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!

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.

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.

Welcome to Spring

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was already bright and shining across the pale blue sky. The birds were chirping and the traffic was light. I was fairly well-rested and the office bitches at my doctor's appointment weren't too stupid. The fumbly fingered phlebotomist got blood on the first try. The meeting went well. I would only be 30 minutes late for work even after picking up some breakfast. I was calm and content.

I pulled up to a red light and stopped. Looking to my left I see a white-haired little grandma sitting on her apartment steps reading a magazine. A folded blanket under her for comfort and pink fuzzy slippers covering her old feet.

I think to myself, lady, put some friggen clothes on.

I immediately admonish my inner judgmental tone. I change my normal way of thinking and observe the positive. She's getting some fresh air. She's enjoying watching the cars go by. She's taking a moment in the sun.

I think to myself, jeez, I wouldn't leave the house with my hair looking like a pair of pigeons mated on top of my head all night.

No, no, no, that's not nice. She's old and possible infirm. It probably took her 10 minutes to get her rickety legs down those stairs.

I think to myself, for god's sake, you can see right through those pajama bottoms.

Now, now Betty! That could be your own mother in a few years. Take heart.

I smile again. She's probably a sweet old woman who would cook you homemade soup and give you change from the bottom of her purse. She most likely had a hard life and deserves her golden years spent in peace. She could have been a nun helping the poor and destitute living a demure and unselfish life.

Aww, she's getting up. Where is she going? You sweet old lady. She's walking to the edge of the grass. Maybe she sees something there. Like a baby rabbit or a squirrel or a little baby kitty she's going to rescue and name George and it will keep her company on those lonely nights and she will love it and it will love her. Sigh. Isn't that a nice thought. What o what could it be?

Then she leans over and out of her mouth drops a 4 pound chunk of spew that doesn't break until it's halfway to her knobby knees.

Nice.

Drive By Blogging

I’m sneaking a quick post on my lunch hour because no, there is not enough time on the weekends or after work during the week and I’m not lying whatsoever. And even if there was time I’m too tired, which isn’t a lie, and most of all I'm super lazy and yes, I left cat barf on the floor again this morning without picking it up because, sweet fancy Moses the cat barfing going on in our house.

So I survived my first week in my new position at my same company, hardly with the help of my old boss might I add, who decided to ditch our little chat we were supposed to have last Friday and a bunch of shit didn’t get wrapped up, my questions weren’t answered, and it caused me much stress and cursing every damn since my last over there and has totally impacted my new job too and jeez I can't stand that man he is totally useless and imcompetent but I won’t go into it so consider yourselves lucky!

You know how I was all excited about the new job? Yea, well, that excitement lasted all of about an hour when I realized that the chick who’s supposed to be “training” me, and I use that term with a hint of disdain, has planned on using me as her personal filing bitch and label-making whore.

I’d already accepted the fact that I was moving from a private office into cubicle world. Hey, I was getting more money and away from that toxic environment and shititude of my former boss. And who I am to be all scoffy with an up-turned nose at a cubicle. Am I better than the thousands upon thousands of people who also spend their days in a cube? Well, actually, yes. Yes I am.

You see, I’m a naturally loud person and my voice carries quite far without much effort from me. You need your friend’s attention across that crowded bar? I’ll yell their name. You need someone in a coma to wake up? I’m your girl. I’ve spent my whole life starting a conversation with my mother to watch her face contort into a grimace of pain while she hisses “Not so loud, I’m right in front of you.

Although you can’t really give her reaction much credence because my mother has the hearing of a German Shepard with satellite dish ears, but I will admit, I am loud. And the area I’m in is what I’ve now nicknamed “The Morgue”. Everyone is unnaturally quiet and I was given the official whispered warning last Monday that I’d better be prepared for complete silence because that’s the way everyone likes it around here thankyouverymuch, no radios, no personal phone calls, there are eyes and ears everywhere, and watch yourself. And it's very cliquish. Not the freindliest bunch of zombies.

So much for the relaxed environment I was sold when I took this job.

And the worst part, my back is to my cube opening and the big bosses fucking office door, so not only am I jumping to the ceiling when someone walks in to talk to me but every time the boss walks into the hallway he has a clear view of my monitor. When the hell am I supposed to read blogs and play games?? I can get 8 hours of work done in 4 and that’s what I had planned on doing. But noooooooooooooo. Doesn’t look like that’ll be the case. And I’m totally paranoid. This is not much of an improvement.

I’ve been having constant conversations in my head about it. It’s not so bad. It is bad. At least I’m away from those stupid people and that stressful position. I’m so far out of my comfort zone why did I do this. So what’s the big deal if they pay me more money to basically be a file clerk. Being a file clerk fucking sucks!!

I don’t know. I guess I’ll give it more time. Jebus knows I don’t have the energy to pursue something new right now, but man, it felt really good to be that happy and it feels really crappy to not.

In other news, apparently I’m unable to eat soup without it spilling down my face like I have a hole in my lower lip. Not only did I further stain my shirt right between my boobs that I already stained this morning with hair goo and didn’t notice until I got to work, but the dudes who are going to try and rearrange my cubicle just left and only then did I notice I had a big dried yellow splooge of Healthy Choice Chicken and Dumpling Soup on my fucking chin.

Good times.

Messages from Mars

No, you silly kids, I have not fallen off the face of the earth. I've just been stupidly busy and a lot of things have been happening and a lot of things have stayed the same and then there's the whole I'm an incredibly lazy person who has very little interest in hauling my ass to Costo to refill certain medications that um, keep me like sort of alive and stuff and even though I didn't totally run out I haven't been taken everything I'm supposed to and oops, I pretty much feel like shit warmed over I'm dumb.

OK, just what has happened in the last few weeks? Well, I got that awesomely awesome news about the scan and I still feel like the rusty lock on my cage was opened and the door finally swung open and fresh air is replacing my stank. While I don't like to take my emotional temperature too often, I remain pleasantly happy. I still carry the thoughts that I no longer have to eat the shit sandwich handed to me on a dirty plate every day for the rest of my life because I'm branded with the big "C". Now I need to really get my health back because happiness does not equal healthy and I want to be both. I'm selfish like that.

Another huge change is my job. When my boss was a complete and utter ass-licking douchebag cunt to me while I was in the middle of my scan, I vowed I would not work for that fucker for another fucking day. On that same day I was cruising the job listings within my company and low and behold, a job I was qualified for was posted, that same day and I applied toot sweet. And the hiring manager just so happened to be someone who was in my division and transferred out in less than a year because he too thought our boss was a douchebag cunt. So I had that going for me too.

I interviewed the next week and what was supposed to be an hour chat turned in to more than 2 hours of shooting the shit and by the time I got home I had an e-mail waiting for me saying how hard I had rocked it and now it was pretty much formalities to get through.

Minor Digression.

On the way to my work for the interview I almost died. I was driving on the freeway and some old beater truck flew past me 2 lanes away to my left going about 90. All of a sudden, the trucks big, black, plastic bed liner caught air and went flying into the sky about 30 feet straight up, did 3 full flips, then caught another air drift, changed course and started coming right at my car and what seemed like right through my windshield. I had a split-second image of that thing crashing through the glass and taking my head off, or smashing my entire car and me in it.

Then, some strange force or fate sucked that bed liner to the ground flat but in my lane and my path. My cat-like reflexes jumped into action and I pulled a Mario Andretti move whipping my car to the right, tires squealing, and around the liner. Another miracle that there wasn't a car in the lane to my right. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the semi that was behind me come to a smoking halt to avoid running the thing over. The stupid beater truck, who obviously saw what happened, gunned it even more and took off, no way I could catch up. So, I put a curse on him, took a chill pill, and aced my interview. The end.

Digression over.

I must admit after all the misery I've been in for years and all of the complaining I've done, that made me sick of my own voice, the thought of a new job was giving me hives. Very small, cute hives. You see, I don't like change and even if something sucks the high hard one, if I'm used to it then I can deal. But I was determined to stick to my guns and my decision to set a boundary and abide by it. Even if it meant I'd have to start over and flush my knowledge base down the toilet.

Well, I got the job! It came with a new direct report that I dig, apparently the big manager man has a reputation for being good people, I get to move to a new building and the best part, a 10% raise in pay. It still doesn't bring me to a level that I deserve (I know, everyone says that but for me it's true), but it's review time and judging by the whopping 1.5% I got last year, there was no way I would get close to 10%. And I don't have to sit through a useless review with my useless (former, ha!) boss that I have a feeling I'd lose my shit somewhere in the middle and put my middle finger up his nose while telling him to kindly go fuck himself gently with a chainsaw.

I did learn after I accepted the position that I'm losing an office and gaining a cubicle. Which blows. Don't be all offended if you work in a cube farm and be all who does she think she is because you know it blows too. I haven't been in a cubicle for 10 years, but I keep telling myself that the pros outweigh the the cons by so much I'm not going to complain about a missing roof and door. I just hope the people around me can deal with me hanging up from a phone call and yelling things like assfucking retard or motherfucking dickweed when someone's been mean to me. And I get to wear jeans on Fridays!

When I returned back to work after my medical leave I sat on pins and needles before I got the official word and it took me about an hour to get the nerve to tell my boss. I finally did and he was ecstatic. And not in a sarcastic "thank god my biggest pain in the ass is leaving" way. He seemed genuinely happy and I was given a nice send off with much support and good wishes. I was already happy but leaving on a good note was making it that much better. Until the next day...

He was a total cocksucker. Didn't take care of any outstanding issues we had. Gave me about 3 months worth of work to complete in 7 working days and a few objectives that there was no way in fucking hell I could ever get done. Once again, he set me up for failure. I trained no one and wasn't given any official word of who my replacement, whether permanent or interim, would be. Which means that 89% of what I do and how to do it is now locked up in my pretty little head.

I'm trying to let it go and I secretly hope this comes down on his head because that is no way to be a manager. Just blows me away. And he never said goodbye on Friday, which I took as a message loud and clear, but whatever. I'll be sending everyone who needs help directly to him, which sucks because I liked a lot of the people I've been helping for the last 4 years and they don't deserve the hassle, but I also hope people get how fucking hard I've worked and that I didn't receive the recognition I should have. ~flips off boss~

So, tomorrow I start a new journey and hope no one thinks I'm a half brain and questions their decision to hire me. And if they do, I'll just move on and find something else.

In other news...I've been thinking seriously about becoming a dog trainer again. Figuring out just how to do this is proving to be a challenge, but I'll keep trying. If you have any inside info please let me know.

Besides those developments, not much else is going on. I've been working long hours and coming home without the brain power to do much more than work a remote. I've been watching a metric ton of reality TV and loving (almost) every minute of it. The new cast of The Real World is gaggle of total lunatics and I'm not sure how the anorexia story-line is going to go. That poor girl is really, really, really messed up and frankly I don't think the world is ready to understand that disease.

I was so pulling for Daniel on Project Runway until I saw his final collection. Why, Daniel, why? Why did you have to try and mix Asian with military? Why the cardboard shields hanging from their boobs? Why didn't you listen to Tim when he was hmm-ing and squinting at your uneven hems? And speaking of Tim Gunn. I have a good old-fashioned hag crush on him. It pains me that I don't live in New York and have no hopes of stalking him until he tells me to carry on. I love you Tim Gunn.

I was not happy with Chloe winning since her entire wardrobe was Barbi circa 1986, but at least Santino took third place. That devil man. And I want to give anyone who watched this series with me a big pat on the back for enduring Heidi Klum's fingernails-on-a-chalkboard voice. My god, it almost makes you want to switch her head with Janice Dickenson. Almost.

And that's about it. Pretty boring, huh? But don't worry, when things settle in with my new position and I get some energy back I'll be able to write more often. And never fear, despite being mellower with all the happiness and shit I still have a million things to rant about because the world is populated with stupid people. The friggen world I have to live on because I couldn't fall off of it even if I wanted to.

Too bored to blog

It's amazing how sitting around the house for almost 3 weeks has bred nothing but boredom and laziness. Olympic level laziness. I would bring home the gold in couch potatoeing, napping, and wasting enormous, Italian mountain range amounts of time. I am a triple threat. Yo.

And this all leads me with nothing to say. I blame daytime television. And Regis. It's all his fault.

Most awesomely awesome thing I did that is also gross

Scene: Bedroom. Also known as The Den of Love and Cat Fur Repository.

Time: 10:51 p.m.

Players: One very, very tired human and one eating-disordered kitty.

Key element: Eating-disorded kitty has just consumed kibble for the 95th time today filling her bloated body to the brim and has once again settled on the very, very tired human's very, very special blankie.

Eating Disorded Kitty: hork hork hork

Very, Very Tired Human: "OH SHIT!!"

EDK: hork

VVTH: (bolts out of computer chair with super VVTH speed and grabs EDK, spins on a fucking dime and plunges EDK's head into nearby trashcan).

EDK: hork hork HOOOORRRRRRRRRK (all contents are deposited into trashcan like this was a well-rehersed ballet).

VVTH: WOO HOO!! HA HA!! FUCK YA!! (runs through house doing Rocky fist pump in air, tells boyfriend awesomely yet gross happening in bedroom, both laugh with glee).

EDK: (wobbles out of bedroom with glazed look in eyes).

VVTH: FUCK YA!! I'M AWESOME!! HA! (secretly hopes this never happens again).

And scene.

This just in...

O.K. I just got the back. The scan has been done and read. The blood drawn. The future discussed.

The doc had me sit with him in front of the imaging computer and take a look at the pictures just taken. We compared the scan from last March with the bad shadow. His face was somber, he pointed to the spot in my neck with the back of his pen and turned to me. Then he said...













IT'S NORMAL! IT'S NORMAL!

THE SCAN IS NORMAL!!!

HOLY CHRIST ON A BIKE IT WAS NORMAL NORMAL NORMAL!!!

I started to choke up with happiness and disbelief, the look of apprehension still clouding my brow, when he smiled, gently took my hand and said, "sweetheart, I want you to take a breath, go eat a cheeseburger and get on with the rest of your life."

YAY!!

He thinks the spot last year was a remnant of thyroid tissue that's slowly dying off. He can still see a tiny bit left but the spot is smaller than last year so there's NO REASON to think it's the cancer coming back. He warned me that he's not perfect, but in his opinion, IT WASN'T CANCER!! Or to quote, "I'm considering this a normal scan."

He wants me to keep following up with my thyroid doc (of course) and I'll probably have to scan again in 12 months, or if I'm lucky, just an ultrasound, but for now, NO FUCKING RADIATION!! NO SHITTY STUPID DIETS!! NO CANCER!!!

I know I'll have to deal with this shit for the rest of my life and there's a road of recovery ahead and some other shit to take care of, but for right now I'm in the fucking clouds, baby, in the fucking clouds and crying tears of joy and relief.

The last 11 months in particular have been fucking hell. Thinking I had a recurrance was devastating and stressful to say the least. I want to thank everyone who has given me support, wishes, vibes, thoughts, distractions, candles lit, all of it. To my boss - you're a fucker and you can kiss my non-cancer big white ass. HA! (I'll fill you in on that later). And most importantly, a special shout-out to my best girls, FG, Truly, Ginny, Mar, AG, and Scrubby. I am overwhelmed with honor to call these women friends and I love you all more than my luggage.

Who woulda thought I was TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY NORMAL?!?

To quote one of my favorite movies, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion". Or at least it is today, so spill a little with me bitches! I am one happy mother fucker. Now, you'll have to excuse me. I'm going to go eat the 14 pounds of cheese I bought today and molest my boyfriend till Sunday.

Peace.



p.s. I took that pic my very own normal self. Good, no?

Survivor Panama: Exile Island - episode 2

Episode 2 – sponsored by psychoticwhinybaby.com and Marlboro.

Idiots, psychos, and whiners, OH MY. Wow, episode two was so full of twists and turns you needed to keep your eye on the coconut or you’d miss something crucial. And ladies & gentleman, we have a new crazy asshole to watch, and it’s only the second show!

Now they can cue the snakes.

After a night of thunderous downpours all 4 tribes did their best to dry out and gather their wits. Some teams fared better than others since different amounts of time and energy were spent building shelters when they all landed on their respective beaches. (Go older women! Woot!) Why these people don’t spend half their day making decent shelter I’ll never know.

The now 15 Survivors gathered in front of Jeff Probst, all standing on a wooden circle. Our illustrious host wasted no time, gave little info and had them all turn over their circle. Danielle and Terry were the lucky ones each finding a colored buff under theirs. They were were then sent to 2 separate mats and told the news. Shockingly, a merge was already taking place!

Instead of a random reach into a rucksack, the 2 lucky leaders who found buffs were to start a good old-fashioned schoolyard picking of teams in boy-girl-boy-girl order. It was apparent that the original splitting of the Survivors by age and gender was not going to be continued. The new tribes had a mixture of everything and now would be known as Casaya wearing purple and La Mina in orange. Vivero and Bayonetta were no more which is good because I was not going to try and keep track of that shit.

Once the 2 teams had 7 members each, the odd man out, Bruce, was instructed that he would be spending the next 3 days on Exile Island alone, possibly looking for the immunity idol since no one knew if Misty had found it during her stint floundering alone. He would also be provided with clue #2 and flint to start a fire.

And to add another new element to this season of the game, even though Brue would be missing out on the next 2 challenges, and all the team dynamics that go with tribe time, he would be granted automatic immunity from the next tribal council and would fill the empty spot the next votee would leave. Interesting…

Then the exiled was shown on the island doing nothing but reading the clue and a bunch of weird Karate Kid moves and not looking for the idol, building a shelter and he broke the fricking flint! Served him right he spent 3 nights sleeping in the pouring rain with an iron pot over his stupid head in a futile attempt to keep dry. Idiot.

Back at reward challenge Jeff instructed the tribes they would be competing through an obstacle course collecting 6 giant wooden snakes along the way. Climbing shit, crawling under shit, balancing across shit, wading through shit, the usual shit. One person on each team would be responsible for carrying all 6 snakes to the end.

First tribe to finish would win a reward of fishing paraphernalia and a raft would be delivered to their beach.

This is where you could have gone to the fridge for another beer.

Both teams were neck and neck, yada yada, La Mina won. The newly formed tribe of 7 returned back to their camp, which used to be the older men’s beach, and surveyed their fishing goodies. Sally and Nick decided to take the raft out with the Hawaiin sling spear fishing thing and “practice”. Approximately 2 seconds after I said, “that bitch is gonna lose that thing” the bitch lost it, shooting the money part of the spear into 40 feet of ocean water. Idiot.

Misty tried to console the fretting frat girl by saying “it’s ok, we can make another one”. Um, yea. And just how do you ‘spect to fashion rubber tubing in the middle of the frigging jungle? The professor couldn’t get those castaways off their damn island for 3 solid years and they had stuff to make radios and golf carts! Idiot.

Casaya returns to what was the older women’s beach where Shane commenced his whinefest from the night and before, proceeds to diss the “old men” he was previously teamed with then changes his tune after formally meeting all his new tribe mates and proclaims himself finally happy. Psycho.

Both tribes went to work double-time creating alliances and making deals. Hands were quickly shook and secret teams of 4 were created on both Casaya and La Mina. This was a definite advantage to those who were in on the new pacts since each team had 7 players and the remaining 3 outside of either alliance were extremely vulnerable, especially since individual immunity was only held by Bruce who was still doing the crane on Exile Island.

It was then time for the immunity challenge and it would prove to be a tough physical challenge for all. Each team would start on a floating platform in the ocean. They’d have to grab a giant zombie head and all climb into a boat meant to sink. 5 members would pull stoppers out of holes in the boats and begin bailing water as fast as it was coming in. Meanwhile, 2 people would act as divers and try to pull the “anchor”, which was really a big, heavy wooden box, hauling the boat towards the beach.

Once the boat was close enough to tether to a hitching post, the anchor box would have to be carried to the foot of the zombie body and the head placed on top. First team to complete their zombie would be enjoying a night free of tribal council.

Before they got started Jeff asked both teams how everyone was doing starting with Casaya. Misty spoke up and said everything was great and their unity was being solidified by positive attitudes. Then Jeff turned to La Mina where the Mayor of Crazy Complainer Town, Shane, displayed a case of verbal dysentery and launched into a tirade of “honesty” that him and his tribe were all hurting and this was the worst thing he’s ever experienced. Um, yea, Shane? STFU. Whiner.

Back to the challenge…La mina got a quick lead but the divers were clearly having a hard time trying to move the anchor box. Casaya was actually drifting backwards, unable to bail out the rushing water and compensate for the heavier people in their boat. Divers on both teams were switched every few minutes since this was extremely tiring work and there was no way the 3 pack-a-dayer could hold his breath longer than 2 seconds.

Casaya was finally making up some space between them and La Mina but it was futile. Even though they tethered their boats one right after the other, La Mina was able to run their heavy box up the beach faster then their competition. One again, La Mina were the victors. They celebrated their second win in a row with high fives and big dirty grins and I'm thinking future nightmares involving those GIANT SCARY ZOMBIE THINGS. GOSH!

Before tribal council, Shane the Pain had a bizarre meltdown telling everyone that he wanted to go home and asking, demanding and begging to be voted out. He was missing his kid. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted coffee. He needed Xanax. Listen you Helter Skelter butthole. You’ve been given an opportunity that thousands upon thousands of people ask for. Suck. It. Up.

Melinda caught up with Cirie and Bobby bobbing in the surf and told them the news about Shane. Cirie’s reaction was classic. With obvious glee she says, “Heeeeey, if somebody wants to quit, let him quit”. Shane went on and on and on about it. Making people promise to vote him out, he was ready and wanting to go home.

Aras takes Shane aside and works him hard. Why? I don’t know. Then poof like a cigarette he wasn’t smoking, he changed his mind. Psycho. Then he and Aras join the rest of the tribe to tell them the news that Shane will be staying and make it perfectly clear that it will either be Cirie or Melinda voted out that night. Niiiice. Once again Shane’s diarrhea of the mouth came back and he told the whole friggen camp about the alliance of 4 and who they are. Idiot. I hope that backfires on his stupid ass.

The Survivors made their way to tribal council, lit their torches and had a seat. Probst started with psycho Shane, who blamed his behavior on dehydration and nicotine withdrawal. What. Ever. Cirie then voiced her opinions that if she’s to go home it would be unfair and awful and made it clear she would be very disappointed for failing her family.

Melinda then spoke up and admitted that she too would disappointed, hurt and pissed to be voted out. Further adding that she and Cirie . She and Cirie had performed well and anyone who talks about quitting as much as Shane did should get the boot. And she was right. But alas, the new alliance held firm, The songbird from the South has been silenced, Melinda was given her walking papers and Shane is still an idiot.

It has begun

I have an idea. Want to torture someone you hate? And I'm talking hate because this is serious and way beyond the kind of mild revenge you enact on someone who's merely annoying and/or deserves something more along the lines of a voodoo doll with pins pushed ito strategic places than absolute revenge. I'm talking a form of agony saved for anyone who needs to be severely punished. Death-row prison inmate punished. Stupid bitch flirted with your boyfriend punished. Loads the dishwasher wrong every fucking time punished.

Make them watch Regis & Kelly every morning for a week.

I KNOW.

It's only day 2 of my week from hell and I'm ready to go out and buy a bazooka just so I can come home and launch it into the TV right through those smarmy morning show hosts faces. Who the fuck can watch this shit day in and day out must be desperate for entertainment or recently visited a "special" hospital and had many many volts of electricity zapped through their brain because I'd rather watch someone eat pig ass swinging from a helicopter while being drizzled with hot lava then listen to Reg intermittently yell every other word through a 10 minute recap of the Italian fucking sausage with pasta he ate for dinner the night before. God help me.

I just realized I might have done a piss-poor job of talking about the events I'm going through this week. I'm having another cancer scan. It requires 4 days of office visits and a host of shit to deal with. I had my first injection of a drug called Thyrogen yesterday and will have another today. Without getting all technical and boring, this drug does something magical inside my body so they can see stuff on the scan. Then I take a little pill stuffed with a little bit of radioactive material on Wednesday. I have Thursday off to contemplate my naval. Then the scan on Friday. And the doc already thinks I'm have a recurrence so this scan is a formality. Fun and FUCK.

I did this last year and while I'll freely admit it's easier than going off meds, it still sucks large sweaty donkey balls. The side effects are similar to having the flu. Feeling like I haven't slept in a week, achy, crampy, gnarly headaches. And this year you can add nausea to the list. Yay! I've spent the last 20 hours trying not to puke, unable to eat anything more than a small piece of home-made pretzel.

But at least I'm not thinking much about this stupid fucking low-iodine diet I've been on since January 30th. What is a low iodine diet you say? It's a diet where you can't eat anything with iodine in it. What has iodine in it you say? Everything. What can I eat you say? Nothing. OK, that's not exactly true but it feels true. Can't eat anything god damn fun, I'll tell you that. And it's forcing me to cook, which, I can't. So I currently have a huge batch of butternut squash soup that looks like diarrhea in the fridge and a meatloaf cake smothered with unsalted ketchup. Yum and SUCK.

In other news, work last week was a popular-crowd head cheerleader dating the quarterback car on her sixteenth birthday spoiled rotten bitch and didn't allow me to update my blog let alone read any, and after I yelled at the whole blog world too. Then my system at home took it's final shit on Friday night and I had to go buy a new one on Sunday. You look at one little picture of a foot up a chick's ass and boom, dead computer. I couldn't even get online and the Geek Squad was no help at all. So now I have a cute Compaq that won't betray my occasional foray into fetish porn. And it has digital cam card slots in the front and yours doesn't. I'm fancy.

So before I have to go and get another needle plunged into my tender arm, I leave you with a pathetic plea. Please internet, please suggest any manner of entertainment to divert my attention away from this shitty week and the ever-present feeling that I'm strapped to a carny ride that's flipping me upside down every 2 minutes after eating a greasy sausage sandwich served in a dirty ashtray. Something that doesn't involve an anorexic perky blond and a self-important old man who talks about his prostate at breakfast.

I beg of you...

Survivor Panama: Exile Island - episode 1

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

Oh wee oh wee ohhhhh....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear: Everyone

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

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

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

Fondly,

Betty

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

Like a hammer

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

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

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

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

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

I have issues: part 1 million and 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

________________________________________________________

In other news...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motherfuck!

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is WRONG with poeple??

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

FUCK.

I usually look good in blue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Year's Resolutions: 2006

1. Stop getting so damn distract...

The 7th Ring of Hell: Conclusion

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

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

______________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I straightened up even taller and beamed.

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

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

Motherfucker.

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

Motherfucker.

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

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

Motherfucker.

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

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

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

Motherfucker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Fucking Christmas!

The 7th Ring of Hell: Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


to be cont.

Christmas 2005

Well. That sucked.



More to come...

Merry Friggen Christmas!

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

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

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

Dear Santa,

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

Love,

Betty.

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



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

Ack!

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

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

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

"Better watch your consumption!"

The hell?

There is something very wrong with me.

Still stewing in my stew

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

BUT I'M NOT!

Not even close.

Feh.

I told you!!

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

_____________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behold, my gift of TOTAL CRAP.



Fucking. Robbed. Again.

Bah to the Humbug

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

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

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

____________________________________________________

I like cheese.

____________________________________________________

Company Christmas parties.

~blorp~

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

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

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

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

I hate this stupid party. Bah.