It's taken me a few days to get my bearings but I'm starting to feel my feet planted firmly on the ground again. At least most of the time. Just the occasional bobble to the right with a dizzy head and a heaviness in my chest. I'm not sure I've dealt, am dealing, will deal with this death the right way but for now I'm doing better than OK, less than great.
I certainly wasn't prepared for how bad it was all going to hurt, and it wasn't an easy passing, but I'm not going into details. Boo is gone and I'll keep with me that she's a whole kitty now and someday we'll see each other again. Sounds good to me.
A huge thank you to all for the comments and the thoughts. With as much sincerity as words on a screen can convey, I truly appreciated it, felt it, and used it for strength and comfort. And I'm very, very fortunate to have whitey to reach out to everytime I pout and tear up a little and say that I miss her because he reaches back for me every single time and says, I know babe, I know you do, and that always makes it a better.
Whitey and I are both animal lovers. Another fortunate thing in our relationship because there's no way in Satan's asshole that I'd ever be with someone who was a hunter and killed creatures for sport. I dig it that we both get super excited over the beasts that we encounter. And it cracks my shit up that he calls every friggen thing at the Zoo/Sea World/the great outdoors "puppy". (Thumbs up for the kid we saw at Sea World last weekend who was calling all the rays in the ray encounter "kitty". Kid after our own hearts.)
We both talk about how many animals we'd like to have in the future. In fact, it's one of the main reasons we talk about moving. So we can afford a house and fill it up with whiskers and fur. We definitely want a load of cats, and if we had our choice, 10 dogs. He also comes up with crazy shit like he wants a pygmy goat (I finally relented and said yes, but just one, and he have to clean up the crap.) But no fucking way am I agreeing to a goose. They shit what looks like left-overs from an autopsy and they're mean.
I, however, want a miniature horse. How funny would it be to ring someone's doorbell and they have a little horse standing behind them? And I think you can train 'em not to poop in the house, which would be the rule for everyone except those who poop in authorized receptacles. And of course we want a gigantic fancy shmancy tropical fishtank that I just know it going to be a disaster of epic proportions what with the cost of the fish and maintaining the ph balances and shit and lord knows I don't have any luck with that sort of thing ever since I had a fire newt that tried to run away from the lovely home I made for him and we found him down the hallway stuck to the carpet. For now we'll have to stick with kitties and we're on the search for a chihuahua.
Yes, we like chihuahua's.
I know, it came as a shock to me as well. I've always, always been an anti-purse dog person. I scoffed, I mocked, I actually laughed a little when I was in a car that slowly backed over a miniature poodle (don't yell at me the dog was fine). But some sort of shit happened to me in the last couple of years and suddenly I was looking at hua's differently. They were like tiny little regular dogs only with totally big attitudes, which I completely support. Bitches in small packages. Rock on!
Then one day whitey and I were talking and I can't remember who confessed first but the issue came up and we both professed our secret love of chihuahua's and if I wasn't in love with that man before I certainly was then. Finally! Someone who would want to own a yipper dog with me and wouldn't gag at the sight of a puppy in a purse. And he comes up with the most awesome potential names for dogs, too. I tend to stick around things like "Morty" and "Walter", which I find hilarious as hell, and he comes up with names like "Bucket" and "Pancake." How fucking funny is that? I know!
Of course in addition to a wee dog we also want a great dane too. That picture I linked up there, that's exactly what we want. And I plan to walk them at the same time. You might think it's stupid but we think it's brilliant. Maybe I'll get them matching sweaters too. The hua's from Pampered Pets and the great dane from Old Navy. There will be more dogs than that since I have my heart set on another black lab, but for now we'll settle for a little guy.
And um...a cat.
Alright, here's where I get a little controversial since I realize this is a sensitive subject and animal lovers have pretty passionate opinions sometimes, but I want another cat now. Like right now.
I'd already been thinking about getting another one and having 3 since my ultimate wish is to have 4, but I never wanted to do anything that would upset Boo in any way or put her in the line of fire from some cranky new cat so I was never really serious about adding to our pet family to I haven't persued it.
And to be perfectly honest, the universe sends me animals and I'm not kidding. It's been this way my whole life. All the animals I've ever had have come to me by way of circumstance. I've never had to go to a shelter or answer an ad in the paper. They somehow come into my life and they're always incredible and always need me as much as I need them. And judging by my constantly-drained bank account it's a good thing they come to me because most people wouldn't do what I've done for my much loved and expensive beasts. And in my eyes, they're worth it.
Losing Boo last week was brutal. If I let myself think about it for more than a nanosecond it feels like my heart is going to melt into my pockets. Her presence was a big one in our house and even though we're now 3 instead of 4 it feels half empty. By Sunday I was looking online for rescue cats and trying to find one that might be a good fit with us and Rascal. Knowing full well it was probably a futile effort since I was going against what always happens but I had to look anyway.
Oh yea, here's the controversial part. I do not believe that I'm dishonoring Boo by getting another cat so soon. I'm not "replacing" her. She was probably the most awesome cat I'll ever have, never to be matched. But she's gone and I have an empty space for loving a kitty that needs to be filled. As hard as it is to lose them, I can't live without them.
And thank you universe, you did it again. I got a call from my friend S. on Sunday night but didn't retrieve the message until Monday. When I heard it I got a chill up my neck. S. told me that her sister needed to find homes for her 2 cats since her 3 wild kids were a handful and the kitties weren't getting enough attention, and one kitty was freaked being around kids to the point that she hides under beds all day.
My friend had mentioned this to me a few months ago but I didn't give it much thought. And now on the same weekend we lose Boo another kitty needs a good home? One with no kids, loving caretakers and enough treats to gag a pony? That's us!! And I have a sneaky feeling I'll end up with both of them, but we'll see.
I still feel wistful about it, and the one kitty I plan on taking is the same age as Boo and Rascal so I hope I don't have to face losing another one for years and years, but the universe has spoken and I won't ignore her.
I pick up Jade on Friday and I can't wait.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Shut down the sun
There are stories and rants and unsolicited advice. Photos and jokes and thoughts to share. But everything's on hold until I can patch my heart back together. Right now I just need to get through the next few days.
My little Boo has reached the end. It was a valiant battle. More than a year of being dragged to the vet, poked and prodded, drugs shoved down her throat, going blind, losing weight, hardly being a kitty any more. But she withstood it all and never stopped purring and crabbing and being my special girl.
Our time together was short but sweet. She was robbed of a long life but she was loved for her (almost) 9 years. Especially the last 3 when she was mine. I know it's the right thing to do but it hurts. Hurts like a hot bullet through my chest. Hurts to the core.
We'll say goodbye on Friday. She'll be gone but not forgotten. (God knows I'll find her fur on my clothes till the end of time.) And loved forever.
My little Boo has reached the end. It was a valiant battle. More than a year of being dragged to the vet, poked and prodded, drugs shoved down her throat, going blind, losing weight, hardly being a kitty any more. But she withstood it all and never stopped purring and crabbing and being my special girl.
Our time together was short but sweet. She was robbed of a long life but she was loved for her (almost) 9 years. Especially the last 3 when she was mine. I know it's the right thing to do but it hurts. Hurts like a hot bullet through my chest. Hurts to the core.
We'll say goodbye on Friday. She'll be gone but not forgotten. (God knows I'll find her fur on my clothes till the end of time.) And loved forever.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Planes, Drains & Automobiles
Oh, I suppose I need to post about our "vacation" and get the suspense over with. (And I have 5 posts waiting to go that I refuse to do until this is in the bag.) Although I'm sure you're going to be sadly disappointed by my lacklusterness. And it's been so long you probably don't give a rats anus about it but I'll do it anyway. And I'm super hacked over how almost all of my pictures turned out (crappy) so I'm not posting them until I send them through my fancy digital fancier- upper thing.
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I don't like to call these kinds of outings "vacations". When you're with family for an extended period of time, more than 4 hours, it's a "trip". Sort of like an acid trip. A bad one. Where the furniture is talking to you and ants dressed in clown suits are eating your face and every morsel of food you consume turns into a churning, glugging, splashing bucket of Drano that cause your guts to melt and spring forth a bevy of evil Keebler elves who spend the day kicking the lining of your stomach to a frothy pulp. Except the first part is a slight exaggeration but the last part is absolutely one hundred percent fucking true!!
Air travel being what it is today, I knew we'd need to leave for our 12:50 p.m. Saturday flight by 8:30 a.m. on Friday. I'd managed to waste some precious packing time by playing 193 games of spider solitaire, 2 suits (snap), during the week and now was rushing around trying to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything which I did anyway thanks for charging 2 freaking bucks for 1 tab of Airborne San Diego Stupid Airport!
We ended up having pretty perfect timing, which almost never happens. Thank god the off-site parking lot I'd made my semi-bogus reservation with had a spot for our car or else I would have had to rip my first face off of the day and frankly I was too stressed for any face ripping at the moment. We got checked in, sailed through security without any anal probing or tearing my purse apart, and had time for a snack and a beer for whitey. I have to take drugs to fly so my beer was in the form of a cute, little white pill that makes it all better. And if I take 2 it makes it all better with sparkles.
By the time we walked over to our flight I only had time to go potty and our plane was boarding. So much better than sitting there for 2 hours like cattle waiting to be jammed into a semi. We didn't have much to carry on since they don't allow you to breathe until your lungs have been properly scanned for weapons and we took our seats.
And this is where the rituals began.
I wear a special necklace every time I fly that keeps the planes from crashing to the ground in a fiery splendor. It looks like a little silver earth and it has jingle jangle chimes inside. So before takeoff I have to put the earth up to my ear and hear the chimes. Then I have to flip it around and hold onto it until we're up in the air for a few minutes. And I have to look at every page of the Skymall catalog before we takeoff too.
Do no mock me. These thing work.
We hit a few bits of turbulence and I freaked out and whitey held my hand and did not make fun of me for whining and scowling like a baby, not once. We landed in Salt Lake City and on our way to the connecting terminal I stopped by a little store that sells jewelry. I've bought some cheapo silver rings in there before and I noticed they had a large selection of turquoise stuff which is what I was hoping to find on our "trip". I haven't been wearing a lot of jewelry but have wanted some pretty earrings 2 years after the trend because I'm hip like that.
So we walk in and I immediately see the less-than-desirable quality of the merchandise and mention that you have to be careful with turquoise or you'll get fake colored crap. Right after I said that the old lady retail nazi swooped out from behind the counter in all her elastic wasted pants glory and spat in my general direction, "ALL tour-qwase is dyed!!"
And you know what? Man, am I sick of crappy cashiers and snotty strangers feeling a sense of entitlement and invitation to say whatever the fuck they want to say to you and however the fuck they want to say it. So I adopted an air of superiority and said, without looking at her, "No, that's not true." HA! Burn! She then followed me around right on my heels and after a minute of being in my personal space I'd had enough of her chatty stalking and I yelled "whatever" and we walked away. Freaking weirdo airport worker.
We made it down to the commuter area since our next flight would be on a super-deathtrap puddle jumper oh joy. And may I digress for a moment? Why thank you.
Despite my retarded and very real fear of flying, I do it quite a bit. Some of my favorite people and my family are too far away to drive and I'm forced to travel by air. One of my only respites is the people watching. Holy god in an exit row, the people. Airports are even better than Disneyland for plethora of freaks. And the flavors change depending on which airport you're in. LAX finds a lot of anorexic women in stiletto heals. Chicago has men in suits. Florida has the world's concentration of black socks with sandals.
Since my parents choose to live in the woods of Montana the best way to get there takes me through Salt Lake City, which is Delta's hub. (Delta sucks, btw. Sucks with a sucking so sucky they suck super times seven. But thanks for not crashing!) Being in SLC so often I've noticed some undeniable similarities with the travelers. And mind you, these are my observations so don't go all crazy thinking I'm picking on certain people or something. Well, I am but don't we all so get over it.
First off, this damn airport has more child brides and strollers filled with babies than anywhere else in the entire world. I swear to you, I was in the bathroom once eavesdropping on a young mother that looked all of about 19 1/2, changing her little babies diaper and cooing into its face while saying "Hey baby. Which one do you want? Scott or Jeff? Mama's gonna get you a new daddy so tell me which one you like the best." Utah. Need I say more.
Also, flying to places like Idaho Falls and Bozeman, Montana (which I frequently have to do since the little, and when I say little I mean smaller than your local McDonald's, airport in my parents town is only open from April to September) brings with a certain demographic that flies with you. The weekly beauty parlor high-hair small-town granny being one of them. These ladies I love. Love love love.
With their 30 year-old sweaters hanging over the shoulders and cemented hair-do's and sensible shoes. You just know they'd call you dear even if you weren't related, could bake the best cookies you've ever tasted with nothing more than a pound of butter a half cup of sugar and whisky and pinch your arm until your eyes watered if you swore.
I'll never forget one such lady I saw a few years ago when I was flying up for Thanksgiving. I'm sure her name was Esther or Mildred or something. She was sitting across from me and nervously rearranging her pocket book and Readers Digests. I watched her as she reached into her purse and pulled out what at first looked like a small bundle of trash. She turned whatever it was over in her hands then began to disassemble it.
First she took off a rubberband that'd been wound around a plastic sandwich baggy which was protecting a paper lightbulb sleeve that had been cut in half. After the band and baggy were removed she reached into the lightbulb holder and slid out a cell phone. (You just know some pushy son-in-law insisted she get a new-fangled telephone and my goodness no don't spend any money on a fancy case I can fix something up from home.)
She stared at it for a minute with a scowl on her face then went into action. She pushed a button, looked at the phone, placed the phone to her ear, pulled it away from her ear, looked at, put it back to her ear, looked at it again, then put it all back together and tucked it into her purse. I don't think she hung it up or turned it off so I'm pretty certain some family member in Pocatello got to listen to the rustling insides of Nana's purse for an hour. One of the greatest things I ever saw.
As we were sitting waiting for our connecting flight I had a hotflash of epic proportions. I actually had to take my shoes off and send whitey off to get me some cold water or I was surely going to melt. And then I started to feel pretty lousy, like I was getting a cold. Damn the 2 dollar Airborne! It did nothing! Thankfully I only felt shitty for the rest of the day and didn't get a cold. Just raging allergies and diarrhea, so it was all good.
My parents picked us up and we went to their pallatial home. I was excited to see their puppy and the house is incredible so the accommodations are always nice. Unfortunately my parents exude stress like a fine mist so amidst the majesty of Yellowstone and the fun of being off of work, you still have to deal with the famdamily crap. And to my utter heartbreak, my father isn't doing very well and without going into details it's going to get nothing but worse and while I try to pay attention to every good moment the bad moments are getting impossible to ignore and it's really fucking sad. My mother is nearly incapable of handling any of this so add that to the poop soup and you get quite the mess.
Thank god there was beer waiting for us and we finally got to enjoy one on the patio as we attempted to relax and plan the next few days. To our dismay, there was not just one but several fires burning the park as-well-as the state and it really pissed on our parade.
On our first full day my parents took us up to Old Faithful to check out the scenery and the impressive lodge but it was choked with Labor Day travelers.
Note to self: DO NOT GO TO YELLOWSTONE DURING A HOLIDAY.
We got the hell out of there and drove home, and I wished we'd stopped to take pictures a little more because that day proved to be the only one with a hint of a blue sky that wasn't covered in smoke painting every scenery with a nasty haze which then caused me to take copious amounts of Benedryl that I have since discovered is not tolerated well by my delicate system and results in said delicate system being pulverized into a painful goo which would reveal itself not when I was lounging around the house for hours and hours mere feet from a toilet but as soon as I was trapped in a car speeding past open plains or dense forest containing nothing but barbed wire fencing and killer moose for miles and miles and miles, you'll see.
(And perhaps I should have heeded whitey's warning when he told me that Benedryl-type stuff makes him "shit liquid" which was valuable information coming from the man who can eat gas station mayo-slathered meat expired by 10 days that's been left on the hood of his car in the noon-day sun in the middle of summer washed down with moonshine and a pickled egg chaser. So why I thought me, the girl who bloats into Violet Beauregard like she'd been pumped full of castor oil and hooked up to an airhose if I merely glance at an innocent stem of broccoli or consume one too many sips of red wine, could buy drugs at the Conoco and eat them like candy.)
The next day we went out on our own and this is where God Damn Stupid Angry Guts reared their angry heads. We were cruising along the lake making our way to a famous earthquake area and stopping here and there to take pictures. Just as we got back into the car for the 3rd time I felt an unfortunate cramp in my lower half. Uh oh. This could be bad.
I put my foot through the floor and hastily said something about the pretty lake, here's where the earthquake was, try to spot and eagle, oh shit oh shit oh shit. I made it to the park-sponsored Quake Lake lookout pavilion thingy and spotted the bathroom building with the red curb in front. Fuck the red curb, this was an emergency. I put the car in neutral and hopped out while saying "GO PARK THE AHH EHH UH CAR GO!".
And then a snotty little skinny ranger bitch tried to yell at us that "you can't park here" and I yelled back as I clenched my ass cheeks together and tried to shuffle to the potty "DO YOU SEE THE ENGINE RUNNING? YES? THEN WE'RE NOT PARKED!" And I might have muttered something under my breath about her being a stupid bitch but the important thing is I made it and everything was OK.
On our third full day of the trip I had an appointment for a massage and nutritional counseling from the very knowledgeable and very intense granola chickie in my parents town. Picture Pink in yoga pants. She's really good but a little scary and she could crush your skull with her bare hands. We went into the park in the afternoon and watched idiots get too close to wildlife and I'm not ashamed to admit that we started routing for the animals to take someone down. Nothing fatal, mind you, just a little ramming sending Bill from Wisconsin on his ass. (We would later turn into one of these idiots.)
On our way home we stopped by the Grizzly Discovery Center where we were almost alone so it was nice and quiet. They have rescued wolves as well as bears and the doggies were all agitated about something. Perhaps being confined to a too-small area. Don't know. The bears were lazy but close enough to impress us with 3 inch claws.
Our last full day we'd planned to drive the big loop all around Yellowstone. This was by far the worst day regarding the air quality and conditions. Everything was so hazy it was a total bummer. All of my pictures taken of anything more than 10 feet away look like I rubbed vaseline on the lens. I felt really bad for whitey since he was getting a pretty crappy rendition of a place I love so much and is usually so beautiful but he's a trooper and still appreciated what we saw.
We woke up way too late and scrambled to get out of the house. I was praying my tummy would play nice, which, big surprise! It did not. We'd made it about 20 miles into the park and were planning on getting up to Mammoth by skipping another area called Norris. Just as I'd past a rest stop God Damn Stupid Angry Guts made another warrior cry. OH NO! I thought. This one was bad.
I whipped our SUV around and screamed back to the glorified porto-john and saw a maintenence guy sitting in his truck out front. I panicked. Oh god, is this thing closed or something? I quickly asked if I could use the bathroom and he grunted at me that yes I could but there was a line. Where did all of these fucking people come from? There were at least 3 in front of me and I know I didn't have that kind of time.
So, my head exploded a little and I blurted out with wild eyes and a crazy face, "please, I beg of you, this is an emergency, CAN I PLEASE GO FIRST??". The 2 women and one man looked at me like I had a human head in my hands then the man said something to the women in German. Oh fuck, I though, they don't speak English. One women said something back to him then he said something like, "Crazen Murican poopin shootin" and they all laughed and he turned to me and said I could go first. Which, let me tell you, was still no prize because that toilet was nastier than all the shitters in all the bars in Tijuana. But hell, I made it once again.
I spent the next 40 minutes thinking about trying not to think about having another emergency. We made it to Mammoth and didn't get to spend as much time there as I'd have liked but it was impressive nonetheless. We decided to stop at the little village there to pee and maybe get a bite to eat but the smell of food churned my stomach one more crank and as everyone was enjoying ice cream from the general store I was chugging pepto bismol. Good times!
The Pink Stuff started working right away, much to my relief, and we proceeded to see some of the most breath-taking scenery in the world. Totally ruined by smoke, of course, but spectacular anyway. Our main goal was seeing animals and this day was no disappointment. In addition to the bald eagle we saw 5 miles into the trip, and the giant bull elk with his posse of bitches, we ran into a trio of deer munching leaves on the side of the road.
Inbetween waterfalls, one bogus 20 minute pull-over for an invisible fake wolf, and one petrified tree we saw a moose and tons of bison and then we hit the jackpot. Whenever you see a gazillion cars precariously pulled over you know they're looking at something. This is what the locals call a "bear jam" even if it's not for a bear. Well, sucka's, this time it was!
I looked up into a tree and there I saw two furry black feet hanging down and another black lump further up. I grabbed the camera and shot as many pic's as I could without driving us over the cliff on our right. I was forced to slow down anyway and managed to take a few good ones before the very cranky ranger waved me on. I glanced back once and spotted the mama bear hanging out on the ground under her babies. Score!
We rounded the corner and I happened to see some movement down an embankment and lucky for us there was a pull-out right there. So I ripped the car over and said "oh my god, I think there's another bear!". Then we jumped out and ran over to the edge and got like 30 feet from a foraging black bear like the big idiots we are since you're supposed to give any bear a 25 yard berth. Oops.
My new camera decided to be a fucking whore and only focus on the weeds right in front of me. I was getting really pissed and growled "mother fucker!" Then the stupid lady who was crowding my ass getting in my way thought I was yelling at her and she squeaked "I'm sorry" but I wasn't talking to her but realized I'd scared her pretty good and I love doing that because I'm evil so it made me laugh.
I did manage to get some good shots, ah, which I'm not showing you so I guess it's stupid to talk about them, but take my word for it! They're incredible! The bear started getting a little close and a million people caught on and we got surrounded so we left. And not 2 more miles down the road we saw another gaggle of tourons pulled over so we joined them and I snapped another black bear right before it went off into the trees! 5 bears within 5 miles. Unbelievable.
We spent the rest of our drive in the park stopping here and there and then I got freaked because the sun was going down and I'm totally afraid I'm going to take out an elk baby or something and do not want to drive in the dark in that kind of country. But we made it home before the sun set so all was good.
The next morning my parents dropped us off at the airport to pick up our rental car for the drive to Great Falls to see whitey's mom. My tummy was still wonky but I tried to stay chill and not worry too much. And eating nothing helps so I did that. Our trip up was good and we made record time and I didn't poop my pants in the car!
We pulled up in front of his mom's cute little house in a cute little neighborhood and I didn't give myself time to get nervous. She was a ball of energy and super cool, just like her son. Her house was an endless supply of visual entertainment because people, this lady is a pack rat like you've never seen. Bless her sweet heart, but good grief, no one needs 29 cases of Pepsi!
She does have a lot of cool collections and we spent the next 2 days looking through pictures and river crystals and fossils and shit. She even has a whole room dedicated to Mickey stuff. Like, 10,000 pieces of Mickey stuff. It's impressive to say the least. We also did a bit of shopping and went to the Charlie Russell museum which was pretty fun. I was starting to majorly run out of steam by this point and should have gone with my instincts and STAYED AWAY FROM THE SUPER MEGA INCREDIBLE BLOODY CESARS WHITEY MADE. But nooooooo, I'm weak to the drink and had 2.
And 2 is all is took to kick the God Damn Stupid Angry Guts back into high gear. Pair that with the mystery meat pasta I ate for dinner and by the next morning I was in big, big trouble. We met up with his grandma for breakfast, who is a total spitfire too, and I had to excuse myself twice to go to the less-then-desirable bathroom. Hi, nice to meet you, I have the shits.
We were so ready to come home and I was wiped out so I asked if we could hang out at the house until we needed to go to the airport. Where I proceeded to make my way to bathroom every 29 minutes for the next 3 hours. Hi, thanks for having us, I ruined your plumbing. Whitey was very sweet about it and I did the smart thing by swigging more Pepto hoping that it would kick in by the time we had to fly.
It was finally time to go and while I was worried I was thankful to be going home. We got to the airport, dropped off the car, waited for 30 minutes while the Avis chick fixed the gross overcharges on our bill, then headed to the Delta check-in desk. And without further ado, the anti-luck that both he and I share that gets exponentially worse when we're together, our flight was CANCELLED as we were standing there.
Yea, yea, mechanical problems, grounded plane in another city, thanks for saving our lives, but it was the last fucking flight of the fucking day and we wanted to get fucking home!
Of course I start crying, whitey starts swearing, and the slower-than-molasses counter people acted like they'd never seen such a dilemma and oh my stars what do we do? They're trying to tell us that we can fly the next morning but hell no, we cannot, because I need my bed and my kitties and my own toilet! Our only alternative is to try and catch the last flight out of Helena.
Helena.
90 miles away, Helena.
Fuck.
Well, thank GOD whitey's mom came to see us off and we asked her if she could get us there. She agreed to give it a shot and we jumped into her 1986 Eagle, I shit you not, an Eagle, and took off.
His grandma had shown up too so she was in the car with us. I was so petrified that my stomach wouldn't cooperate and we were both so worried about not making it that whitey and I couldn't speak for an hour. Not to mention that I'm the worst passenger in the entire world and we had to scream through a 20 mile canyon of sharp curves in a car that felt like it was held together with superglue and masking tape. I thought I broke his hand at one point I was squeezing so hard.
But god damn if super-mama and her little car didn't get us there in the nick of time! We left Great Falls at 3:30 and jumped out the car in Helena at 4:40. That's some type of record in my book.
I still demand that she gets rid of that car, though. It's a death trap! But viva la eagle!!
We ran into the airport screaming "we're here, we're here" and got looked at like we were crazy. I wanted to say, crazed people, not crazy, crazed. The snotty counter guy checked our bags and we breezed through security with 2 minutes to spare before we boarded the plane. With one minor issue to clear up in our connecting airport (dumbasses in Great Falls rebooked our connecting flight and had us sitting 5 rows apart), we made it home safe and sound.
Despite my, ahem, challenges, we did have a great time and I love that man even more. The kitties were in good shape, although Boo yelled at us for 2 days straight, and we survived our first "trip" together.
And I can't wait for the next one.
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I don't like to call these kinds of outings "vacations". When you're with family for an extended period of time, more than 4 hours, it's a "trip". Sort of like an acid trip. A bad one. Where the furniture is talking to you and ants dressed in clown suits are eating your face and every morsel of food you consume turns into a churning, glugging, splashing bucket of Drano that cause your guts to melt and spring forth a bevy of evil Keebler elves who spend the day kicking the lining of your stomach to a frothy pulp. Except the first part is a slight exaggeration but the last part is absolutely one hundred percent fucking true!!
Air travel being what it is today, I knew we'd need to leave for our 12:50 p.m. Saturday flight by 8:30 a.m. on Friday. I'd managed to waste some precious packing time by playing 193 games of spider solitaire, 2 suits (snap), during the week and now was rushing around trying to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything which I did anyway thanks for charging 2 freaking bucks for 1 tab of Airborne San Diego Stupid Airport!
We ended up having pretty perfect timing, which almost never happens. Thank god the off-site parking lot I'd made my semi-bogus reservation with had a spot for our car or else I would have had to rip my first face off of the day and frankly I was too stressed for any face ripping at the moment. We got checked in, sailed through security without any anal probing or tearing my purse apart, and had time for a snack and a beer for whitey. I have to take drugs to fly so my beer was in the form of a cute, little white pill that makes it all better. And if I take 2 it makes it all better with sparkles.
By the time we walked over to our flight I only had time to go potty and our plane was boarding. So much better than sitting there for 2 hours like cattle waiting to be jammed into a semi. We didn't have much to carry on since they don't allow you to breathe until your lungs have been properly scanned for weapons and we took our seats.
And this is where the rituals began.
I wear a special necklace every time I fly that keeps the planes from crashing to the ground in a fiery splendor. It looks like a little silver earth and it has jingle jangle chimes inside. So before takeoff I have to put the earth up to my ear and hear the chimes. Then I have to flip it around and hold onto it until we're up in the air for a few minutes. And I have to look at every page of the Skymall catalog before we takeoff too.
Do no mock me. These thing work.
We hit a few bits of turbulence and I freaked out and whitey held my hand and did not make fun of me for whining and scowling like a baby, not once. We landed in Salt Lake City and on our way to the connecting terminal I stopped by a little store that sells jewelry. I've bought some cheapo silver rings in there before and I noticed they had a large selection of turquoise stuff which is what I was hoping to find on our "trip". I haven't been wearing a lot of jewelry but have wanted some pretty earrings 2 years after the trend because I'm hip like that.
So we walk in and I immediately see the less-than-desirable quality of the merchandise and mention that you have to be careful with turquoise or you'll get fake colored crap. Right after I said that the old lady retail nazi swooped out from behind the counter in all her elastic wasted pants glory and spat in my general direction, "ALL tour-qwase is dyed!!"
And you know what? Man, am I sick of crappy cashiers and snotty strangers feeling a sense of entitlement and invitation to say whatever the fuck they want to say to you and however the fuck they want to say it. So I adopted an air of superiority and said, without looking at her, "No, that's not true." HA! Burn! She then followed me around right on my heels and after a minute of being in my personal space I'd had enough of her chatty stalking and I yelled "whatever" and we walked away. Freaking weirdo airport worker.
We made it down to the commuter area since our next flight would be on a super-deathtrap puddle jumper oh joy. And may I digress for a moment? Why thank you.
Despite my retarded and very real fear of flying, I do it quite a bit. Some of my favorite people and my family are too far away to drive and I'm forced to travel by air. One of my only respites is the people watching. Holy god in an exit row, the people. Airports are even better than Disneyland for plethora of freaks. And the flavors change depending on which airport you're in. LAX finds a lot of anorexic women in stiletto heals. Chicago has men in suits. Florida has the world's concentration of black socks with sandals.
Since my parents choose to live in the woods of Montana the best way to get there takes me through Salt Lake City, which is Delta's hub. (Delta sucks, btw. Sucks with a sucking so sucky they suck super times seven. But thanks for not crashing!) Being in SLC so often I've noticed some undeniable similarities with the travelers. And mind you, these are my observations so don't go all crazy thinking I'm picking on certain people or something. Well, I am but don't we all so get over it.
First off, this damn airport has more child brides and strollers filled with babies than anywhere else in the entire world. I swear to you, I was in the bathroom once eavesdropping on a young mother that looked all of about 19 1/2, changing her little babies diaper and cooing into its face while saying "Hey baby. Which one do you want? Scott or Jeff? Mama's gonna get you a new daddy so tell me which one you like the best." Utah. Need I say more.
Also, flying to places like Idaho Falls and Bozeman, Montana (which I frequently have to do since the little, and when I say little I mean smaller than your local McDonald's, airport in my parents town is only open from April to September) brings with a certain demographic that flies with you. The weekly beauty parlor high-hair small-town granny being one of them. These ladies I love. Love love love.
With their 30 year-old sweaters hanging over the shoulders and cemented hair-do's and sensible shoes. You just know they'd call you dear even if you weren't related, could bake the best cookies you've ever tasted with nothing more than a pound of butter a half cup of sugar and whisky and pinch your arm until your eyes watered if you swore.
I'll never forget one such lady I saw a few years ago when I was flying up for Thanksgiving. I'm sure her name was Esther or Mildred or something. She was sitting across from me and nervously rearranging her pocket book and Readers Digests. I watched her as she reached into her purse and pulled out what at first looked like a small bundle of trash. She turned whatever it was over in her hands then began to disassemble it.
First she took off a rubberband that'd been wound around a plastic sandwich baggy which was protecting a paper lightbulb sleeve that had been cut in half. After the band and baggy were removed she reached into the lightbulb holder and slid out a cell phone. (You just know some pushy son-in-law insisted she get a new-fangled telephone and my goodness no don't spend any money on a fancy case I can fix something up from home.)
She stared at it for a minute with a scowl on her face then went into action. She pushed a button, looked at the phone, placed the phone to her ear, pulled it away from her ear, looked at, put it back to her ear, looked at it again, then put it all back together and tucked it into her purse. I don't think she hung it up or turned it off so I'm pretty certain some family member in Pocatello got to listen to the rustling insides of Nana's purse for an hour. One of the greatest things I ever saw.
As we were sitting waiting for our connecting flight I had a hotflash of epic proportions. I actually had to take my shoes off and send whitey off to get me some cold water or I was surely going to melt. And then I started to feel pretty lousy, like I was getting a cold. Damn the 2 dollar Airborne! It did nothing! Thankfully I only felt shitty for the rest of the day and didn't get a cold. Just raging allergies and diarrhea, so it was all good.
My parents picked us up and we went to their pallatial home. I was excited to see their puppy and the house is incredible so the accommodations are always nice. Unfortunately my parents exude stress like a fine mist so amidst the majesty of Yellowstone and the fun of being off of work, you still have to deal with the famdamily crap. And to my utter heartbreak, my father isn't doing very well and without going into details it's going to get nothing but worse and while I try to pay attention to every good moment the bad moments are getting impossible to ignore and it's really fucking sad. My mother is nearly incapable of handling any of this so add that to the poop soup and you get quite the mess.
Thank god there was beer waiting for us and we finally got to enjoy one on the patio as we attempted to relax and plan the next few days. To our dismay, there was not just one but several fires burning the park as-well-as the state and it really pissed on our parade.
On our first full day my parents took us up to Old Faithful to check out the scenery and the impressive lodge but it was choked with Labor Day travelers.
Note to self: DO NOT GO TO YELLOWSTONE DURING A HOLIDAY.
We got the hell out of there and drove home, and I wished we'd stopped to take pictures a little more because that day proved to be the only one with a hint of a blue sky that wasn't covered in smoke painting every scenery with a nasty haze which then caused me to take copious amounts of Benedryl that I have since discovered is not tolerated well by my delicate system and results in said delicate system being pulverized into a painful goo which would reveal itself not when I was lounging around the house for hours and hours mere feet from a toilet but as soon as I was trapped in a car speeding past open plains or dense forest containing nothing but barbed wire fencing and killer moose for miles and miles and miles, you'll see.
(And perhaps I should have heeded whitey's warning when he told me that Benedryl-type stuff makes him "shit liquid" which was valuable information coming from the man who can eat gas station mayo-slathered meat expired by 10 days that's been left on the hood of his car in the noon-day sun in the middle of summer washed down with moonshine and a pickled egg chaser. So why I thought me, the girl who bloats into Violet Beauregard like she'd been pumped full of castor oil and hooked up to an airhose if I merely glance at an innocent stem of broccoli or consume one too many sips of red wine, could buy drugs at the Conoco and eat them like candy.)
The next day we went out on our own and this is where God Damn Stupid Angry Guts reared their angry heads. We were cruising along the lake making our way to a famous earthquake area and stopping here and there to take pictures. Just as we got back into the car for the 3rd time I felt an unfortunate cramp in my lower half. Uh oh. This could be bad.
I put my foot through the floor and hastily said something about the pretty lake, here's where the earthquake was, try to spot and eagle, oh shit oh shit oh shit. I made it to the park-sponsored Quake Lake lookout pavilion thingy and spotted the bathroom building with the red curb in front. Fuck the red curb, this was an emergency. I put the car in neutral and hopped out while saying "GO PARK THE AHH EHH UH CAR GO!".
And then a snotty little skinny ranger bitch tried to yell at us that "you can't park here" and I yelled back as I clenched my ass cheeks together and tried to shuffle to the potty "DO YOU SEE THE ENGINE RUNNING? YES? THEN WE'RE NOT PARKED!" And I might have muttered something under my breath about her being a stupid bitch but the important thing is I made it and everything was OK.
On our third full day of the trip I had an appointment for a massage and nutritional counseling from the very knowledgeable and very intense granola chickie in my parents town. Picture Pink in yoga pants. She's really good but a little scary and she could crush your skull with her bare hands. We went into the park in the afternoon and watched idiots get too close to wildlife and I'm not ashamed to admit that we started routing for the animals to take someone down. Nothing fatal, mind you, just a little ramming sending Bill from Wisconsin on his ass. (We would later turn into one of these idiots.)
On our way home we stopped by the Grizzly Discovery Center where we were almost alone so it was nice and quiet. They have rescued wolves as well as bears and the doggies were all agitated about something. Perhaps being confined to a too-small area. Don't know. The bears were lazy but close enough to impress us with 3 inch claws.
Our last full day we'd planned to drive the big loop all around Yellowstone. This was by far the worst day regarding the air quality and conditions. Everything was so hazy it was a total bummer. All of my pictures taken of anything more than 10 feet away look like I rubbed vaseline on the lens. I felt really bad for whitey since he was getting a pretty crappy rendition of a place I love so much and is usually so beautiful but he's a trooper and still appreciated what we saw.
We woke up way too late and scrambled to get out of the house. I was praying my tummy would play nice, which, big surprise! It did not. We'd made it about 20 miles into the park and were planning on getting up to Mammoth by skipping another area called Norris. Just as I'd past a rest stop God Damn Stupid Angry Guts made another warrior cry. OH NO! I thought. This one was bad.
I whipped our SUV around and screamed back to the glorified porto-john and saw a maintenence guy sitting in his truck out front. I panicked. Oh god, is this thing closed or something? I quickly asked if I could use the bathroom and he grunted at me that yes I could but there was a line. Where did all of these fucking people come from? There were at least 3 in front of me and I know I didn't have that kind of time.
So, my head exploded a little and I blurted out with wild eyes and a crazy face, "please, I beg of you, this is an emergency, CAN I PLEASE GO FIRST??". The 2 women and one man looked at me like I had a human head in my hands then the man said something to the women in German. Oh fuck, I though, they don't speak English. One women said something back to him then he said something like, "Crazen Murican poopin shootin" and they all laughed and he turned to me and said I could go first. Which, let me tell you, was still no prize because that toilet was nastier than all the shitters in all the bars in Tijuana. But hell, I made it once again.
I spent the next 40 minutes thinking about trying not to think about having another emergency. We made it to Mammoth and didn't get to spend as much time there as I'd have liked but it was impressive nonetheless. We decided to stop at the little village there to pee and maybe get a bite to eat but the smell of food churned my stomach one more crank and as everyone was enjoying ice cream from the general store I was chugging pepto bismol. Good times!
The Pink Stuff started working right away, much to my relief, and we proceeded to see some of the most breath-taking scenery in the world. Totally ruined by smoke, of course, but spectacular anyway. Our main goal was seeing animals and this day was no disappointment. In addition to the bald eagle we saw 5 miles into the trip, and the giant bull elk with his posse of bitches, we ran into a trio of deer munching leaves on the side of the road.
Inbetween waterfalls, one bogus 20 minute pull-over for an invisible fake wolf, and one petrified tree we saw a moose and tons of bison and then we hit the jackpot. Whenever you see a gazillion cars precariously pulled over you know they're looking at something. This is what the locals call a "bear jam" even if it's not for a bear. Well, sucka's, this time it was!
I looked up into a tree and there I saw two furry black feet hanging down and another black lump further up. I grabbed the camera and shot as many pic's as I could without driving us over the cliff on our right. I was forced to slow down anyway and managed to take a few good ones before the very cranky ranger waved me on. I glanced back once and spotted the mama bear hanging out on the ground under her babies. Score!
We rounded the corner and I happened to see some movement down an embankment and lucky for us there was a pull-out right there. So I ripped the car over and said "oh my god, I think there's another bear!". Then we jumped out and ran over to the edge and got like 30 feet from a foraging black bear like the big idiots we are since you're supposed to give any bear a 25 yard berth. Oops.
My new camera decided to be a fucking whore and only focus on the weeds right in front of me. I was getting really pissed and growled "mother fucker!" Then the stupid lady who was crowding my ass getting in my way thought I was yelling at her and she squeaked "I'm sorry" but I wasn't talking to her but realized I'd scared her pretty good and I love doing that because I'm evil so it made me laugh.
I did manage to get some good shots, ah, which I'm not showing you so I guess it's stupid to talk about them, but take my word for it! They're incredible! The bear started getting a little close and a million people caught on and we got surrounded so we left. And not 2 more miles down the road we saw another gaggle of tourons pulled over so we joined them and I snapped another black bear right before it went off into the trees! 5 bears within 5 miles. Unbelievable.
We spent the rest of our drive in the park stopping here and there and then I got freaked because the sun was going down and I'm totally afraid I'm going to take out an elk baby or something and do not want to drive in the dark in that kind of country. But we made it home before the sun set so all was good.
The next morning my parents dropped us off at the airport to pick up our rental car for the drive to Great Falls to see whitey's mom. My tummy was still wonky but I tried to stay chill and not worry too much. And eating nothing helps so I did that. Our trip up was good and we made record time and I didn't poop my pants in the car!
We pulled up in front of his mom's cute little house in a cute little neighborhood and I didn't give myself time to get nervous. She was a ball of energy and super cool, just like her son. Her house was an endless supply of visual entertainment because people, this lady is a pack rat like you've never seen. Bless her sweet heart, but good grief, no one needs 29 cases of Pepsi!
She does have a lot of cool collections and we spent the next 2 days looking through pictures and river crystals and fossils and shit. She even has a whole room dedicated to Mickey stuff. Like, 10,000 pieces of Mickey stuff. It's impressive to say the least. We also did a bit of shopping and went to the Charlie Russell museum which was pretty fun. I was starting to majorly run out of steam by this point and should have gone with my instincts and STAYED AWAY FROM THE SUPER MEGA INCREDIBLE BLOODY CESARS WHITEY MADE. But nooooooo, I'm weak to the drink and had 2.
And 2 is all is took to kick the God Damn Stupid Angry Guts back into high gear. Pair that with the mystery meat pasta I ate for dinner and by the next morning I was in big, big trouble. We met up with his grandma for breakfast, who is a total spitfire too, and I had to excuse myself twice to go to the less-then-desirable bathroom. Hi, nice to meet you, I have the shits.
We were so ready to come home and I was wiped out so I asked if we could hang out at the house until we needed to go to the airport. Where I proceeded to make my way to bathroom every 29 minutes for the next 3 hours. Hi, thanks for having us, I ruined your plumbing. Whitey was very sweet about it and I did the smart thing by swigging more Pepto hoping that it would kick in by the time we had to fly.
It was finally time to go and while I was worried I was thankful to be going home. We got to the airport, dropped off the car, waited for 30 minutes while the Avis chick fixed the gross overcharges on our bill, then headed to the Delta check-in desk. And without further ado, the anti-luck that both he and I share that gets exponentially worse when we're together, our flight was CANCELLED as we were standing there.
Yea, yea, mechanical problems, grounded plane in another city, thanks for saving our lives, but it was the last fucking flight of the fucking day and we wanted to get fucking home!
Of course I start crying, whitey starts swearing, and the slower-than-molasses counter people acted like they'd never seen such a dilemma and oh my stars what do we do? They're trying to tell us that we can fly the next morning but hell no, we cannot, because I need my bed and my kitties and my own toilet! Our only alternative is to try and catch the last flight out of Helena.
Helena.
90 miles away, Helena.
Fuck.
Well, thank GOD whitey's mom came to see us off and we asked her if she could get us there. She agreed to give it a shot and we jumped into her 1986 Eagle, I shit you not, an Eagle, and took off.
His grandma had shown up too so she was in the car with us. I was so petrified that my stomach wouldn't cooperate and we were both so worried about not making it that whitey and I couldn't speak for an hour. Not to mention that I'm the worst passenger in the entire world and we had to scream through a 20 mile canyon of sharp curves in a car that felt like it was held together with superglue and masking tape. I thought I broke his hand at one point I was squeezing so hard.
But god damn if super-mama and her little car didn't get us there in the nick of time! We left Great Falls at 3:30 and jumped out the car in Helena at 4:40. That's some type of record in my book.
I still demand that she gets rid of that car, though. It's a death trap! But viva la eagle!!
We ran into the airport screaming "we're here, we're here" and got looked at like we were crazy. I wanted to say, crazed people, not crazy, crazed. The snotty counter guy checked our bags and we breezed through security with 2 minutes to spare before we boarded the plane. With one minor issue to clear up in our connecting airport (dumbasses in Great Falls rebooked our connecting flight and had us sitting 5 rows apart), we made it home safe and sound.
Despite my, ahem, challenges, we did have a great time and I love that man even more. The kitties were in good shape, although Boo yelled at us for 2 days straight, and we survived our first "trip" together.
And I can't wait for the next one.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
WTF??
Before I write up the hilarious and entertaining posts about vacation and my many, many trips to strange bathrooms can I just take a moment to say WTF?
W? T? F?
WHAT? THE? FUCK??
WTF America? WTF Canada? WTF you stupid, stupid tards with voting abilities??
What is wrong with you? Do you have NO EARS? Do you enjoy the sounds of small animals being crushed through meat grinders?? Have you LOST YOUR MINDS?
It was bad enough sitting through this show every week, then suffering through the kick-off show the next night. The combination was more painful than running naked through a gaggle of cactus then falling into a pool filled with lemon juice and perm solution while someone smokes a pelt of cat hair and blows it in your face.
But I at least held out the hope that the right person would be chosen. Especially since there was only ONE CLEAR WINNER FROM THE VERY BEGINNING!!
But NOOOOOOOOOOO. My hopes were in vain because PEOPLE ARE STUPID. THE SHOW WAS STUPID. TOMMY LEE MAKES STUPID PEOPLE LOOK LIKE EINSTEIN'S PROFESSOR.
The posers. The lameness. The eyeshadow. The over-affected wanna-be fuckface annoying stupid "singers". We were tortured all summer for what? FOR WHAT? FOR THE MOST IDIOTIC, ANNOYING BUTTHOLE FROM YOUR HIGH SCHOOL DRAMA CLASS WHO SOUNDS LIKE A WARBLING, DRUNKEN KATHERINE HEPBURN CALLING FOR THE FUCKING LOONS AS THE WINNER!?! THE WINNER??!!
I want my 11 weeks back, assholes.
AND DAVE NAVARRO!!
BUTTON YOUR GOD DAMN SHIRT!!
W? T? F?
WHAT? THE? FUCK??
WTF America? WTF Canada? WTF you stupid, stupid tards with voting abilities??
What is wrong with you? Do you have NO EARS? Do you enjoy the sounds of small animals being crushed through meat grinders?? Have you LOST YOUR MINDS?
It was bad enough sitting through this show every week, then suffering through the kick-off show the next night. The combination was more painful than running naked through a gaggle of cactus then falling into a pool filled with lemon juice and perm solution while someone smokes a pelt of cat hair and blows it in your face.
But I at least held out the hope that the right person would be chosen. Especially since there was only ONE CLEAR WINNER FROM THE VERY BEGINNING!!
But NOOOOOOOOOOO. My hopes were in vain because PEOPLE ARE STUPID. THE SHOW WAS STUPID. TOMMY LEE MAKES STUPID PEOPLE LOOK LIKE EINSTEIN'S PROFESSOR.
The posers. The lameness. The eyeshadow. The over-affected wanna-be fuckface annoying stupid "singers". We were tortured all summer for what? FOR WHAT? FOR THE MOST IDIOTIC, ANNOYING BUTTHOLE FROM YOUR HIGH SCHOOL DRAMA CLASS WHO SOUNDS LIKE A WARBLING, DRUNKEN KATHERINE HEPBURN CALLING FOR THE FUCKING LOONS AS THE WINNER!?! THE WINNER??!!
I want my 11 weeks back, assholes.
AND DAVE NAVARRO!!
BUTTON YOUR GOD DAMN SHIRT!!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
I'm back. Barely.
Ah yes. Vacation. That thing that's supposed to relax and refresh. Spending an extended period of time away from work, the daily grind, cat puke. Adventure. Excitement. Bliss. Sweet memories created to last a lifetime.
Except when you spend it with family.
And you have the shits.
Details forthcoming.
Except when you spend it with family.
And you have the shits.
Details forthcoming.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Out for repairs
No, not another one of those posts. I swear! And just when I had a million things to say I'm leaving again.
But this time it's a good thing! My baby and I are taking a much, oh my god you have no idea how much, needed vacation. We're going to Montana to visit our 'rents and harass bison in Yellowstone. We both deserve this time off and are looking forward to some restin' and relaxin' and bow chica bow bow in the woods.
I'll be back in a week and will have an arsenal of rants and stories to tell I'm sure. And hopefully some kick-ass photos with my new camera.
Be good. Play nice. Don't take any shit. I'll miss you.
Later!
But this time it's a good thing! My baby and I are taking a much, oh my god you have no idea how much, needed vacation. We're going to Montana to visit our 'rents and harass bison in Yellowstone. We both deserve this time off and are looking forward to some restin' and relaxin' and bow chica bow bow in the woods.
I'll be back in a week and will have an arsenal of rants and stories to tell I'm sure. And hopefully some kick-ass photos with my new camera.
Be good. Play nice. Don't take any shit. I'll miss you.
Later!
Thursday, August 31, 2006
A new day
Thank you all who left me comments. My readership has grown from 4 to 8 and that's all the proof I need that I MUST. KEEP. GOING. Actually, about 30 seconds after posting the previous (and somewhat pathetic) entry I had about 9 things I wanted to talk about and then felt like an asshole because I'd just said I didn't know if I wanted to keep going and then I smacked myself in my dumb head thinking I could pull the whiny post or post something new right away and pretend that the whiny post didn't exist but then thought no, that would also be dumb because I figured some people had already read it and I don't like pulling the words I've committed to and I'd recently pulled another post that although I thought was funny even if it was a wee bit over-the-top love-fest for Pamprin and when you're smack dab in the middle of the Pamprin Days if someone doesn't give you accolades in one half of one second you cry a little then get hot about the face and maybe blush bright red and pull the post down convinced that you are unfunny in all manners of funny and man, was that dumb too.
However, another round of Pamprin Days were partially to blame for my plunge into writing despair and rendering of garments over my measly comments, not that I don't appreciate the one I do have, don't have a cow, and I reserve the right to flip-flop back and repost it. Because it was kinda funny and I can't help it if I'm suddenly overcome with feelings because I'm convinced I have a Niagara Falls supply of them and it's not my fault.
Are you still with me?
My point is, I guess I should employ the swimming-after-a-big-meal rule and NOT POST whatever despair is scrolling across my brain at the very moment it's happening.
Have crazy, whiny thought, wait 1 hour before posting.
I'm going to have that carved onto a chunk of wood, apply 10 layers of shallac and hang it above my monitor. Not-to-mention I'm pretty sure I heard a collective eyeroll of the internet at yet another person boo-hooing over something stupid and trivial. I get that. Still doesn't excuse you from lovingly stroking my insane ego, though. ~points finger at you who did a drive-by reading~
So, therefore and another thing, I've changed my mind. It's something I do often. Well, it's more like I've swirled around again in a complete circle like a turd in the bowl wanting to write and having some confidence about it and realizing that I should be writing for me and it's just icing on my cake if anyone reads and likes it and why do I need so much god damn outside fucking feedback anyway what are you Anna Nichole? "Lack mah wratting?"
And I need to suck it up and accept the fact that some bloggers are hugly popular and got that way from a host of approaches and reasons and maybe just dumb luck and who cares if I'm not one of them? Well, I do, but not all the time. And if I can make one person smile or laugh or think than it's all worth it so just stop expecting anything you lovely moron.
~swirl~ ~swirl~
I'm insane. But I'm cute insane so it's OK. So, for the time-being, I will not say goodbye. There's really no reason for this stupidity except my own insecurities which are my own damage. Luckily they are a smaller percentage that my ass-kickingness so insecurities, fuck off. I have some stories to tell. And that's that. I will continue to wrestle with my demons and you'll get to watch it all.
Crisis averted. Chocolate consumed. There will be no quitting. Amen.
_________________________________________________________
I had an epiphany last weekend. We'll see how long that lasts, ~swirl swirl~, but for now I'm still riding high. Ha, riding.
I almost died, you see, and I'm feeling the appreciation of still being here in one piece and for the luck I had on Saturday. I've mentioned before that I ride horses. Hunter jumpers to be exact. I've been doing this for years after learning how to ride as an adult. (Even though I grew up in horse country I was raised to fear them [thanks dad!] and carried that fear until I was in college where they had a stables and riding classes and I was weakened by an almost constant state of hangover, and I fell in love with it.)
I ride every Saturday in a lesson which is a mixture of therapy, commaraderie, and exercise. It's extremely important to me on many levels. I literally do not feel the same for the whole week if I don't get to ride on Saturday. I've had to take week after week off as my physical therapist tries to fix old injuries that have decided to flare up and render me cranky, in chronic pain, and set me up for a life of immobility if I don't do something about it now. Which, no fucking way will I let that happen if I can help it. Because of this I've skipped a lot of Saturdays this summer and I don't like it. Makes for one extra Princess Crankypants.
I'm taking September off for a few reasons so last weekend would be my last lesson for awhile and there was no way I was skipping it. Everything was going great. The weather was warm but not unbearable, my horse was behaving and we were almost done. One last excercise and we were finished. I had the bright idea to canter a serpintine pattern across the ring and just before we were done. KABOOM. My horse tripped and I ATE SHIT.
It was hhe scariest tumble I've ever had. My horse tripped and did a full face-plant into the dirt, both of his knees hitting the ground which then caused me to smash my face and chest into his neck and head. I literally saw my life flash before my eyes and my first thought was, oh fuck, we're both going to do a front sommersault with him landing on top of me and this could be the end of either one of us or both.
But that good boy managed to yank his front end up before he went all the way down. Unfortunately my centrifugal force of falling forward paired with his swinging head flung me all the way over and I landed on my back with a thud. I'd like to think it was very Cirque du Soleil. With horse poop.
Thankfully, a million times thankfully, I was pretty close to the ground and the landing wasn't too bad. I thought at first I'd broken my jaw and my neck muscles and shoulder blades were screaming and my chest was on fire. But I caught my breath and realized I think I was, for the most part, OK. My eyes wouldn't focus too well but I figured that was from adrenaline.
We checked out my horse and despite a small chunk taken out of one knee and nostriles full of sand, he was ok too. I got back on and we walked around a bit then called it a day. We were very, very, very, very, very lucky. I've felt a little wacky all week so I might have a slight concussion, I have some nasty bruises and my right boob is off limits, but still feel Lucky. As. Hell.
Nothing like a near-death experience to make you remember that life is precious and you'd better make the god damn best of it. So I went and bought me a fancy new Nikon D50 digital 35mm SLR camera with a Quantaray lens.
Fuckit, life is too short and I wanted it. Deserved it. And got it.
And it made me smile.
However, another round of Pamprin Days were partially to blame for my plunge into writing despair and rendering of garments over my measly comments, not that I don't appreciate the one I do have, don't have a cow, and I reserve the right to flip-flop back and repost it. Because it was kinda funny and I can't help it if I'm suddenly overcome with feelings because I'm convinced I have a Niagara Falls supply of them and it's not my fault.
Are you still with me?
My point is, I guess I should employ the swimming-after-a-big-meal rule and NOT POST whatever despair is scrolling across my brain at the very moment it's happening.
Have crazy, whiny thought, wait 1 hour before posting.
I'm going to have that carved onto a chunk of wood, apply 10 layers of shallac and hang it above my monitor. Not-to-mention I'm pretty sure I heard a collective eyeroll of the internet at yet another person boo-hooing over something stupid and trivial. I get that. Still doesn't excuse you from lovingly stroking my insane ego, though. ~points finger at you who did a drive-by reading~
So, therefore and another thing, I've changed my mind. It's something I do often. Well, it's more like I've swirled around again in a complete circle like a turd in the bowl wanting to write and having some confidence about it and realizing that I should be writing for me and it's just icing on my cake if anyone reads and likes it and why do I need so much god damn outside fucking feedback anyway what are you Anna Nichole? "Lack mah wratting?"
And I need to suck it up and accept the fact that some bloggers are hugly popular and got that way from a host of approaches and reasons and maybe just dumb luck and who cares if I'm not one of them? Well, I do, but not all the time. And if I can make one person smile or laugh or think than it's all worth it so just stop expecting anything you lovely moron.
~swirl~ ~swirl~
I'm insane. But I'm cute insane so it's OK. So, for the time-being, I will not say goodbye. There's really no reason for this stupidity except my own insecurities which are my own damage. Luckily they are a smaller percentage that my ass-kickingness so insecurities, fuck off. I have some stories to tell. And that's that. I will continue to wrestle with my demons and you'll get to watch it all.
Crisis averted. Chocolate consumed. There will be no quitting. Amen.
_________________________________________________________
I had an epiphany last weekend. We'll see how long that lasts, ~swirl swirl~, but for now I'm still riding high. Ha, riding.
I almost died, you see, and I'm feeling the appreciation of still being here in one piece and for the luck I had on Saturday. I've mentioned before that I ride horses. Hunter jumpers to be exact. I've been doing this for years after learning how to ride as an adult. (Even though I grew up in horse country I was raised to fear them [thanks dad!] and carried that fear until I was in college where they had a stables and riding classes and I was weakened by an almost constant state of hangover, and I fell in love with it.)
I ride every Saturday in a lesson which is a mixture of therapy, commaraderie, and exercise. It's extremely important to me on many levels. I literally do not feel the same for the whole week if I don't get to ride on Saturday. I've had to take week after week off as my physical therapist tries to fix old injuries that have decided to flare up and render me cranky, in chronic pain, and set me up for a life of immobility if I don't do something about it now. Which, no fucking way will I let that happen if I can help it. Because of this I've skipped a lot of Saturdays this summer and I don't like it. Makes for one extra Princess Crankypants.
I'm taking September off for a few reasons so last weekend would be my last lesson for awhile and there was no way I was skipping it. Everything was going great. The weather was warm but not unbearable, my horse was behaving and we were almost done. One last excercise and we were finished. I had the bright idea to canter a serpintine pattern across the ring and just before we were done. KABOOM. My horse tripped and I ATE SHIT.
It was hhe scariest tumble I've ever had. My horse tripped and did a full face-plant into the dirt, both of his knees hitting the ground which then caused me to smash my face and chest into his neck and head. I literally saw my life flash before my eyes and my first thought was, oh fuck, we're both going to do a front sommersault with him landing on top of me and this could be the end of either one of us or both.
But that good boy managed to yank his front end up before he went all the way down. Unfortunately my centrifugal force of falling forward paired with his swinging head flung me all the way over and I landed on my back with a thud. I'd like to think it was very Cirque du Soleil. With horse poop.
Thankfully, a million times thankfully, I was pretty close to the ground and the landing wasn't too bad. I thought at first I'd broken my jaw and my neck muscles and shoulder blades were screaming and my chest was on fire. But I caught my breath and realized I think I was, for the most part, OK. My eyes wouldn't focus too well but I figured that was from adrenaline.
We checked out my horse and despite a small chunk taken out of one knee and nostriles full of sand, he was ok too. I got back on and we walked around a bit then called it a day. We were very, very, very, very, very lucky. I've felt a little wacky all week so I might have a slight concussion, I have some nasty bruises and my right boob is off limits, but still feel Lucky. As. Hell.
Nothing like a near-death experience to make you remember that life is precious and you'd better make the god damn best of it. So I went and bought me a fancy new Nikon D50 digital 35mm SLR camera with a Quantaray lens.
Fuckit, life is too short and I wanted it. Deserved it. And got it.
And it made me smile.
Friday, August 25, 2006
So ah....yea....
This whole blog thing? I dunno...I just don't know.
I'm not sure it's working out.
Feeling a bit inadequate.
Maybe 2 years is enough.
Maybe.
I'm not sure it's working out.
Feeling a bit inadequate.
Maybe 2 years is enough.
Maybe.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A few tidbits of advice
Smashing a whole, blackened banana into your hair as a homemade backwater low-rent conditioner then sitting out in the sun for an hour does not enhance the luster of your hair in any way. It turns into a paste similar to quick-set cement and you'll be picking banana fiber off your skull for approximately 7 days or 20 washings. Whichever comes first.
Do not get drunk and decide it's a good time to go "pet the horses" at midnight by climbing into their dark pasture. The thunderous sound of hooves will not feel good across your Reebok hightops and you might likely die while wearing neon blue spandex "running" pants even though the only time you've ever "run" is when you were being chased by a rabid duck at the lake.
Do not rely on the sexual inexperience of your boyfriend who wants to experiment with the South Pole Hole and thinks spit is a sufficient lubricant.
When the man offers you a helmet, pay the rental fee.
Do not let your friends ride on your hood as you do doughnuts in the high school parking lot. They'll scratch the shit out of your paint and their parents will be really mad at you when they get back from the emergency room.
Peach flavored wine colors apparently sting freshly shaved balls.
Your girlfriend will not find it festive after you drink all of the Malibu rum and shove the hook end of a red ball ornament from the Christmas tree through your lobe while yelling "Hey baby, I pierced my ear" as blood flows down your neck at an alarming speed.
Yes. I do know the size of your dick. She told me. They all told me. Get used to it.
Denny's waitresses do not think it's funny to receive a nickel tip under a turned over full glass of water.
Never mess with one of those rifle-flipper chicks in the school band. She'll fuck you up two ways to Sunday.
Do not put your nose on the open vial when a stranger says "hey, smell this". You're next memory will be waking up in a pile of some boys dirty laundry while you try to extricate your left leg from between the washer and dryer.
Stop and go to the bathroom when you have the chance. Then the people at the gas station won't be hollering through the door while you're throwing away your "oops" underwear.
Cashews DO NOT soak up alcohol.
If you get crazy glue on your finger do not panic and try to get it off with your thumb. You will have effectively made a useless lobster claw and it's impossible to dial a fucking phone.
Do not put the vacuum attachment hose around your mouth. You'll end up with a red mark akin to ring-worm for about a week.
There's a reason why girls bikes don't have the middle bar. Nuff said.
When the crazy costume lady making your outfit for your friends Ren Faire wedding asks if you'd like a "little cleavage" tell her no. You will end up with the nickname The Bike Rack.
Do not eat a tuna melt from the lunch truck and sushi from the grocery store on the same day. The dude doing your IV in the ER the next morning will make fun of you.
Never give a crazy stalker man your home phone number.
Never snort Sweet-n-Low from your fingernail. Not even for comic effect. Especially when no one laughs.
Do not marry the man who routinely does the Silence of the Lambs penis tuck. There's something very, very wrong with him.
Do not wait longer than 30 seconds after turning on the gas to light the bar-b-que. Unless you enjoy the smell of burnt hair.
Do not put the drunk girl in charge of making sure the ribs don't burn. You will, in fact, be eating burned ribs.
Do not attempt your first front somersault off the diving board after consuming said burnt ribs with a six pack of cheap beer. You will puke black coal.
Dust busters will not suck up cat barf and you will ruin the dust buster.
Proclaiming with pride to your girlfriend, in the middle of her third time having sex ever, "I think that's the whole enchilada" is NOT romantic. She will get you back with perhaps a peach wine cooler sometime in the future.
Do not get drunk and decide it's a good time to go "pet the horses" at midnight by climbing into their dark pasture. The thunderous sound of hooves will not feel good across your Reebok hightops and you might likely die while wearing neon blue spandex "running" pants even though the only time you've ever "run" is when you were being chased by a rabid duck at the lake.
Do not rely on the sexual inexperience of your boyfriend who wants to experiment with the South Pole Hole and thinks spit is a sufficient lubricant.
When the man offers you a helmet, pay the rental fee.
Do not let your friends ride on your hood as you do doughnuts in the high school parking lot. They'll scratch the shit out of your paint and their parents will be really mad at you when they get back from the emergency room.
Peach flavored wine colors apparently sting freshly shaved balls.
Your girlfriend will not find it festive after you drink all of the Malibu rum and shove the hook end of a red ball ornament from the Christmas tree through your lobe while yelling "Hey baby, I pierced my ear" as blood flows down your neck at an alarming speed.
Yes. I do know the size of your dick. She told me. They all told me. Get used to it.
Denny's waitresses do not think it's funny to receive a nickel tip under a turned over full glass of water.
Never mess with one of those rifle-flipper chicks in the school band. She'll fuck you up two ways to Sunday.
Do not put your nose on the open vial when a stranger says "hey, smell this". You're next memory will be waking up in a pile of some boys dirty laundry while you try to extricate your left leg from between the washer and dryer.
Stop and go to the bathroom when you have the chance. Then the people at the gas station won't be hollering through the door while you're throwing away your "oops" underwear.
Cashews DO NOT soak up alcohol.
If you get crazy glue on your finger do not panic and try to get it off with your thumb. You will have effectively made a useless lobster claw and it's impossible to dial a fucking phone.
Do not put the vacuum attachment hose around your mouth. You'll end up with a red mark akin to ring-worm for about a week.
There's a reason why girls bikes don't have the middle bar. Nuff said.
When the crazy costume lady making your outfit for your friends Ren Faire wedding asks if you'd like a "little cleavage" tell her no. You will end up with the nickname The Bike Rack.
Do not eat a tuna melt from the lunch truck and sushi from the grocery store on the same day. The dude doing your IV in the ER the next morning will make fun of you.
Never give a crazy stalker man your home phone number.
Never snort Sweet-n-Low from your fingernail. Not even for comic effect. Especially when no one laughs.
Do not marry the man who routinely does the Silence of the Lambs penis tuck. There's something very, very wrong with him.
Do not wait longer than 30 seconds after turning on the gas to light the bar-b-que. Unless you enjoy the smell of burnt hair.
Do not put the drunk girl in charge of making sure the ribs don't burn. You will, in fact, be eating burned ribs.
Do not attempt your first front somersault off the diving board after consuming said burnt ribs with a six pack of cheap beer. You will puke black coal.
Dust busters will not suck up cat barf and you will ruin the dust buster.
Proclaiming with pride to your girlfriend, in the middle of her third time having sex ever, "I think that's the whole enchilada" is NOT romantic. She will get you back with perhaps a peach wine cooler sometime in the future.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Eureka!
Dear Medical Community,
I would like to inform you of my incredibly exciting and progressive discovery that answers age-old questions and resolves the mystery that so many of us have struggled with for years. After, just to name a few, more doctors appointments, consultations, painful and/or embarrassing tests, surgeries, lost test results, unreturned phone messages, unanswered questions, rolls of eyes, condescending speeches, nasty office staff, and fuckass god complex patronizing careless asshole experiences, I present to you with all the confidence of someone who's seen enough and had even more than that, my diagnosis of any and all of those who have taken the oath to first and foremost do no harm and you can hardly even manage that on a good day.
98% of you are suffering from the following:
Ego·ti·tis - Pronunciation = ee-go-tye-tis - n.
Latin - fateous headous or swollenium skullium
An excessive inflammation of the ego, caused by infectious or toxic agents in the conceit lobe of the brain, characterized by pompous behavior, excessive frowning, engorged cranium, and disdainful attitudes.
Symptoms and Signs
Egotitis, also known as butthead disease, is characterized by a variable degree of cranial enlargement, absence of sympathy, and a self-limited understanding of patients feelings, often followed by dismissive demeanors, rude behavior, surly staff, unsupportive or fearful inclinations towards patient self-education and the internet, un-returned phone calls, and incessant blathering on and on and on.
Egotitis is due to a depleted empathy node and a possibly fractured sympathy bone.
Diagnosis
Egotitis is relatively easy to diagnose although unfortunately rarely treated successfully. Determinations of egotitis are frequently made by the patient after an off-handed or condescending remark has been said. However, some medical personnel have an obvious affliction upon first glance. This can be supported by the observance of an upturned nose or a noticeable scowl. The eyes might travel from the patients head to toes with a disapproving grunt. Most notably, a patient will be asked a question and repeatedly interupteded by physician when attempting to reply. These sufferers should be avoided at all costs, as this will affect patients mental and possible physical well-being.
Treatment and Prognosis
Since egotitis is a self-limited transient disorder lasting an unknown amount of time, treatment is conservative, usually requiring a change of physician for best results. Anti-egotitis drugs are not currently available, although trials are being conducted in my home laboratory (a.k.a. laundry room.) Surgical treatment is only an option when removal is required of a well-placed foot from infected physicians buttocks after a particular pretentious episode has occurred with a severely pissed of client.
Most doctors are terminal, however, some, with intensive verbal lashings and/or required attendance at patient care conferences where they are publicly flogged and verbally bashed, or if the physician becomes a patient themselves and gets treated like a chart and not a person, can overcome this ailment. However, more trials are necessary at this time since this disease has undoubtedly been around for centuries and it will take a virtual miracle to eradicate.
Recommendations
If you are treated like a stupid cow, have symptoms ignored, or are patted on the head as if a small, drooling child, chuck the jerk and find a new doc. Find a new office. Find a new way.
This is your body. You are in charge of it.
I would like to inform you of my incredibly exciting and progressive discovery that answers age-old questions and resolves the mystery that so many of us have struggled with for years. After, just to name a few, more doctors appointments, consultations, painful and/or embarrassing tests, surgeries, lost test results, unreturned phone messages, unanswered questions, rolls of eyes, condescending speeches, nasty office staff, and fuckass god complex patronizing careless asshole experiences, I present to you with all the confidence of someone who's seen enough and had even more than that, my diagnosis of any and all of those who have taken the oath to first and foremost do no harm and you can hardly even manage that on a good day.
98% of you are suffering from the following:
Ego·ti·tis - Pronunciation = ee-go-tye-tis - n.
Latin - fateous headous or swollenium skullium
An excessive inflammation of the ego, caused by infectious or toxic agents in the conceit lobe of the brain, characterized by pompous behavior, excessive frowning, engorged cranium, and disdainful attitudes.
Symptoms and Signs
Egotitis, also known as butthead disease, is characterized by a variable degree of cranial enlargement, absence of sympathy, and a self-limited understanding of patients feelings, often followed by dismissive demeanors, rude behavior, surly staff, unsupportive or fearful inclinations towards patient self-education and the internet, un-returned phone calls, and incessant blathering on and on and on.
Egotitis is due to a depleted empathy node and a possibly fractured sympathy bone.
Diagnosis
Egotitis is relatively easy to diagnose although unfortunately rarely treated successfully. Determinations of egotitis are frequently made by the patient after an off-handed or condescending remark has been said. However, some medical personnel have an obvious affliction upon first glance. This can be supported by the observance of an upturned nose or a noticeable scowl. The eyes might travel from the patients head to toes with a disapproving grunt. Most notably, a patient will be asked a question and repeatedly interupteded by physician when attempting to reply. These sufferers should be avoided at all costs, as this will affect patients mental and possible physical well-being.
Treatment and Prognosis
Since egotitis is a self-limited transient disorder lasting an unknown amount of time, treatment is conservative, usually requiring a change of physician for best results. Anti-egotitis drugs are not currently available, although trials are being conducted in my home laboratory (a.k.a. laundry room.) Surgical treatment is only an option when removal is required of a well-placed foot from infected physicians buttocks after a particular pretentious episode has occurred with a severely pissed of client.
Most doctors are terminal, however, some, with intensive verbal lashings and/or required attendance at patient care conferences where they are publicly flogged and verbally bashed, or if the physician becomes a patient themselves and gets treated like a chart and not a person, can overcome this ailment. However, more trials are necessary at this time since this disease has undoubtedly been around for centuries and it will take a virtual miracle to eradicate.
Recommendations
If you are treated like a stupid cow, have symptoms ignored, or are patted on the head as if a small, drooling child, chuck the jerk and find a new doc. Find a new office. Find a new way.
This is your body. You are in charge of it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Tricked you!
Today I was going to write about something completely different than what I'm really going to write about. You all narrowly escaped reading a depressing diatribe of depression and the annals of my anxieties that I'm currently having but after a breakfast of chocolate and Ativan, and a little sumpin' sumpin' last night, I'm feeling a little better. Plus I have more half-cocked entries to clean up and make into a cohesive post that hopefully won't make people want to put a bullet in my (or their) brains from reading yet another "depression blog".
However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.
___________________________________________________
In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.
And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.
I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.
Alright, there is more to that one.
Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.
Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!
This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.
I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)
Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.
I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!
I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.
WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!
What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!
I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.
Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!
Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!
ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.
GAH. OOF. FUCK!!
I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.
However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.
And. I am stupid.
However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.
___________________________________________________
In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.
And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.
I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.
Alright, there is more to that one.
Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.
Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!
This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.
I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)
Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.
I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!
I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.
WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!
What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!
I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.
Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!
Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!
ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.
GAH. OOF. FUCK!!
I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.
However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.
And. I am stupid.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Wadded panties for everyone!
OK. Fine!! I'll stop ignoring you and write something. SHEESH. Have a cow, whydon'tcha. A girl can only take so many begging and pleading e-mails. Threatening phone calls. And one packaged unmentionable delivered by a poor, unsuspecting UPS man.
I am of course lying.
The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa
See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.
I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.
Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.
Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.
_______________________________________________________
I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.
The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.
After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)
To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.
This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.
Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;
"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"
And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;
"What's wrong?"
And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;
"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"
So I asked;
"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"
And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;
"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"
Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;
"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"
And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.
_______________________________________________________
I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.
She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.
Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.
_________________________________________________________
Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.
I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.
Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!
After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.
_____________________________________________________
Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.
First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.
Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.
Then there was the poo ball incident.
Yes, I said poo ball.
I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.
So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.
I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!
Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??
I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.
I am of course lying.
The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa
See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.
I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.
Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.
Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.
_______________________________________________________
I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.
The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.
After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)
To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.
This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.
Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;
"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"
And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;
"What's wrong?"
And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;
"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"
So I asked;
"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"
And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;
"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"
Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;
"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"
And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.
_______________________________________________________
I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.
She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.
Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.
_________________________________________________________
Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.
I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.
Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!
After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.
_____________________________________________________
Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.
First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.
Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.
Then there was the poo ball incident.
Yes, I said poo ball.
I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.
So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.
I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!
Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??
I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Rockstar: Superlame-o
Me: I bet her vagina has teeth.
Him: Yea, she'd totally eat your dick.
Me: She's so scary.
Him: I dig her.
Me: Totally. She rocks.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
On anniversaries
Tis the season for momentous occasions for me. June. July. August. September. Those months mark milestones. Important milestones. The holiday's I used to pay attention to, the ones that were marked on the calendar and waited for with anticipation, like normal people, have been replaced by the summer months and there's no damn presents involved. Dammit.
Today is especially, um, interesting? No. Poignant? No, that's not right. Melancholy. That seems to fit. I'll take melancholy for 500, Alex.
July 18th is the day I found out I had cancer. 3 years ago today my life changed forever in an instant. A horrible, crushing instant.
I wrote about it in here somewhere but I can't find the exact post and frankly I don't have the energy to go look for it. And I suspect I would cringe at some of the things I said and how I said them because I never like the finished product 100% and every time I re-read something I've written I find changes that should be made and am I not crazy enough already?
I do not live my life in a constant state of depression or negativity and I see you looking at me that way, I swear I do not. I'm a cranky crankypants but I laugh a lot and try to pay attention to good stuff. Last weekend I was overcome with a moment of happiness and I savored it for as long as I could.
On the flip side of Happytown is the reality of my existence and my life as it is now. More complications from this asshole disease than even I like to think about and the never-ending fear that I have lung cancer. Or breast cancer. Or butthole cancer. Or will get them someday. Or the thyroid cancer will come back, because unfortunately there's a good chance it will.
And I still don't feel good. After 3 motherfucking years, I still don't feel good. And on days like today, when the memories come flooding back like a busted pipe in the basement soaking all your keepsakes and treasures making the house stink of mildew and it's a fucking mess to clean up, I have a hard time keeping my head up.
On days like today the sky is not blue. The air is not cool. The sugar is not sweet.
On days like today the tears do not cleanse. The hugs do not comfort. The words do not mend.
On days like today I need to be sad. I need to reflect. I need to hurt.
And then I can move on.
After days like today. I will move on.
Today is especially, um, interesting? No. Poignant? No, that's not right. Melancholy. That seems to fit. I'll take melancholy for 500, Alex.
July 18th is the day I found out I had cancer. 3 years ago today my life changed forever in an instant. A horrible, crushing instant.
I wrote about it in here somewhere but I can't find the exact post and frankly I don't have the energy to go look for it. And I suspect I would cringe at some of the things I said and how I said them because I never like the finished product 100% and every time I re-read something I've written I find changes that should be made and am I not crazy enough already?
I do not live my life in a constant state of depression or negativity and I see you looking at me that way, I swear I do not. I'm a cranky crankypants but I laugh a lot and try to pay attention to good stuff. Last weekend I was overcome with a moment of happiness and I savored it for as long as I could.
On the flip side of Happytown is the reality of my existence and my life as it is now. More complications from this asshole disease than even I like to think about and the never-ending fear that I have lung cancer. Or breast cancer. Or butthole cancer. Or will get them someday. Or the thyroid cancer will come back, because unfortunately there's a good chance it will.
And I still don't feel good. After 3 motherfucking years, I still don't feel good. And on days like today, when the memories come flooding back like a busted pipe in the basement soaking all your keepsakes and treasures making the house stink of mildew and it's a fucking mess to clean up, I have a hard time keeping my head up.
On days like today the sky is not blue. The air is not cool. The sugar is not sweet.
On days like today the tears do not cleanse. The hugs do not comfort. The words do not mend.
On days like today I need to be sad. I need to reflect. I need to hurt.
And then I can move on.
After days like today. I will move on.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Some best laid plans...
We had big hair and loud shirts. Neon plastic wasn't just for traffic cones and fishnet adorned way too many body parts. I wouldn't be caught dead in a side ponytail but I wore my lavender moccasins out. Dolph Lundgren slept above my head and I saved my babysitting money to buy records. For a turntable. For records. That people now turn into servingware.
It was 1980-something and my best friend S. was turning 18. I thought I'd be the extremely nice person that I am, was, err, am (har) and throw her a surprise party. Our local pizza hangout had an upstairs loft that you could reserve and it was outfitted with a big screen complete with a Betamax, a Miss Pacman table game and had heavily lacquered wooden furniture that obnoxious teenagers couldn't (barely) hurt. It was the perfect place.
I managed to procure the private area for a Friday night and started planning the party. Invitations were sent to our core group of friends and a few new ones, the food was arranged, the decorations bought, and helpers recruited. It was looking like a good time to be had, even absent the wine coolers and clove cigarettes which would be consumed and smoked later that night. It was going to be very John Hughes. Very Breakfast Club. Very Cool. Well, except it was just pizza and not at school and we were drama nerds, but you get my drift.
S. had no clue what I was up to. I was totally stoked that I was hopefully going to pull this off. And I barely had to threaten anyone with a grizzly and bloody death if they flapped their lips and spoiled the surprise. I managed to weave an elaborate and expertly bullshitted story about the night and how S. needed to meet me at the pizza place rather than us going together as usual and arranged for another one of our friends to pick her up.
The night finally arrived and my helpers and I met early at the pizza place to decorate with streamers and birthday signs and balloons all in S's favorite colors. At the last minute I got the super mega brilliant idea to fill one of the balloons to capacity with glitter. Lot's of glitter. A metric ton of glitter.
My plan was to pop it over her head, imagining a beautiful scene of sparkles and silver snow gently floating over her strawberry blond tresses while she throws back her head and squeals with laughter, slowly spinning in a circle through the tiny diamonds raining down on her perfect night and thinking to herself that she has the bestest friend in the whole wide world. Teen movie worthy. Totally.
Everything was coming off without a hitch. We were gathered and ready for the birthday girl to arrive. We finally spotted her and I ordered everyone quiet while S. made her way cautiously up the stairs. When she reached the top a hearty SURPRISE was screamed in unison and she was stunned with happiness. I was equally pleased for pulling this off and making my best friend's birthday a special one.
As things got underway with food and chatter I remembered my "extra" surprise. I snuck behind her, grabbed the balloon and a pair of scissors, and raised them both above her head. And just as I brought the sharp tip of my shears to the thin skin of the balloon she turned around to see what I was up to behind her back and LOOKED DIRECTLY AT IT.
I hadn't realized that my best girl had the reaction time of a drunken two-toed sloth who hasn't slept in a week, but in the time between the deafening POP and the avalanche of glitter onto her face she didn't manage to close her mouth OR her friggen eyes.
She was positively blinded with 4 pounds of multi-colored glitter and could hardly breathe due to her mouth jammed-packed with the stuff. While I tried to contain my fit of hysterical laughter (I'm such an asshole) we spent the next hour trying to clear her vision and lessen the pain of having tiny shards of sharp material plastered across her corneas and attempted to subdue her coughing fits that looked something like a circus clown spewing sparks onto an unwilling audience.
I did not come out smelling like the rose I'd hoped for, (many looks of that god damn Betty) and I swear we found glitter in her hair for about 6 months after that, but all was well in the end and our friendship remains intact today.
I'm just not allowed near balloons.
Ever.
It was 1980-something and my best friend S. was turning 18. I thought I'd be the extremely nice person that I am, was, err, am (har) and throw her a surprise party. Our local pizza hangout had an upstairs loft that you could reserve and it was outfitted with a big screen complete with a Betamax, a Miss Pacman table game and had heavily lacquered wooden furniture that obnoxious teenagers couldn't (barely) hurt. It was the perfect place.
I managed to procure the private area for a Friday night and started planning the party. Invitations were sent to our core group of friends and a few new ones, the food was arranged, the decorations bought, and helpers recruited. It was looking like a good time to be had, even absent the wine coolers and clove cigarettes which would be consumed and smoked later that night. It was going to be very John Hughes. Very Breakfast Club. Very Cool. Well, except it was just pizza and not at school and we were drama nerds, but you get my drift.
S. had no clue what I was up to. I was totally stoked that I was hopefully going to pull this off. And I barely had to threaten anyone with a grizzly and bloody death if they flapped their lips and spoiled the surprise. I managed to weave an elaborate and expertly bullshitted story about the night and how S. needed to meet me at the pizza place rather than us going together as usual and arranged for another one of our friends to pick her up.
The night finally arrived and my helpers and I met early at the pizza place to decorate with streamers and birthday signs and balloons all in S's favorite colors. At the last minute I got the super mega brilliant idea to fill one of the balloons to capacity with glitter. Lot's of glitter. A metric ton of glitter.
My plan was to pop it over her head, imagining a beautiful scene of sparkles and silver snow gently floating over her strawberry blond tresses while she throws back her head and squeals with laughter, slowly spinning in a circle through the tiny diamonds raining down on her perfect night and thinking to herself that she has the bestest friend in the whole wide world. Teen movie worthy. Totally.
Everything was coming off without a hitch. We were gathered and ready for the birthday girl to arrive. We finally spotted her and I ordered everyone quiet while S. made her way cautiously up the stairs. When she reached the top a hearty SURPRISE was screamed in unison and she was stunned with happiness. I was equally pleased for pulling this off and making my best friend's birthday a special one.
As things got underway with food and chatter I remembered my "extra" surprise. I snuck behind her, grabbed the balloon and a pair of scissors, and raised them both above her head. And just as I brought the sharp tip of my shears to the thin skin of the balloon she turned around to see what I was up to behind her back and LOOKED DIRECTLY AT IT.
I hadn't realized that my best girl had the reaction time of a drunken two-toed sloth who hasn't slept in a week, but in the time between the deafening POP and the avalanche of glitter onto her face she didn't manage to close her mouth OR her friggen eyes.
She was positively blinded with 4 pounds of multi-colored glitter and could hardly breathe due to her mouth jammed-packed with the stuff. While I tried to contain my fit of hysterical laughter (I'm such an asshole) we spent the next hour trying to clear her vision and lessen the pain of having tiny shards of sharp material plastered across her corneas and attempted to subdue her coughing fits that looked something like a circus clown spewing sparks onto an unwilling audience.
I did not come out smelling like the rose I'd hoped for, (many looks of that god damn Betty) and I swear we found glitter in her hair for about 6 months after that, but all was well in the end and our friendship remains intact today.
I'm just not allowed near balloons.
Ever.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Honesty dichotomy
I've been thinking about this dilemma for awhile now. After encountering what seems like daily situations that call for some type of personality altering, unable to say what you really want to say but instead having to juggle 14 flaming bullshit balls and/or mustering from the deepest depth of the better, nicer part of your soul, restraint and a thin smile of control followed by a calm retort instead of the double fisted neck punch you'd rather wield, I ask you this;
Are we truly honest?
For those of us running around bragging about how we tell it like it is sistah friend z-snap! Do we really? Do we really offer up genuine frankness to family, friends, strangers alike or do we only think we do. Or an even better question, is it even fucking possible to do so? Can we, you, I, whatever, actually say what's scrolling on the message board in our heads? I don't know.
Mind you, I'm not talking about the runny verbal malaria that some people dribble down their falsely stoic chins that leave you saying, now was that fucking necessary? Or the inappropriate utterings that some people can't manage to keep inside their size 16 brains crammed into a size 4 skull, such as, my GOD your hair looks like a birds nest that was blown out of a tree in a class 4 hurricane then torn apart by wild hamsters right after a tribe of pygmy's shit on it. Because that would not be cool.
I'm talking about being able to, having the right to, is it alright to, state facts. Not to injure, but to alleviate the incredible amount of god damn bullshit we have to take in and dish out when in fact a nice hot steaming plate of candor would smell as sweet as summer roses in the sun. At least sometimes. Sweet jesus, just sometimes.
For instance, I recently had a conversation with a known dingbat at my company. This person has always been a dingbat and will forever be a dingbat. She used to send me paperwork that was never, ever correct. Fucking hell, how hard is it to remember to sign something? The first few times I always give someone a break, understanding that most people need to get into the swing of things. But after 4 SOLID YEARS of calling and correcting the dingbat I realized she gave much, much less than a cheeto-sized shit about any of it and my patience went out the window right with my kindness. Or my version of kindness which is the absence of irritation because I am a nice person. See?
Anyway, I saw her in the cafeteria and thought I'd stop and say hi. It was the first Tuesday of the month you see and that's the day I always set aside to be nice to one person for five minutes. We proceeded to have this strangely passive-aggressive chat where I'd say something like, "yea, I really prided myself in being the expert" and she'd reply with an uppity air about her, "oh yes, I had a whole list of things I had to do so I wouldn't get screamed at by Betty." ~snotty smile~
OK, first thing, I rarely if ever scream. If I did, people 2 states away would hear it and something would be mentioned on your local 5:00 news. Secondly, you smug slut, maybe if you bothered to read company policy or my directions oh, lets say, just one of the 17 thousand times I sent them to you you wouldn't have to get continually schooled by me after doing them consistently wrong for YEARS ON END. And please excuse me while I fantasize about shoving your dingbat face into your beef with broccoli until you're blowing meat bubbles through your nose.
This retardation went on for a few more minutes until I rolled my eyes and walked away. While thinking what a waste of time that crap was and why did I do that I also thought to myself, how awesome would it have been to have busted out with some unadulterated, pure honesty? I imagined putting my hand 2 inches from her nose in the universal sign for STOP and simply saying, "OK. This conversation is over. You are stupid and I don't like you. I've never liked you. You're kind of a bitch and we don't have to ever talk again. OK? OK." See? No blood shed, just an end to CRAP.
Calling someone to the carpet wouldn't have to be a throw-down all the time, but more like a revelation that we don't have to do that dance with each other any more. The relief would be palpable and the satisfaction sweet. But of course you can't do that, especially in the corporate world where things are run like a high school gym locker where you titter and gossip behind the head cheerleaders back that she's a drunken whore but you have to kiss her ass in person or your life is ruined. Come to think of it, that sounds like life in general.
I dream of a time when we'll all be able to tell some fucker on the other end of the phone who has some aspect of your life in their hands that they need to stop talking to you like you're a petulant child with the IQ of Paris Hilton minus the bank account. Oh, you wanted to see the doctor soon? Does 4:00 a.m. September 2015 work for you? Please hold.
But as it stands now, you can't call them on their ego trip because they can fuck you up. And trust me, many, many times I have verbally smacked someone around for being a dick and it's has come back to haunt me. Even when I had every right to tell the nasty piece of work that they were as ridiculous as a pig in a prom dress and save the attitude Mary, you're a RECEPTIONIST.
And don't even think that you can tell someone who's supposed to be your friend that they're shit-nut crazy and nearly every one of their personal crises are lame. That is impossible. Might as well tie yourself to a stake and light the match.
Years ago I took some American Sign Language classes and I was really interested to learn that deaf people don't have as many fiberglass walls of fabrication like the rest of us do. They just tell it like it is. I can't remember the genesis of that cultural difference but it made sense. They were naturally tougher skinned and it took a lot less time and effort to communicate with each other, especially if you were trying to eat a 1 pound super mega burrito or something. You'd need both hands.
But we're really not groomed to do that and in our world of the uber-PC, it's hardly possible. God forbid you tell someone the truth, they'll sue you for emotional bruising and I really think a large percentage of people have turned into control freaks and in this wacky world we live in people need to exert any tiny speck of control they can.
This is why the kid in customer service for your local cable company is such a god damn nasty assbusting shitstain smacking gum in your ear and audibly sighing with boredom when you call to complain that your internet connection has gone down for the 19th time and then "transfers" you to the repair department which ends up being a dial tone.
Furthermore, we women naturally get the short end of the stick in the honesty bizness since we are raised to just smile and look pretty, don't make waves dear, be a good girl. Or in other words, keep your mouth shut. Well, I say that's crap. We all need to carry a pair of balls in our Kate Spades and be brave enough to take them out and shake them in someone's face and speak up for ourselves when it's warranted.
But if you can't do this as often as you'd like, blog. For fuckssake, write about it.
________________________________________________________
I'd starting writing this slightly disjointed please forgive me I'm distracted post before I saw a great meme on my friend Kat's blog. She's a kick-ass chick with a chili pepper sense of humor and more brains than should be allowed. Go read her stuff when you have a chance. In the meantime, I'm taking her challenge.
The idea is to write 15 honest statements to anyone you want to, dead or alive, past or present, but no names. And I'd love it if you'd join me (all 4 of you) on your own blogs or better yet, say something in my comments. And remember, you can say anything you want to, just leave out the names, especially if you're writing about me.
Here are mine:
1. You should be banished to a small island with only enough food to keep you fed for a week at a time but you only get supplies once a month.
2. I think you're a really bad parent and shouldn't have had kids.
3. I purposefully manipulate your feelings because you fucked me over once, bad enough that you need to pay for it until I think you're done.
4. I knew you were bad from the start but I dove in anyway.
5. You were not as smart as I am and I respected you less because of it.
6. No, it was not good for me too. I looked at my watch over your shoulder the whole time.
7. I think you're stupid for letting him back into your life over and over and over.
8. We get along OK but really I think you're a creepy serial killer who probably has people buried under your house.
9. I don't read your blog because I'm seething with jealousy over your fan base and the attention you receive.
10. I know you've had a hard time loving me but I've learned you did the best you could.
11. I hate you for what you did and I'll never forgive you.
12. You are certifiably ca-razy.
13. I know you only come to me when you need something.
14. I'll always regret not having the guts to kiss you when I had the chance.
15. I. See. Right. Through. You.
Are we truly honest?
For those of us running around bragging about how we tell it like it is sistah friend z-snap! Do we really? Do we really offer up genuine frankness to family, friends, strangers alike or do we only think we do. Or an even better question, is it even fucking possible to do so? Can we, you, I, whatever, actually say what's scrolling on the message board in our heads? I don't know.
Mind you, I'm not talking about the runny verbal malaria that some people dribble down their falsely stoic chins that leave you saying, now was that fucking necessary? Or the inappropriate utterings that some people can't manage to keep inside their size 16 brains crammed into a size 4 skull, such as, my GOD your hair looks like a birds nest that was blown out of a tree in a class 4 hurricane then torn apart by wild hamsters right after a tribe of pygmy's shit on it. Because that would not be cool.
I'm talking about being able to, having the right to, is it alright to, state facts. Not to injure, but to alleviate the incredible amount of god damn bullshit we have to take in and dish out when in fact a nice hot steaming plate of candor would smell as sweet as summer roses in the sun. At least sometimes. Sweet jesus, just sometimes.
For instance, I recently had a conversation with a known dingbat at my company. This person has always been a dingbat and will forever be a dingbat. She used to send me paperwork that was never, ever correct. Fucking hell, how hard is it to remember to sign something? The first few times I always give someone a break, understanding that most people need to get into the swing of things. But after 4 SOLID YEARS of calling and correcting the dingbat I realized she gave much, much less than a cheeto-sized shit about any of it and my patience went out the window right with my kindness. Or my version of kindness which is the absence of irritation because I am a nice person. See?
Anyway, I saw her in the cafeteria and thought I'd stop and say hi. It was the first Tuesday of the month you see and that's the day I always set aside to be nice to one person for five minutes. We proceeded to have this strangely passive-aggressive chat where I'd say something like, "yea, I really prided myself in being the expert" and she'd reply with an uppity air about her, "oh yes, I had a whole list of things I had to do so I wouldn't get screamed at by Betty." ~snotty smile~
OK, first thing, I rarely if ever scream. If I did, people 2 states away would hear it and something would be mentioned on your local 5:00 news. Secondly, you smug slut, maybe if you bothered to read company policy or my directions oh, lets say, just one of the 17 thousand times I sent them to you you wouldn't have to get continually schooled by me after doing them consistently wrong for YEARS ON END. And please excuse me while I fantasize about shoving your dingbat face into your beef with broccoli until you're blowing meat bubbles through your nose.
This retardation went on for a few more minutes until I rolled my eyes and walked away. While thinking what a waste of time that crap was and why did I do that I also thought to myself, how awesome would it have been to have busted out with some unadulterated, pure honesty? I imagined putting my hand 2 inches from her nose in the universal sign for STOP and simply saying, "OK. This conversation is over. You are stupid and I don't like you. I've never liked you. You're kind of a bitch and we don't have to ever talk again. OK? OK." See? No blood shed, just an end to CRAP.
Calling someone to the carpet wouldn't have to be a throw-down all the time, but more like a revelation that we don't have to do that dance with each other any more. The relief would be palpable and the satisfaction sweet. But of course you can't do that, especially in the corporate world where things are run like a high school gym locker where you titter and gossip behind the head cheerleaders back that she's a drunken whore but you have to kiss her ass in person or your life is ruined. Come to think of it, that sounds like life in general.
I dream of a time when we'll all be able to tell some fucker on the other end of the phone who has some aspect of your life in their hands that they need to stop talking to you like you're a petulant child with the IQ of Paris Hilton minus the bank account. Oh, you wanted to see the doctor soon? Does 4:00 a.m. September 2015 work for you? Please hold.
But as it stands now, you can't call them on their ego trip because they can fuck you up. And trust me, many, many times I have verbally smacked someone around for being a dick and it's has come back to haunt me. Even when I had every right to tell the nasty piece of work that they were as ridiculous as a pig in a prom dress and save the attitude Mary, you're a RECEPTIONIST.
And don't even think that you can tell someone who's supposed to be your friend that they're shit-nut crazy and nearly every one of their personal crises are lame. That is impossible. Might as well tie yourself to a stake and light the match.
Years ago I took some American Sign Language classes and I was really interested to learn that deaf people don't have as many fiberglass walls of fabrication like the rest of us do. They just tell it like it is. I can't remember the genesis of that cultural difference but it made sense. They were naturally tougher skinned and it took a lot less time and effort to communicate with each other, especially if you were trying to eat a 1 pound super mega burrito or something. You'd need both hands.
But we're really not groomed to do that and in our world of the uber-PC, it's hardly possible. God forbid you tell someone the truth, they'll sue you for emotional bruising and I really think a large percentage of people have turned into control freaks and in this wacky world we live in people need to exert any tiny speck of control they can.
This is why the kid in customer service for your local cable company is such a god damn nasty assbusting shitstain smacking gum in your ear and audibly sighing with boredom when you call to complain that your internet connection has gone down for the 19th time and then "transfers" you to the repair department which ends up being a dial tone.
Furthermore, we women naturally get the short end of the stick in the honesty bizness since we are raised to just smile and look pretty, don't make waves dear, be a good girl. Or in other words, keep your mouth shut. Well, I say that's crap. We all need to carry a pair of balls in our Kate Spades and be brave enough to take them out and shake them in someone's face and speak up for ourselves when it's warranted.
But if you can't do this as often as you'd like, blog. For fuckssake, write about it.
________________________________________________________
I'd starting writing this slightly disjointed please forgive me I'm distracted post before I saw a great meme on my friend Kat's blog. She's a kick-ass chick with a chili pepper sense of humor and more brains than should be allowed. Go read her stuff when you have a chance. In the meantime, I'm taking her challenge.
The idea is to write 15 honest statements to anyone you want to, dead or alive, past or present, but no names. And I'd love it if you'd join me (all 4 of you) on your own blogs or better yet, say something in my comments. And remember, you can say anything you want to, just leave out the names, especially if you're writing about me.
Here are mine:
1. You should be banished to a small island with only enough food to keep you fed for a week at a time but you only get supplies once a month.
2. I think you're a really bad parent and shouldn't have had kids.
3. I purposefully manipulate your feelings because you fucked me over once, bad enough that you need to pay for it until I think you're done.
4. I knew you were bad from the start but I dove in anyway.
5. You were not as smart as I am and I respected you less because of it.
6. No, it was not good for me too. I looked at my watch over your shoulder the whole time.
7. I think you're stupid for letting him back into your life over and over and over.
8. We get along OK but really I think you're a creepy serial killer who probably has people buried under your house.
9. I don't read your blog because I'm seething with jealousy over your fan base and the attention you receive.
10. I know you've had a hard time loving me but I've learned you did the best you could.
11. I hate you for what you did and I'll never forgive you.
12. You are certifiably ca-razy.
13. I know you only come to me when you need something.
14. I'll always regret not having the guts to kiss you when I had the chance.
15. I. See. Right. Through. You.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Cooperation Please!
Today is my baby's birthday and it would be aces if anyone and everyone who cruises past my blog (all 3 of you) would go over to his and give him some good wishes and internet lovin'. He's the most super awesome person (even if he does leaves the fucking lights on all over the house) and he deserves an awesome birthday. So indulge me, please! Thanks!
LOVE YOU, BABE!!
LOVE YOU, BABE!!
Friday, June 16, 2006
Another One of My Very Good Ideas (patent pending)
I think all cars should come with a choice of horn honks. No, not the kind like the AAAOOOOOGAH crap that old men with handle bar mustaches dyed black as shoe polish put in their souped up "jalopies" that they drive in the Fourth of July parade while they toss the cheap Brach's candy at kids with painted faces and secretly ogle teenage girls boobs. I'm talking about a noticeable difference in pitch and tone and sound that will convey a clear and definite message to the asshole, I mean, driver you wish to communicate with.
Something like a friendly little beep beep that emits the auditory equivalent of Snow White singing her gentle song to the sparrows in the forest while smiling down on Bambi who's lovingly licking the forehead of Thumper and yes I know I'm cross-pollinating Disney epics here but stick with me. A sweet wee announcement made without causing anyone's heart to stop, anger to flare or handgun to be retrieved from the glove compartment to make the person in front of you aware that:
beep beep. The (fucking) light turned green like beep 10 seconds ago could you please (fucking) beep go now? Thanks!
And then there's also the need for a medium-level honk when you have to get a little more forceful in a situation that calls for something akin to asserting your rights without getting into a knock-down-drag-out like when stop for gas and go buy some water or whatever and the freak behind the counter keeps trying to talk you into a cookie and you don't want a cookie because you have raging fucking PMS and the current craving of the moment is for salt so you have to get a little forceful and raise your voice a little bit while still smiling so he'll fucking shut up about it and ring up your mini can of cheese pringles before you shove them up his grimy ass.
Hoooonk, hey buddy, you're gettin' a little close there hooonk get back over in your fucking hoooonk lane don't make me hoooonk come over there. Thanks!
And clearly we need a signal bigger and badder than regular cars have now for those times when a grievous injustice has been served upon you and the gloves are off baby I'll take you down, down to China town like when your less than three-year-old gas water heater inexplicably dies on a Friday night and the bitch who's so fucking lucky is not within reaching distance that you get on the phone to ask about the warranty keeps telling you that it's your responsibility to take the damn thing apart and check for dust bunnies before she'll give you the info when there's no way you're ever touching a gas appliance and she is so fucking snotty that you finally scream EAT SHIT into the phone and hang up.
BLAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP HOLY CHRIST DAMN YOU FOR TURNING RIGHT FUCKING IN FRONT OF ME WHEN I HAD THE BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GREEN FUCKING LIGHT AND PROCEEDING TO GO BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP 10 MILES A FUCKING HOUR YOU ALMOST KILLED ME YOU BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP FUCKING MOUTH BREATHING MORON YOU SHOULD HAVE YOUR BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GENITALS REMOVED AND GROUND INTO A FINE POWDER TO ENSURE YOU'LL NEVER BLAAAAAAAPPPPP BREED AGAIN YOU WALKING TALKING SHIT STAIN. THANKS!!
Anyone have Honda's phone number? I think this could work.
Something like a friendly little beep beep that emits the auditory equivalent of Snow White singing her gentle song to the sparrows in the forest while smiling down on Bambi who's lovingly licking the forehead of Thumper and yes I know I'm cross-pollinating Disney epics here but stick with me. A sweet wee announcement made without causing anyone's heart to stop, anger to flare or handgun to be retrieved from the glove compartment to make the person in front of you aware that:
beep beep. The (fucking) light turned green like beep 10 seconds ago could you please (fucking) beep go now? Thanks!
And then there's also the need for a medium-level honk when you have to get a little more forceful in a situation that calls for something akin to asserting your rights without getting into a knock-down-drag-out like when stop for gas and go buy some water or whatever and the freak behind the counter keeps trying to talk you into a cookie and you don't want a cookie because you have raging fucking PMS and the current craving of the moment is for salt so you have to get a little forceful and raise your voice a little bit while still smiling so he'll fucking shut up about it and ring up your mini can of cheese pringles before you shove them up his grimy ass.
Hoooonk, hey buddy, you're gettin' a little close there hooonk get back over in your fucking hoooonk lane don't make me hoooonk come over there. Thanks!
And clearly we need a signal bigger and badder than regular cars have now for those times when a grievous injustice has been served upon you and the gloves are off baby I'll take you down, down to China town like when your less than three-year-old gas water heater inexplicably dies on a Friday night and the bitch who's so fucking lucky is not within reaching distance that you get on the phone to ask about the warranty keeps telling you that it's your responsibility to take the damn thing apart and check for dust bunnies before she'll give you the info when there's no way you're ever touching a gas appliance and she is so fucking snotty that you finally scream EAT SHIT into the phone and hang up.
BLAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP HOLY CHRIST DAMN YOU FOR TURNING RIGHT FUCKING IN FRONT OF ME WHEN I HAD THE BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GREEN FUCKING LIGHT AND PROCEEDING TO GO BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP 10 MILES A FUCKING HOUR YOU ALMOST KILLED ME YOU BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP FUCKING MOUTH BREATHING MORON YOU SHOULD HAVE YOUR BLAAAAAAAAPPPPP GENITALS REMOVED AND GROUND INTO A FINE POWDER TO ENSURE YOU'LL NEVER BLAAAAAAAPPPPP BREED AGAIN YOU WALKING TALKING SHIT STAIN. THANKS!!
Anyone have Honda's phone number? I think this could work.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Rest in peace, P
She passed away last week...
It's amazing how 5 little words can shake your foundation like a 7.2 quake and when you live in tremor-land you know how earth shattering that can be. Leaving jittery knees, a deep frown and an instant plunge down memory lane while it shoves the mirror of your own life right into your face for a good, hard look.
I'd only been at work for a short time this morning when I saw the little yellow envelope alerting me to a new message. I'd just cleared out my inbox and was curious and excited since I don't get many e-mails any more, (you'd think that would be a good thing but fuckshit I'm bored.) My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the name, an old friend and co-worker I'd lost touch with and carried just a bit of animosity for since she was one that actually got pissed at me for getting cancer. Yes, I know that sounds retarded but it's true. Well, she might not have been pissed at me for getting sick but she railed my ass for how I told her and I was equally pissed at that reaction and we haven't talked since but I'm getting off track.
I was trepidatious to open the e-mail since I had no idea what it might say, and since I talked a little shit about her a few weeks ago to another mutual friend I was anticipitating a potential thrashing but so be it. What I read couldn't have been farther from what I thought it was going to be.
And there were those 5 little words.
She passed away last week. My breath got caught in my chest and I had to read it again. Then again. Then once again. But this can't be right. She wasn't that old, maybe late fifties, younger than my own mother for sure, and one of the orneriest bitches I've ever known. Surely I'd read something wrong. If only that were true.
She was not only the kick-ass mom of some high-school friends I was pretty damn tight with for a few years but she was the woman responsible for taking me out of retail hell when the lame, fake marketing company I had been working for went belly-up and didn't pay me my last months wages. She saw me working a counter at Nordstrom, stomped across the carpet right over to me and shoved her business card in my hand while saying "What the hell are you doing? We need to get your ass out of here, now!" She hired me the next week.
In my shock I managed to pick up the phone and call another old co-worker to get the details. A massive stroke. She made it about a week then her body couldn't hold on any longer. She'd never really taken care of her health and had been battling a host of problems in the last few years and this is why she didn't make it. Needless to say, that fact has scared the shit out of me today.
For those of us left to mourn, we find solace in the fact that she died with her family around her. Unfortnately it was the same day as her only grand-baby's first birthday but we all agree she'd want it that way so no one ever fucking forgets her. She was never one to pass an opportunity to be the center of attention and I know she's laughing over that karmic joke.
I have a lot of mixed feelings about this today because to be brutally honest, she was fucking mean. She was one of the most nasty people I've ever known. I worked with her for almost 8 years and saw her routinely scare the piss out of people for the fun of it. She was so passive aggressive she used to walk up to me, size up my outfit and say something like, "Wow, Betty, it's amazing how you can look so good in such an ugly color."
I used to say her heart was made of a small lump of coal but you know what? That lump had a diamond in the middle of it and she'd be the first one to tell you the karat weight. She was smart, really smart, and dealt with a Mt. Everest pile of shit in her life and never, EVER let anyone see her sweat. She worked for a mother fucker for years and made it work. She would eat glass before she'd let you see a tear roll down her face. I admire that. I really fucking admire that. I wish I was like that.
She intimidated the hell out of people and pushed you to grow a thicker skin. She wanted you to show your strengths and not your weaknesses, she just made you bleed a little first. She'd also listen to you and hug you when you cried and laugh so loud it would rattle your brain and if you were lucky she'd throw you a compliment and you knew she meant it. She was honest to a fault and took life by the balls.
I believe some people come in and out of your life for a reason. We can't possibly remember everyone but some make an idelible mark. She was one of those people. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be where I am today, wherever that is, or have the career I have, as much as I hate it, but the roads I've traveled have led me here and this is where I'm supposed to be. I learned a lot from her and I hope my crappy memory doesn't fail me so I can reminisce all of the good times in the 20 + years I've known this incredible lady.
She was only 61. She was too young to die. She was a character and a half. And I'll miss her.
It's amazing how 5 little words can shake your foundation like a 7.2 quake and when you live in tremor-land you know how earth shattering that can be. Leaving jittery knees, a deep frown and an instant plunge down memory lane while it shoves the mirror of your own life right into your face for a good, hard look.
I'd only been at work for a short time this morning when I saw the little yellow envelope alerting me to a new message. I'd just cleared out my inbox and was curious and excited since I don't get many e-mails any more, (you'd think that would be a good thing but fuckshit I'm bored.) My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the name, an old friend and co-worker I'd lost touch with and carried just a bit of animosity for since she was one that actually got pissed at me for getting cancer. Yes, I know that sounds retarded but it's true. Well, she might not have been pissed at me for getting sick but she railed my ass for how I told her and I was equally pissed at that reaction and we haven't talked since but I'm getting off track.
I was trepidatious to open the e-mail since I had no idea what it might say, and since I talked a little shit about her a few weeks ago to another mutual friend I was anticipitating a potential thrashing but so be it. What I read couldn't have been farther from what I thought it was going to be.
And there were those 5 little words.
She passed away last week. My breath got caught in my chest and I had to read it again. Then again. Then once again. But this can't be right. She wasn't that old, maybe late fifties, younger than my own mother for sure, and one of the orneriest bitches I've ever known. Surely I'd read something wrong. If only that were true.
She was not only the kick-ass mom of some high-school friends I was pretty damn tight with for a few years but she was the woman responsible for taking me out of retail hell when the lame, fake marketing company I had been working for went belly-up and didn't pay me my last months wages. She saw me working a counter at Nordstrom, stomped across the carpet right over to me and shoved her business card in my hand while saying "What the hell are you doing? We need to get your ass out of here, now!" She hired me the next week.
In my shock I managed to pick up the phone and call another old co-worker to get the details. A massive stroke. She made it about a week then her body couldn't hold on any longer. She'd never really taken care of her health and had been battling a host of problems in the last few years and this is why she didn't make it. Needless to say, that fact has scared the shit out of me today.
For those of us left to mourn, we find solace in the fact that she died with her family around her. Unfortnately it was the same day as her only grand-baby's first birthday but we all agree she'd want it that way so no one ever fucking forgets her. She was never one to pass an opportunity to be the center of attention and I know she's laughing over that karmic joke.
I have a lot of mixed feelings about this today because to be brutally honest, she was fucking mean. She was one of the most nasty people I've ever known. I worked with her for almost 8 years and saw her routinely scare the piss out of people for the fun of it. She was so passive aggressive she used to walk up to me, size up my outfit and say something like, "Wow, Betty, it's amazing how you can look so good in such an ugly color."
I used to say her heart was made of a small lump of coal but you know what? That lump had a diamond in the middle of it and she'd be the first one to tell you the karat weight. She was smart, really smart, and dealt with a Mt. Everest pile of shit in her life and never, EVER let anyone see her sweat. She worked for a mother fucker for years and made it work. She would eat glass before she'd let you see a tear roll down her face. I admire that. I really fucking admire that. I wish I was like that.
She intimidated the hell out of people and pushed you to grow a thicker skin. She wanted you to show your strengths and not your weaknesses, she just made you bleed a little first. She'd also listen to you and hug you when you cried and laugh so loud it would rattle your brain and if you were lucky she'd throw you a compliment and you knew she meant it. She was honest to a fault and took life by the balls.
I believe some people come in and out of your life for a reason. We can't possibly remember everyone but some make an idelible mark. She was one of those people. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be where I am today, wherever that is, or have the career I have, as much as I hate it, but the roads I've traveled have led me here and this is where I'm supposed to be. I learned a lot from her and I hope my crappy memory doesn't fail me so I can reminisce all of the good times in the 20 + years I've known this incredible lady.
She was only 61. She was too young to die. She was a character and a half. And I'll miss her.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Holy Crap!!
Is it June already? Seriously. JUNE? As in, almost half-way through the year? The start of yet another summer where I will swelter and swear and swoon in the sun, and fuck, I haven't even written my New Year's resolutions yet.
And don't you just hate it when people are all like, oh my stars, is it really ~insert random date and/or holiday~and you're all, yes, dumbass, it is, time marches on you know, the calender doesn't wait for you so stop living with your head up your ass and pay attention!
Unless of course I say it then you must nod in agreeance and say, yes, yes Betty, it's unbelievable that it's already June. I hadn't even thought about it until you, in your brilliant wisdom, pointed it out. Thank you for making me realize that I've been living in a fog of my own retardation. You are smart and pretty.
And speaking of foggy retardation...
I've had severe writers block lately. And conversation block. And now that I mention it, my shitter ain't workin' neither. But then it never does. I can't even tell you how annoying it is when your entire lower half has a mind of it's own and a devilish sense of humor. Hmm, today you have 3.2 seconds to get to the bathroom! HA HA, almost didn't make it, did ya? Tomorrow you'll take a seat in el baño with cramping and pain but nothing will happen! Nyah nyah, gotcha! And I even ate that salad that one day so there was fiber! WTF?
I could say that I don't really know what's going on, but I do. Unfortunately I know exactly what I'm doing, or rather, not doing. I'm in EXIST mode. I'm not necessarily depressed, at least I don't feel depressed, but I don't want to do, well, anything. I'm still super bored at work and feeling like I'm contributing jackdiddlydoodleshit to the universe, still hating my commute and not enjoying my passive-aggresive beasts from beyond co-workers, but hell, you can pay me XX a year to play 10 games of spider solitaire every day and surf the net.
Or is it really a bad thing? Am I making things worse by staying here? And I'm not moving forward because it's comfortable? Fuck. I don't know.
I don't feel like writing or reading much or stepping foot out of the house. I'd rather lay in bed all day and flip through 275 channels of crap and snuggle with Boo when she's not crabbing at me to leave her the fuck alone. I'm just friggen tired and never feel good. Ever.
I don't want to think about dishes or laundry or paying bills, which I don't do until the thumb breakers call me and say, would you like to give us some money or would you prefer to cook your dinner by butane torch? I drove past my chiropractors office the other day, skipping my appointment, and didn't even care. And I don't want to make the hundredjillion doctors appointments I should be making.
I have a lot of interests and ideas and pontential goals, but I've stepped into quicksand and simply shrugged my shoulders about it. And this is all not fair to anyone, especially the love of my life who deserves more than a chronically migrainy ailing sloth in yoga pants who doesn't have the energy or will to warm her cooked the night before scrambled eggs with spinach and onions in the microwave and eats them cold and dewey with a dirty spoon from the bottom of her desk drawer.
I've always been high on wants and low on motivation, but this is rigoddamndiculous. I'm not the kind of person who should take it easy. Cruising through life for me means wasting oodles of time doing nothing, and that's where I am right now. I know that I could never work full-time at home because if that was the case I wouldn't even shower every day and most likely spend the majority of the day napping and whacking off and those are things you're only supposed to do on Sunday.
It's important to have goals. To think about them then set them then strive for them and one day achieve them. Shit, they taught us that in fucking first grade, you'd think by now I would have believed it, because if you don't, then you become complacent and apathetic and LAZY. Just like me. And dammit, now I'm kinda depressed!!
___________________________________________________
On a lighter note. I'm obsessed with The Dog Whisperer. I'm talking stalker-level unhealthy I want to be him for Halloween please don't shoot me if I show up at your front door obsessed. He's a genius, has some questionable taste in shirts, but a GENIUS. He can fix any dog with any problem 99% of the time by taking it for a walk. A walk! That's it? Yes! A walk.
It doesn't matter if the dog is a killer pitbull who ate your great grandmother last Thanksgiving or a chihuahua that humps your dress shoes. A walk is the cure. Got a mutt who's afraid of it's own shadow? Take it for a walk. Does your poodle piddle? Get the leash.
It really is amazing how he can teach people to fix unwanted and super f-d up behaviors in such a short time and with what ends up being simple techniques. And it's equally amazing how many dog owners don't know fuckshit about dogs or how to treat them. I'd rather these people have another screaming child the world has to endure than someone who's ruined an innocent puppy by letting it lick their ballsac because they think it's cute.
It would change my life forever if I could do what he does, train dogs and rehabilitate people. I'd be an awesome pack leeeeeder. But that would take effort and we all know I'm a quart and a half low on that.
Maybe I need to go for a walk.
And don't you just hate it when people are all like, oh my stars, is it really ~insert random date and/or holiday~
Unless of course I say it then you must nod in agreeance and say, yes, yes Betty, it's unbelievable that it's already June. I hadn't even thought about it until you, in your brilliant wisdom, pointed it out. Thank you for making me realize that I've been living in a fog of my own retardation. You are smart and pretty.
And speaking of foggy retardation...
I've had severe writers block lately. And conversation block. And now that I mention it, my shitter ain't workin' neither. But then it never does. I can't even tell you how annoying it is when your entire lower half has a mind of it's own and a devilish sense of humor. Hmm, today you have 3.2 seconds to get to the bathroom! HA HA, almost didn't make it, did ya? Tomorrow you'll take a seat in el baño with cramping and pain but nothing will happen! Nyah nyah, gotcha! And I even ate that salad that one day so there was fiber! WTF?
I could say that I don't really know what's going on, but I do. Unfortunately I know exactly what I'm doing, or rather, not doing. I'm in EXIST mode. I'm not necessarily depressed, at least I don't feel depressed, but I don't want to do, well, anything. I'm still super bored at work and feeling like I'm contributing jackdiddlydoodleshit to the universe, still hating my commute and not enjoying my passive-aggresive beasts from beyond co-workers, but hell, you can pay me XX a year to play 10 games of spider solitaire every day and surf the net.
Or is it really a bad thing? Am I making things worse by staying here? And I'm not moving forward because it's comfortable? Fuck. I don't know.
I don't feel like writing or reading much or stepping foot out of the house. I'd rather lay in bed all day and flip through 275 channels of crap and snuggle with Boo when she's not crabbing at me to leave her the fuck alone. I'm just friggen tired and never feel good. Ever.
I don't want to think about dishes or laundry or paying bills, which I don't do until the thumb breakers call me and say, would you like to give us some money or would you prefer to cook your dinner by butane torch? I drove past my chiropractors office the other day, skipping my appointment, and didn't even care. And I don't want to make the hundredjillion doctors appointments I should be making.
I have a lot of interests and ideas and pontential goals, but I've stepped into quicksand and simply shrugged my shoulders about it. And this is all not fair to anyone, especially the love of my life who deserves more than a chronically migrainy ailing sloth in yoga pants who doesn't have the energy or will to warm her cooked the night before scrambled eggs with spinach and onions in the microwave and eats them cold and dewey with a dirty spoon from the bottom of her desk drawer.
I've always been high on wants and low on motivation, but this is rigoddamndiculous. I'm not the kind of person who should take it easy. Cruising through life for me means wasting oodles of time doing nothing, and that's where I am right now. I know that I could never work full-time at home because if that was the case I wouldn't even shower every day and most likely spend the majority of the day napping and whacking off and those are things you're only supposed to do on Sunday.
It's important to have goals. To think about them then set them then strive for them and one day achieve them. Shit, they taught us that in fucking first grade, you'd think by now I would have believed it, because if you don't, then you become complacent and apathetic and LAZY. Just like me. And dammit, now I'm kinda depressed!!
___________________________________________________
On a lighter note. I'm obsessed with The Dog Whisperer. I'm talking stalker-level unhealthy I want to be him for Halloween please don't shoot me if I show up at your front door obsessed. He's a genius, has some questionable taste in shirts, but a GENIUS. He can fix any dog with any problem 99% of the time by taking it for a walk. A walk! That's it? Yes! A walk.
It doesn't matter if the dog is a killer pitbull who ate your great grandmother last Thanksgiving or a chihuahua that humps your dress shoes. A walk is the cure. Got a mutt who's afraid of it's own shadow? Take it for a walk. Does your poodle piddle? Get the leash.
It really is amazing how he can teach people to fix unwanted and super f-d up behaviors in such a short time and with what ends up being simple techniques. And it's equally amazing how many dog owners don't know fuckshit about dogs or how to treat them. I'd rather these people have another screaming child the world has to endure than someone who's ruined an innocent puppy by letting it lick their ballsac because they think it's cute.
It would change my life forever if I could do what he does, train dogs and rehabilitate people. I'd be an awesome pack leeeeeder. But that would take effort and we all know I'm a quart and a half low on that.
Maybe I need to go for a walk.
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