flips off internet~
6 weird facts/things/habits about myself.
(Just so you know, this was incredibly hard to write since I'm SO normal and shit.)
1. I go out of my way to step on dried leaves and pieces of bark so it'll make that crunch sound sometimes having to change course or take a really long step to reach a leaf that's not in my exact path and then I look like Lurch walking down the street taking a retarded stride. But only with shoes on because I'd rather live in a house with floors made of dog shit and cat puke than walk barefoot outside. (Sadly, the cat puke part is already there.)
2. When I don't have shoes on I sit with my toes curled under my feet. I've been known to sit like this for so long my feet get all cramped and stuck like that and I can't walk until the blood flows back in. Teachers used to cruise by me in class and point it out to everyone, which was SO fun, lemme tell ya. (Fuck you, Mr. Bailey.)
3. I only like to eat things in really small bites. I will cut a chicken breast into baby-sized pieces. I will never bite into a whole candybar, it has to be chopped up or preferably mini's or those Popables. If I could have every meal consisting of appetizer-like food I'd be happy. (Not all of the fried crap but bite-sized finger food with ranch dressing. Everything is better with ranch dressing.)
4. When I pet an animal I clench my teeth so hard it hurts. I've done this my whole dang life and it annoys the shit out of me. I think it's some left-over thing I did as a kid, you know, when you see a little girl or boy over-loving a pet and they're all rough and crazy-eyed because they love it so much they have to show that love by scratching the animal down to its guts until it squirms out of their little death grip and runs away forever. Please note: I don't hurt them anymore but the clenching continues. (OK, that's a lie. Sometimes I still get a little too rough but only with Rascal Fat Cat Triple Scoop because she can take it).
5. I can't even think about what's clogging my drain without getting seriously, physically ill. Like on the verge of yacking, ill. The thought of a congealed mass of hair and sludge and spit and...OK, I can't go on. It's the hair part that does it. I can't stand it. I won't wash my hands in a sink at work if there's a hair in it. Those big, black, wet....oh man. My breakfast almost repeated. You get the drift. And this is all stupid because I have hair down to my waist. But once it's off your head it makes me sick. (I did recently have the clog un-clogged and I had to grab the plumber by the collar and shout in his face that I MUST NOT WITNESS THE CARNAGE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? I CANNOT SEE WHAT COMES OUT OF THERE. And he obliged and I think called me a crazy lady under his breath.)
6. I don't have a birthmark. Anywhere. I guess there was some purple thing on my knee that faded away when I was a couple of months old but there's no trace of it. I do have one knee that has a big round patch that stays white when I get out of a hot shower. The rest of me is bright pink except for that one spot, but it's the opposite knee that had the purple mark. (Or so my mother says and we all know she can't remember squat.)
Choosing 6 out of my arsenal of weirdness was hard. Maybe I could make this a weekly thing. Heh. And consider the first 6 people who read this TAGGED. YOU'RE. IT.
HA!
Since I've changed jobs within my company and went from a hateful stressed-out crazy freak lethargic sloth to a bored comatose unmotivated jaded lethargic sloth it's been one extreme to another. Either way getting hit with a PMS Patriot Missile left me just the slightest bit INSANE. Which in turn magnified the self-imposed and circumstantial crap I'm dealing with and man, was I cranky.
There was one day that I had a five minute bout of the worst depression I've ever felt. Thank Jebus that one didn't last long. And it hasn't totally gone away but at least today I don't feel like running down a couple of nuns leading a kindergarten class across the street. (100 points!)Since I'm all blah and shit and NONE of you fellow BLOGGERS ever fucking E-MAIL me or TAG me with FUN shit, I done went and STOLE some meme thing or whatever the fuck THOSE things are but they look fun so POO ON YOU FOR NOT INCLUDING ME EVER.
~flips off internet~
6 weird facts/things/habits about myself.
(Just so you know, this was incredibly hard to write since I'm SO normal and shit.)
1. I go out of my way to step on dried leaves and pieces of bark so it'll make that crunch sound sometimes having to change course or take a really long step to reach a leaf that's not in my exact path and then I look like Lurch walking down the street taking a retarded stride. But only with shoes on because I'd rather live in a house with floors made of dog shit and cat puke than walk barefoot outside. (Sadly, the cat puke part is already there.)
2. When I don't have shoes on I sit with my toes curled under my feet. I've been known to sit like this for so long my feet get all cramped and stuck like that and I can't walk until the blood flows back in. Teachers used to cruise by me in class and point it out to everyone, which was SO fun, lemme tell ya. (Fuck you, Mr. Bailey.)
3. I only like to eat things in really small bites. I will cut a chicken breast into baby-sized pieces. I will never bite into a whole candybar, it has to be chopped up or preferably mini's or those Popables. If I could have every meal consisting of appetizer-like food I'd be happy. (Not all of the fried crap but bite-sized finger food with ranch dressing. Everything is better with ranch dressing.)
4. When I pet an animal I clench my teeth so hard it hurts. I've done this my whole dang life and it annoys the shit out of me. I think it's some left-over thing I did as a kid, you know, when you see a little girl or boy over-loving a pet and they're all rough and crazy-eyed because they love it so much they have to show that love by scratching the animal down to its guts until it squirms out of their little death grip and runs away forever. Please note: I don't hurt them anymore but the clenching continues. (OK, that's a lie. Sometimes I still get a little too rough but only with Rascal Fat Cat Triple Scoop because she can take it).
5. I can't even think about what's clogging my drain without getting seriously, physically ill. Like on the verge of yacking, ill. The thought of a congealed mass of hair and sludge and spit and...OK, I can't go on. It's the hair part that does it. I can't stand it. I won't wash my hands in a sink at work if there's a hair in it. Those big, black, wet....oh man. My breakfast almost repeated. You get the drift. And this is all stupid because I have hair down to my waist. But once it's off your head it makes me sick. (I did recently have the clog un-clogged and I had to grab the plumber by the collar and shout in his face that I MUST NOT WITNESS THE CARNAGE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? I CANNOT SEE WHAT COMES OUT OF THERE. And he obliged and I think called me a crazy lady under his breath.)
6. I don't have a birthmark. Anywhere. I guess there was some purple thing on my knee that faded away when I was a couple of months old but there's no trace of it. I do have one knee that has a big round patch that stays white when I get out of a hot shower. The rest of me is bright pink except for that one spot, but it's the opposite knee that had the purple mark. (Or so my mother says and we all know she can't remember squat.)
Choosing 6 out of my arsenal of weirdness was hard. Maybe I could make this a weekly thing. Heh. And consider the first 6 people who read this TAGGED. YOU'RE. IT.
HA!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Please pass the Pepto
I just had the grossest lunch.
A greasy sausage sandwich served in a dirty ashtray would have been better than what I just consumed. I knew I should have gone to McDonald's but I have zero willpower when it comes to the golden arches and don't look at me like that I like their Big Macs and you can't dispute their fries so shut up and even though they have salads who the fuck goes there to eat lettuce when they'll give you a teeny tiny mini soft-serve cone for like a quarter?
My company is very large and I work at the main "campus". I know. It makes me roll my eyes too. And since we have like a billion people working here they have a cafeteria in one of the buildings within walking distance. It's not so bad with it's salad and sandwich bar and fountain drinks and home-made cookies, but they also have different "stations" that serve menu items for the day. And this is where things start to go wrong.
When I first started working here the food was super mega kick ass. Panini's grilled between that wanna-be George Foreman thing that puts freeway lines in the bread and makes the edges of the cheese all crispy and yummy, fresh salads with Cajun crusted salmon and fish-n-chips reminiscent of Great Britain. But ever since this weird chick who wears the wiccan necklace on full display, I shit you not, took over it's all gone to hell.
The food has gotten progressively crappy. The prices suck. And they never have enough people working the cash registers during the lunch crunch. But I'm a little scared of the witch chick so I don't say anything. However, I now call it the crapateria in secret retaliation. Ha! But I might have to brave at least an anonymous suggestion today since I'm suffering a gastrointestinal unhappiness and I think I might barf. And it will be a truly technicolor yawn, let me tell you.
I walked over to get some food since I was suffering a few hunger pangs and the Starbucks scone I'd eaten earlier had burned through my system and left me a bit shaky. I knew I needed some protein and was going to try and ignore the burgers and fries they have on hand every day. (Last weekend there was an unfortunate toilet seat cracking incident at home that I will not go into because fuck, I cracked the fucking toilet seat. Who cracks a fucking toilet seat? Big fat fatty asses do that's who so the elliptical machine is on a UPS truck somewhere in Ohio today making it's way to my big fat toilet seat cracking ass. OK! OK. It was a cheap toilet seat anyway. Fuck.)
So, I walk in and the first station I see has what looks like a nice salad with fresh spinach and grilled chicken and stuff. I am known to eat a bit like a bachelor, standing in the kitchen with a fork spearing mini ravioli right out of the can, so a fresh salad is a huge departure. I balked a little at the price of $5.99 since jesus this isn't Chile's for chrissakes and you certainly do not get 6 dollars worth of food in the styrofoam container but whatever, I'll get it. Then I noticed all the crap in the little bins and thought, hmm, that's some strange ingredients but again, whatever, it'll be good for me so serve it up.
Boy do I regret that decision.
This stupid salad of shit contained the following:
Fresh spinach
grilled chicken
feta cheese
fried chinese noodles from a can
tomato chunks
cucumber
garbanzo beans
mushrooms
raspberry vinaigrette dressing
They forgot the meal worms and diarrhea.
This thing was so unappetizing I could only eat half of it. The feta turned purple from the dressing. The chicken tasted like it'd been soaked in a vat of salty brine with rotten garlic and plant filler and it didn't have the wiggly parts trimmed off so I'm pretty sure I chomped down on a chicken eyelid. The cucumbers were slimy. The tomatoes were crunchy. And the stale chinese noodles added a nice texture similar to broken glass. I declined the beans and mushrooms. Lord knows what symphony of suffering would have played out in my mouth if they were along for the ride.
And let me just say the snack bag of baked chedder and sour cream Ruffles didn't help matters a bit.
They're practically forcing me to cook for myself and I've been banned from the kitchen after the Cruton Incident of 2005. I mean really. This is not a college dorm here. Real live adults eat from that shitbox and I know my parents generation would appreciate broiled cow spleen with sautéed crab grass but all the people I know eat normal food without "creative" combinations and crap filler like that god damn red cabbage you find in everything now.
I expect a little bit more when I'm paying almost $10 a pop and not indigestion that causes me to mini-puke fetid frothy feta into my mouth for the next four fucking hours.
Now excuse me. I have to go settle my stomach with a bag of M-n-M's.
A greasy sausage sandwich served in a dirty ashtray would have been better than what I just consumed. I knew I should have gone to McDonald's but I have zero willpower when it comes to the golden arches and don't look at me like that I like their Big Macs and you can't dispute their fries so shut up and even though they have salads who the fuck goes there to eat lettuce when they'll give you a teeny tiny mini soft-serve cone for like a quarter?
My company is very large and I work at the main "campus". I know. It makes me roll my eyes too. And since we have like a billion people working here they have a cafeteria in one of the buildings within walking distance. It's not so bad with it's salad and sandwich bar and fountain drinks and home-made cookies, but they also have different "stations" that serve menu items for the day. And this is where things start to go wrong.
When I first started working here the food was super mega kick ass. Panini's grilled between that wanna-be George Foreman thing that puts freeway lines in the bread and makes the edges of the cheese all crispy and yummy, fresh salads with Cajun crusted salmon and fish-n-chips reminiscent of Great Britain. But ever since this weird chick who wears the wiccan necklace on full display, I shit you not, took over it's all gone to hell.
The food has gotten progressively crappy. The prices suck. And they never have enough people working the cash registers during the lunch crunch. But I'm a little scared of the witch chick so I don't say anything. However, I now call it the crapateria in secret retaliation. Ha! But I might have to brave at least an anonymous suggestion today since I'm suffering a gastrointestinal unhappiness and I think I might barf. And it will be a truly technicolor yawn, let me tell you.
I walked over to get some food since I was suffering a few hunger pangs and the Starbucks scone I'd eaten earlier had burned through my system and left me a bit shaky. I knew I needed some protein and was going to try and ignore the burgers and fries they have on hand every day. (Last weekend there was an unfortunate toilet seat cracking incident at home that I will not go into because fuck, I cracked the fucking toilet seat. Who cracks a fucking toilet seat? Big fat fatty asses do that's who so the elliptical machine is on a UPS truck somewhere in Ohio today making it's way to my big fat toilet seat cracking ass. OK! OK. It was a cheap toilet seat anyway. Fuck.)
So, I walk in and the first station I see has what looks like a nice salad with fresh spinach and grilled chicken and stuff. I am known to eat a bit like a bachelor, standing in the kitchen with a fork spearing mini ravioli right out of the can, so a fresh salad is a huge departure. I balked a little at the price of $5.99 since jesus this isn't Chile's for chrissakes and you certainly do not get 6 dollars worth of food in the styrofoam container but whatever, I'll get it. Then I noticed all the crap in the little bins and thought, hmm, that's some strange ingredients but again, whatever, it'll be good for me so serve it up.
Boy do I regret that decision.
This stupid salad of shit contained the following:
Fresh spinach
grilled chicken
feta cheese
fried chinese noodles from a can
tomato chunks
cucumber
garbanzo beans
mushrooms
raspberry vinaigrette dressing
They forgot the meal worms and diarrhea.
This thing was so unappetizing I could only eat half of it. The feta turned purple from the dressing. The chicken tasted like it'd been soaked in a vat of salty brine with rotten garlic and plant filler and it didn't have the wiggly parts trimmed off so I'm pretty sure I chomped down on a chicken eyelid. The cucumbers were slimy. The tomatoes were crunchy. And the stale chinese noodles added a nice texture similar to broken glass. I declined the beans and mushrooms. Lord knows what symphony of suffering would have played out in my mouth if they were along for the ride.
And let me just say the snack bag of baked chedder and sour cream Ruffles didn't help matters a bit.
They're practically forcing me to cook for myself and I've been banned from the kitchen after the Cruton Incident of 2005. I mean really. This is not a college dorm here. Real live adults eat from that shitbox and I know my parents generation would appreciate broiled cow spleen with sautéed crab grass but all the people I know eat normal food without "creative" combinations and crap filler like that god damn red cabbage you find in everything now.
I expect a little bit more when I'm paying almost $10 a pop and not indigestion that causes me to mini-puke fetid frothy feta into my mouth for the next four fucking hours.
Now excuse me. I have to go settle my stomach with a bag of M-n-M's.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Leave my eggs alone I don't care if it's Easter!
Dear Everyone Who Keeps Telling Me to Have Kids:
Listen, I know I'd be a good mother. I've got the chops and instinct to pay attention to the important stuff and ignore that stupid stuff and I get the whole they don't need a friend until they're 22 and you go on an Alaskan cruise as two care-free pals thing. I know I was a pre-school teacher and a damn good one at that and I learned a lot about little kids and what it takes to care for them but here's the thing. THEY'RE A PAIN IN THE ASS.
Kids stink. They stink bad. They have this funk that comes off of them like steam from a turd. They're weird. They have mush for brains and do dumb things like walk over to you and wipe dog slobber from their face all over your new shirt that you just fucking put on because they think it's funny but hell no it wasn't funny and now Auntie Betty is a bit miffed and yelled at you a little Merry Christmas.
They are demanding. My GOD are they demanding. Watch me, Mommy, watch me, watch me now, Mommy, MOMMMMMM-MMMMMYYYYYY WATCH ME WATCH WATCH ME DO WHAT I CAN DO. ~jump~ Well for chrissakes, that's what you wanted me to see? That's just super I'm so glad I ran out of the shower with shampoo in my hair for that. And the screaming. WTF is up with all the screaming? Decibels that would shatter glass! Hey, ya little smelly bullhorn, I'm right in front of you!! SHADDAP.
I do not have a ticking biological clock. I never have. I was a terrible babysitter. I ate all of your food and didn't care what your kids were doing with those knives and I went through all of your shit trying to find the porn. I do not have the patience to sit down on the floor and play vroom vroom cars for 18 hours. I do not want to rock you to sleep for 3 days straight while you howl in my ear. I do not want to clean 12,942 shitty diapers.
I am old. I am out of shape. I like my afternoon naps. I do not need to care for another living thing to show me how selfish I was or to give unconditional love to an entire human being I'm solely responsible for. I have a forgetful boyfriend, a blind cat and another one who pukes every god damn day to deal with. Holding a baby for 20 minutes does not make me ovulate. You know what it does? It makes my arms cramp.
If you have kids, if you always wanted them, if it's the best thing that ever happened to you. Great. I'm so glad you're having a ball. But friends and strangers alike, the next person to give me the reproduction lecture gets a boot in the box.
I give you one final warning. Stay out of my uterus. It's closed. Permanently.
Listen, I know I'd be a good mother. I've got the chops and instinct to pay attention to the important stuff and ignore that stupid stuff and I get the whole they don't need a friend until they're 22 and you go on an Alaskan cruise as two care-free pals thing. I know I was a pre-school teacher and a damn good one at that and I learned a lot about little kids and what it takes to care for them but here's the thing. THEY'RE A PAIN IN THE ASS.
Kids stink. They stink bad. They have this funk that comes off of them like steam from a turd. They're weird. They have mush for brains and do dumb things like walk over to you and wipe dog slobber from their face all over your new shirt that you just fucking put on because they think it's funny but hell no it wasn't funny and now Auntie Betty is a bit miffed and yelled at you a little Merry Christmas.
They are demanding. My GOD are they demanding. Watch me, Mommy, watch me, watch me now, Mommy, MOMMMMMM-MMMMMYYYYYY WATCH ME WATCH WATCH ME DO WHAT I CAN DO. ~jump~ Well for chrissakes, that's what you wanted me to see? That's just super I'm so glad I ran out of the shower with shampoo in my hair for that. And the screaming. WTF is up with all the screaming? Decibels that would shatter glass! Hey, ya little smelly bullhorn, I'm right in front of you!! SHADDAP.
I do not have a ticking biological clock. I never have. I was a terrible babysitter. I ate all of your food and didn't care what your kids were doing with those knives and I went through all of your shit trying to find the porn. I do not have the patience to sit down on the floor and play vroom vroom cars for 18 hours. I do not want to rock you to sleep for 3 days straight while you howl in my ear. I do not want to clean 12,942 shitty diapers.
I am old. I am out of shape. I like my afternoon naps. I do not need to care for another living thing to show me how selfish I was or to give unconditional love to an entire human being I'm solely responsible for. I have a forgetful boyfriend, a blind cat and another one who pukes every god damn day to deal with. Holding a baby for 20 minutes does not make me ovulate. You know what it does? It makes my arms cramp.
If you have kids, if you always wanted them, if it's the best thing that ever happened to you. Great. I'm so glad you're having a ball. But friends and strangers alike, the next person to give me the reproduction lecture gets a boot in the box.
I give you one final warning. Stay out of my uterus. It's closed. Permanently.
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