Do they have a cream for

WRITERS BLOCK!!!!!????

A pill? A shot? A fancy hat? Hello?

I open this blog 20 times a day and nada. It's not coming. This page has turned into Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction. She keeps sticking her head in the door and sneering, "I WON'T BE IGNORED, DAAAAAAAAAAN" but I'm that asshole Micheal Douglas who does indeed give her the brush-off and gets a boiled bunny for his trouble. Bah.

What do you say after you spend a full week with your family then top it off with air travel and an esophageal endoscopy? Thank you sir may I have another? If it's not one thing it's your mother? How about, GIVE ME THE DRUGS AND KEEP 'EM COMIN! Because that's exactly what I said but they didn't give me the requested "take home" supply I so nicely asked for. Such jerks.

Backing things up quite a bit, The Police were great. We trudged through hours upon hours of Los Angles traffic, getting lost along the way (thank you Westin shitass directions) but had a fab time despite the compost greenhouse temperature of our swank hotel room and the closing of the late-night bar in our faces. It was a dream come true for me and I rub Sting's face on my chest whenever I wear one of my two $35.00 concert t-shirts. I took some pic's of LA and the aquarium in Long Beach which are here and here if you'd like to take a look.

My vacation visit was hard. It literally takes me 2 weeks to recover from one of those and this year was no different. I go because it's my family and we do have some good times. But I also go because my dad is a few days shy of 82 and although I don't like to even say this kind of stuff out loud I know time is precious and I'd better savor what I can since we live over 1000 miles apart and don't see each other very often as it is.

I was also hoping to reconnect with my brother but he proved to be the stupid asshole he is the whole fucking time. But I held my tongue when he spewed crap because I'm the GOOD kid! Not that you'd know it by the way my mother says nothing to the assholenish coming from him but yells at me if I voice a thought she doesn't think is reasonable like being afraid my very much needed (and only) flight home might be canceled due to the thunder and lightening storm blowing through the skies. (It wasn't, by the way, has been before but clearly my 2 hours of crying got me a break from Mother Nature.)

I did have some nice moments with my family and went into Yellowstone by myself twice to take some photos and have a few hours of peace & quiet, which was oddly calming since I generally don't like doing things like that solo. Although I missed my bf like crazy and wished he were there with me. Those pic's are here and here, if you're so inclined.

Consequently I arrived home completely emotionally spent. I'm remiss to discover it takes me longer to recover from these trips when in reality it should be the opposite, no? I'm old enough to have figured out how to let this shit slide off my back but alas, it is not the case. Seeing the breakdown of my family in living color is hard. Watching my dad fade into a sad, old man who gets treated like shit by my mother is unbearable. Not being able to do anything about these stupid things is frustrating. Knowing my mother loves my brother more than me when he's such a fucking asshole is something I can barely describe. (Boy is there a lot of back story there.)

This paired with the prospect that my house is either never going to sell or I'm going to have to dump it at a price that will fuck my future for good has me feeling intermittently (I say intermittently because it's not all the time but I haven't been able to shake it full-time. It's like I'm walking around in wet clothes and for the most part I don't notice but if the circumstances change then ugh, wet jeans. Is there anything worse?) pretty fucking blue. And I feel bad that all of this crap is visited on my boyfriend who is the best and doesn't deserve more shit piled on top of his own shit.

And oh yea, I had to have a camera snaked down to my belly button which revealed nothing of why my stomach hurts every day. That was fun! But let's shift gears since I'm tired of this boo-hooing.

I reported for jury duty yesterday and had detailed fantasies of hurting the woman who stole my seat (she was sitting 2 seats from me and watched me go to the vending machine) when I got up to get some water but since there were oh, like 29 cops within 80 feet of me I opted to send out my best "you're a fucker" vibes which I think worked a little because she about folded in on herself to read her library book. Stupid bitch. And lucky for her we were all released at 11:00 because all the trial cases "went away", whatever that means.

While I was sitting there, sending out the hate, I opened the blank journal I brought with me in case anything (finally) struck me to write about and I had to document it right then and there and was surprised to find a few pages were already filled with blather and ideas (I use the term loosely), some of which made me cringe, most I didn't remember, and some I couldn't read at all.

I won't give it all away (since I might use some in the future) but let me just say we should all be grateful that my idea for a rant aimed towards dumb T.V. channels dedicated to inane things like golf and poker hasn't surfaced yet since my suggestions for new all this thing all the time stations were "The Pap Smear Channel" and "World Series of Booger Flicking."

Another asterisked paragraph said the following:

"Why do people feel the need to make you look at disgusting things? Do we really need visual proof of the turd that split your taint?"
- brother shit
- dog fur

One second thought, I think I'll keep that one.

So that's what's what. I can't think of much else that's going on. We've watched a bevy of bad movies in the last few weeks (Dreamgirls? Seriously? How did that even get in our queue?), but nothing worth writing about. I'm reading a Stephen King novel that is bugging the shit out of me (not all experimentation is good, Stephen, we've talked about this) but I'm determined to finish it and one of the ladies that works within a few feet of me, but whom I cannot see so I don't know exactly who it is, has taken to loudly clearing her throat several times a day which ends up sounding like a harbor seal being choked with a thorn-studded strap-on covered in hair gel. Like I'm not on the edge of puking all the damn day already.

And this brings the worst entry of the year (the author has the right to rescind that proclimation at any time) and blatant abuse of parentheses to a close. Thank you and good night.

I'm home...

...and I didn't kill one single person.

I'd call that a success.

I'm ready for my strip search, sir

No, the title is not a reference to she who will not be named that got out of her stint in jail this week and instead of disappearing like I've been praying for nightly, over the span of many years, she's even MORE in the news. For fuckingsake, I nearly had to turn off my TV. The reason for my titillating title is because I got arrested myself this week and boy did it suck.

OK, that was a total lie. I didn't get put in no slamma. I'm going on vacation! Well, that's also a lie. I'm not leaving on a jet plane to a tropical isle where cabana boys draped in loin cloths bring me fruity drinks with paper umbrellas and I get shtuped on a boat deck by my beloved, I'm going to visit my family. Alone. No whitey. Just me. Yea. Family.

In a few short hours I'll be here. It's breezy, but nice.

My brother and niece are already at my parents house and that kid, in all her obnoxious monkey behavior, does act as a buffer between the crazytudinal adults that will sharing space under a single roof for a week. And she's 10 now so hopefully she'll be interested in more than Polly Pockets and riding her bike up and down the street.

My parents live in (near) fucking Yellowstone, dammit, who wants to ride a bike when you can go molest grizzly bears? Not me, that's who. Plus I don't ride bikes anymore. My ass swallows the seat whole and I dunno, that's not the look I want to portray to the world while trying to enjoy a Sunday stroll. Like a woman with a Schwinn growing out of her poonani. Call me crazy.

I'm pretty excited about getting away because work has been a bitch and my house is not selling and when I'm not thinking about how grateful I am for being alive or kissing on my lovely boyfriend I feel pretty damn shitty. Could be hormones. Could be the time of year since summer isn't all that when your a hot, sweaty mess all the time.

Remember when summer came and you struggled through the last few days of school and everything had that special feel about it? All the formal clothes were retired and replaced by shorts and swimsuits and it was all about having fun.

Eventually we'd come into the house smelling like chlorine and the sun and beg my mother for some type of frozen treat to cool us off and instead of store bought otter pops that were the rage and envy of any house that had them, despite the sharp edges ripping your mouth apart, we got knock-off grape sugar water in the ice cube tray with toothpicks.

Ahh, good times.

I plan on taking a bazillion fo toes and I hope it'll be a fun time and while I'm away you kids be good! Don't blow yourselves up with illegal fireworks and you Canucks turn on some AC. I'll miss you like stupid, baby. See you in a week!

Take note

Things I will do while drunk in Los Angeles:

1. Shove my ample cleavage in the cabbies window as an extra thank you.
2. Alternate between Corona 40's and Sutter Home zinfandel and be proud of it.
3. Tell a perfect stranger that I'd fuck Prince because I'd have no choice anyway. If Prince wants to fuck you it's gonna happen.
4. While trying to do the pee-pee hover get a little on the floor (and shoes) and not care a bit.
5. Scream "IT'S STIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG" at the top of my lungs like a teenage girl. Many times.
6. Pay $70.00 FOR 2 GOD DAMN CONCERT T-SHIRTS!
7. Yell "YEAAAAAAAA" while waving double rock fingers in the air. \m/ \m/
8. Walk 2 miles through the ghetto trying to catch a cab and shouting "asshole" at those who wouldn't pick us up.
9. [censored]

Doo doo doo me

I have just one word for you people.

THE POLICE!!

OK, technically that's 2 words, but YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT!! RIGHT??

Wait, maybe you don't. Maybe you LIVE UNDER A ROCK!! Or, hrm, were born in 1980-fuckingsomething or ~gulp~ even later and weren't blessed to have experienced one of the best bands and most famous hot tantric-sexers on the planet. And for that, it SUCKS TO BE YOU! HA HA!!

And if you didn't score tickets to one of the reunion concerts, like I did, than it REALLY SUCKS TO BE YOU!! WOOT!! Although, hmm, maybe you don't care or don't like their music and therefore are obviously an alien life form with zero taste so in that case you JUST SUCK!! WEEEEE!!

If you hadn't noticed, I'M A LITTLE BIT EXCITED TODAY!! However, I'm not amped up about driving to Los Angeles or paying $35 a day (you heard me) to park at the fancy hotel we're staying in but I am looking forward to getting out of town for a night and doing something more than folding laundry and watching reruns of Trading Spaces: Shitty Designer Edition all weekend. And fucking hell, it's THE POLICE!! With Sting. Sting! Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.

Why do I suddenly feel like putting on a day-glo orange mesh shirt and globbing my mouth with iridescent pink lipstick? Huh. Anyway, it's finally here and I'm stoked!

We're bedding down in a very nice hotel that is a total splurge but I don't care. I wanted a room with a telephone by the toilet and there had better be one, dammit. Anyone want a phone call this weekend? We'll be sleeping on a heavenly bed (whatever that means) and handing over 5 dollar bills to surly teens who will be opening our doors and retrievig the car. And I can't wait!

We'll drive up in the afternoon, hopefully timing it perfectly for our 3:00 check-in, and pray we don't get caught in hours of fuck-ass traffic. My grand plan is to relax for a couple of hours, have a cocktail, get ready, have a cocktail, cab it to the stadium, have a cocktail, ROCK OUT, have a cocktail, I LOVE YOU STING, cab it back to the hotel, [censored], go to sleep.

Then after a nice long lounge in bed the next morning (read: sleeping it off) we'll check out by noon and head over to the Long Beach Aquarium for fishies and piccies then hopefully get home at a decent hour so we can relax some more with a few Netflix movies waiting for us.

Doesn't that all sound like fun? It had better work out that way. Dammit. FUN!

I've decided that I'm going to put aside all the heavy crap that happened this week, like finding out my uncle has what is probably a brutal and swiftly fatal case of prostate cancer, an old and much-admired acquaintance was freshly diagnosed with breast cancer and a new doc of mine has ordered a jamdownmygullet endoscopy test to grab a chunk of my guts for a biopsy. Which is one of the words that causes me to shit my pants and have 47,000 anxiety attacks.

ALL of that will be put on the back burner until after I ogle Sting's buttocks, buy every souvenir my credit card (and our arms) will allow, slam my boyfriend like a $2 hoor on the 18th floor of the Westin, make a phone-call from the pooper, take a zillion photos, and carve out a moment to just sit and breathe.

Which all sounds damn good to me.

Happy Born Day

I will save the rant I have brewing for another today since it's your birthday and thus all crankiness must wait until tomorrow!!

Happy 32cnd, baby!! I love you more than words can say and I hope this next year brings you, fucking finally, some of the things you so desire. (We'll get there, babe, we'll get there.)

Thank you for being the most super awesome person on the planet who I adore so much it hurts and thanks to your mama for pushing your ass out of hers. You are the frosting on my cake, the ketchup on my fries and the brave against my crazy. And as always, I love you more than my luggage.

MUAH!

I felt a little dizzy

Oh lerd. The Fair. Who would think that going to the fair to look at my photo and eat fried whatevertheyputinthevat would make me have so many feelings. Feelings that are barely contained and spill all over the floor in a big feeling mess. Don't step in the pile of feelings!! Someone get the paper towels!! And a mop!

It's a well-known fact my brain is broken. I have the Edsel of skulls. The new Coke of minds.

I entered that photo contest saying that I'd be thrilled if just one of my 6 photos made it onto the wall, the hell with getting a ribbon. One of my photos made it onto the wall and didn't get a ribbon and I was thrilled. For about a day. Then I was bummed. Then excited. Then irritated, followed by happy, then back around to bummed. Then anxious. See? Broken.

I was so excited and proud of myself until I started thinking, which is what always gets me into trouble. The photo that was chosen was, in my opinion, the worst of the lot I turned in. Not taken with my most expensive camera, reflections spots all over the top, so how in hell was it picked? Were the others so horribly bad? What was the criteria? Should I throw in this towel before it's got a drop of sweat on it?

It's so dumb, but gets dumber, just wait.

After fighting the crowds just to get into the damn place, walking around a bit and eating crap we finally made it up to the photography exhibit. Upon seeing the first display I slowly developed a teeny tiny anxiety attack. The photos, one after another, BLEW ME AWAY. They were unbelievably beautiful. Impossibly amazing. Staggeringly awesome. All over the place! Everywhere I looked I said to myself, holy shit, what the fuck am I doing here?

And occasionally I was like, dammit, I should have submitted that other picture, or, hey, I turned in one almost exactly like that, why didn't mine make it? But mostly I just crapped my pants and felt unworthy and impressed beyond belief at the same time. I mean, these people had talent. Assloads of talent. Talent I thought I might have sometimes when the moon is in the 7th house of Jupiter on the 4th Thursday in the second quarter of the year.

(I'm not always chock-full of confidence ready to kick ass and take names. Sometimes I'm a big old crybaby with very little self-assurance and a abundance of self-doubt. This was one of those times. I'm human. Occasionally.)

As we were walking around I wasn't finding my photo and thought I could be all cool about it but finally I couldn't take it any more. I wasn't going to be able to concentrate let alone process oxygen until I found it. We booked it to the other side of the room and there, right in the middle of the wall was my shark. I squealed "there it is!" And smiled and jumped a little off the ground, then noticed IT LOOKED LIKE CRAP.

I thought I'd mounted it OK since I was ignorant to such things and didn't know anything about the process and it was too late to get it professionally dry mounted so I was stuck using artists tape and apparently did a shitty job paired with gravity which equaled a very wrinkly slightly embarrassing display and I wanted to cry through my pride. It felt like I sent my kid to the first day of school with miss-matched shoes and a lunch of peanut-butter & mayo on rye carried in a full-sized grocery bag.

These pictures are like my little children. I feel attached to them and responsible and it was a vulnerable thing to go through, especially when want to lick your finger and smooth out that wayward hair sticking straight up. But then I was also proud and wanted to tell the strangers milling about that hey! That one's mine! Although I didn't because fucking hell, my poor little pocket-camera shark was flanked by stunning portraits from the sea and not 1 but 2 merit ribbons!



Oh, the drama. I was splashed with emotions, a little indigestion from the fried Pepsi, and I've spent the last 2 days vacillating between thinking I'm a dork who doesn't compare to knowing that I'm just starting out, know virtually nothing about photography or my camera and gawd forbid I can fucking remember what aperture means so pull my head out, what do I expect?

Such is the pattern of so many minds, I think. Bouncing between the I sucks why bother and man, this makes me want to learn and strive and go as far as I can go. Frankly, if you concentrate on the former and not the latter then you're kind of a jerk and I'm no jerk. Cranky, yes, jerk - no.

I will also take my own advice I gave out recently that change is supposed to hurt. Some learning experiences are uncomfortable so we can recognize the hard work put into it. (Which, btw, SUCKS.) But, I will deal with my pulses of displeasure and moments of pain and get a grip on my feelings of lame and push myself to be better. As Big Black would say, "Do WORK, Betty, Do WORK." Which I will.

And next time I'm getting that shit properly mounted. Oi.

Wheeeee

I don't know when it happened. Was there a magic age? Turning 30? Was it from a blow to the head, I've had plenty. Or did my natural equilibrium drain out of me that last time I "accidentally" drank too many glasses of wine topped with the strongest Vodka cranberry cocktails known to man and I ended up barfing every last drop of moisture from my body until my eyeballs popped out of my head and rolled across the floor like 2 dried prunes.

I can't ride roller coasters any more.

Now, you might be thinking, oh yes, that is the biggest tragedy of the year, but hell, I like roller coasters and I'd like to be able to go to an amusement park and not have to bring a fucking book to read (yes, I've actually done this) while my crew stands in line and enjoys losing consciousness without me. And it's almost summer and that's prime coaster riding time, yo but I can't participate. In fact, I can hardly ride anything anymore. And it sucks.

I loves me some Disneyland and luckily I can still ride the ones they have there, so I think, but I can put money on it that I'd never survive the rides they have next door at California Adventure. And just about everyone I know tells me Space Mountain and the Matterhorn aren't real roller coasters and I'm still a pussy. But I'm not a pussy, I say! It's not my fault!

It's not my fault that my heart stops when I lean over too far and it feels like my head is going to explode. It's not my fault that I get dizzy when I go over a speed bump. And I'm not to blame that I nearly have a myocardial infarction when things get a little out of control in the boudoir, if you know what I mean. It's my brain or something. Or my pancreas. That damn moody pancreas. It's all his fault.

The last time I rode a real coaster I almost died. Seriously. At least I felt like I was dying. We were at Six Flags and my x-boyfriend thought it would be oh so much fun to go on the old-fashioned wooden coaster. I was trying to be brave and all good girlfriendy and agreed with a smile. After the initial click click clicks of the ascent I held on tight and off we went into what I can only describe as a chiropractors dream and one of my worst nightmares.

We were thrown and jarred and my bones crunched and popped and every descent stopped my heart cold. I don't like the feeling of my stomach dropping because I'm absolutely positive it means my blood has turned to mud and my organs are being squeezed into my nasal passages anyway, but this shit was beyond brutal. Loop-d-loos are one thing, 100 story drops are another. Mix those with a pile of rickety old wooden slats and a car covered in lead paint and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

I barely made it and regretted every second. And to this very day I have a reoccuring nightmare that I'm on a roller coaster and it flies off the track a la Final Destination 17 or whatever. So not worth it but what the hell happened to me?

I used to love going on all other varieties of death-defying state fair-type rides put together by toothless carnies nursing wicked cough syrup hangovers and carrying bad attitudes against stupid rich kids who can afford to spend $20 trying to win a purple tiger stuffed with sawdust and the broken souls of homeless drifters by shooting rancid water into the mouth of a maniacal plastic clown.

I would get all excited whenever there was a local fair or a Halloween festival or a school function with a rented pony, I was riding something that would spin me in a circle fast enough to cause a snot line sideways across my face. I remember one time, at some rodeo ho-down carnival thing in our pseudo-shit kicker town, that I talked my bff at the time (April Gonzales) into going on The Zipper. I was stoked and jumped in ready to rock and roll. (Ha ha, roll. Get it? The wit, it kills me.)

If you've never had the pleasure there's a lever on the inside of the cage that allows you to somewhat control the flippage of your own car, since the whole damn thing goes up and around then your individual cage also flips around. After our door was firmly locked with a used toothpick from the corner of the carnies mouth we were off.

I wrapped my stubby fingers around the controller and pulled all the way back causing us to spin backwards at warp speed approximately 250 times a minute which could or could not be an exaggeration. Little did I know April was a giant chickenshit who didn't even like the ride and proceeded to scream in my ear for the entirety we were on it.

She tried to get me to stop the bonus flipping I was in control of but being the devil child that I am was I ignored her desperate shrieks and hysterical wails and spun away. Flip. Flip. Flip. Scream. Cry. Flip. Until she managed to peel her head from the backrest, lean over towards me and sink her crooked teeth a good inch into the soft flesh of my upper arm. That damn April.

After it was my turn to let out a scream I eased up on the damn flipping and the ride was over. We poured our dizzy, Ditto'd asses onto the ground where she promptly barfed red snow cone all over a hay bail. Guess I didn't consider the possibility that she could have vomited inside the rolling cage where it would have slapped me in the face repeatedly until the ride came to a stop. Suppose I'll take a bite over that.

Not all of my experiences have been good ones like that, heh. There was another time in junior high when the whole 7th grade went to a semi-local theme park and I was lucky enough to get a seat in the very first car of a coaster that basically just shoots you forwards and backwards with a loop in the middle. After one successful round we pressed our luck and ran around for another go but this time was different.

We shot forward and instead of losing speed after the first loop and gently coasting towards the stopper at the top we slammed into it then went rocketing backwards crashing into the emergency stopper in the back then whizzed through the launching area and halfway back up the loop where we were stopped on a dime causing everyone's pencil necks to snap. Something similar to what happened to these poor saps who got stuck upside down the other day.

Or else I've remembered it in an incorrect and dramatic fashion for all of these years and it was a simple matter of the ride malfunctioning for a second but it scared the piss out of me and I never went on it again.

I was also enjoying Splash Mountain sometime in my 20's when all of a sudden our log, along with 3 others, came to a bobbing halt as we all knocked into each other stacking up like a quad of giant turds in a stream. Something had broken in such a way that it was necessary to shut the whole shabang down and prevent the rest of the passengers from plunging to their death or whatever we were ultimately headed for.

We were in log number 3 and I could see up ahead that log number 1 was resting against a set of bracing doors. After a few minutes of wondering WTF and listening to Zipadeedodah blasting in our faces the lights came up, the music went off and a voice from somewhere instructed us to get out of our logs and walk behind us to a door.

Everyone chuckled nervously since we still didn't know what the hell was going on but we did as we were told and hoisted ourselves up and out and carefully walked around and over the whirring and whiz-popping animatronic animals that were still moving around to silent music.

A door opened and a Disney person in costume motioned us over to her and we were led down a scaffold-type set of metal stairs and onto the back lot. We all followed her to another door that she opened and the small group of us were deposited back into Frontierland amid the throngs of Disneygoers.

When I turned around the door we just came through was gone, disappeared into the fake logs of a fake fort wall. It was like going from a psychedelic color movie to a black and white back to a color. Surreal to say the least and we never did find out what the hub bub was all about in the first place but we got to cut in line when the ride was fixed about an hour later and I (obviously) survived the big plunge so hey, I have that going for me. Which is nice.

But alas, I fear these days I couldn't withstand a Ferris wheel let alone a mild coaster. Just the thought makes me swoon. Our county fair is going on right now and we're going on Sunday (to see one of my photos that was chosen for display in the photo contest, my very first one ever thankyouverymuch) and we won't be venturing over to the Fun Zone. I'll just have to be happy watching the pig races with some deep fried Coke and giant pickle on stick.

I'm here to be entertained, you know

The skies were a pale shade of grey and the morning as crisp as a cracker. We'd decided a few days previous that a weekend trip to the San Diego Zoo was in short order since we hadn't been in a couple of years and my fancy shmancy digital camera hadn't been used on the critters inhabiting our "world famous."

We don't often venture out of the house on a Sunday since we spend so much of our time in the presence of botards and fuckwits, stuck in traffic and lines and all other matters of urban sprawl but we won't be here in Southern California for much longer (gawd damn willing) so we need to soak it up while we can.

We woke up relatively early, ahem, let me clarify, I woke up at my normal retarded hour of 6:49 a.m. and he didn't sleep past 10:00 so our day began almost at the same time (please note my use of the sarcastic font.)

We drug ourselves out of the house and hopped in my car. After a stop for coffee (him), water (me), and egg mcnasties (us) we were on our way. I was hoping the skies would stay dark since that's a much more comfortable time outdoors for me on account of I'm the heat miser with better hair but any temp upwards of 65 and over has me sweating and whining and melting into the floor in a crabby mess. And, lower temps won't heat up the animals sending them into dens, under brush or otherwise comatosed.

All was going smoothly down the road and I hadn't had a panic attack yet. Oh, haven't I mentioned? Ever since last January when I was taking whitey to the airport, and I was positively dying from bronchitis, I've had heart-stopping, head-swirling, fucking hell I'm going to pass out while driving 75 mph panic attacks. It's so much fun (saracasm again.) So anyway, going smoothly, driving, yada yada when I noticed a long string of orange cones on the freeway as far as my sleepy eyes could see.

Hmm, I said to myself, they've shut down the fast lane, strange. After moving a lane to the right I was forced over another then another and WTF! The whole fucking freeway was CLOSED and before I knew what was happening I had no choice but to detour to a whole 'nother freeway and consequently travel on one that does not go past the effing zoo. Well shit damn crap.

Fucking hell, I said out loud realizing I'd screwed up my days and the reason for the closure was the stupid Rock-n-Roll marathon. I mean, who the hell needs to run 26pointasshole miles and on a friggen freeway no less, anyway? Argh! After switching to our 5th freeway, yes, 5th, we were finally on the right road and made our way into the Zoo parking lot which didn't look all that crowded yet so maybe it wouldn't suck too bad.

However, by the time we arrived 20 plus miles to the South the sun had poked through the clouds and I was squinting. Great. I hoped we were still early enough and it was cool enough that the animals would be a little active. Ha ha. I'm funny. Whitey and I half-heartedly joke that we have no luck and when we're together we have bad luck times two. Today was no exception.

Our first stop was the flamingos who, if you didn't already know, smell like a shit house full of shit covered in shit. But they are pretty. It must be brooding season or whatever you call bird porn because these feathered fellows had turned most of their enclosure into a birthing ground. I had no idea they made giant nests out of mud. I didn't get any closer than this because of the shit.

P. U.



After we got a good smell look at the birdies we pointed ourselves towards the children's zoo, which, unfortunately, you can only get to by passing the snake house. I have a pretend-you-don't-exist/hate relationship with snakes and lizards and tend to be very prejudice picking and choosing what I think is OK and what should be gathered up, stuffed into a rocket and blasted into another universe.

Of course the boy wanted to look at all things gross and fatal so we started at the first corner of the 4-sided structure where I was promptly face-to-face with this beauty.

She was a big-boned Caucasian gal.


That is the kind of snake that doesn't make me want to throw myself onto the ground and stab my minds eye out with a rusty spork to avoid the memory recall I'll undoubtedly have at wonderful moments like when I feel a tickle on my leg and don't automatically think it's a stray hair hanging from my yoga pants or something else reasonable but probably something like this:


Blech.


I know!

I'm proud to say I only freaked out (loudly and publicly, mind you, there was plenty of silent screaming) about 5 times and I made it all the way around with only a little stress rash starting on my right arm, go me. I tried to take some decent pictures which was not easy through old warped glass not to mention they were of reptiles anyway. Such as these:

Blech. Blech.


And this:

Anyone need any insurance?


Next we went to the komodo dragon house (hello! We're supposed to be going to the children's fucking furry babies and no icky snakes zoo!) and was surprised to see the big guy out and about. He was crusing around and I was all "yay, he's not laying around! We're getting lucky!" And I took some pics! And he was actually cool! And I didn't vomit!

How yoooooo doin'?


And then exactly one minute later he booked over to a rock and laid down and didn't move again.

I'm so over it.


Sigh. On our way to the children's zoo and the nursery that I was so excited about because baby animals squeee! we stopped to gawk at the parrots. Who did nothing but stare at us.

You got a problem? I'll give you a problem.


or refused to look me in the eye. Hmf.

I'm not looking at you, you know.


And that's where I knew our double-whammy bad luck had followed us again and I was not to be proven wrong.

The dik dik wasn't havin' it.

Who you callin' a dik? Dik.


The ducks were aloof.

Gah, I'm so fucking full.


I'm blue.


And the goat wouldn't get out of the bucket.

This bucket is all I need.


The bat-eared fox was unresponsive.



The meerkat was tuckered.



And I think a little depressed.

~sigh~ What does it all mean...


Of course there were no babies in the nursery to squeal over, unless you count the 50 pound porcupine, so we went over toride the sky tram thingy and check out the polar bears, smelling the flowers along the way, well, at least the bee did.

Does this flower make my butt look big?


No moonboots on the tram!



We arrived at the other end of the zoo and watched a small animal chase around and kick the crap out of another small animal and since I couldn't do anything about it I took pictures of a hummingbird.

I should NOT have had that last cup of coffee.


We walked down a hill to steep you practically had to scoot down on your butt and went to see the polar bears. At least one of the two out in the enclosure wasn't snoring under a log. We finally had a few minutes of entertainment watching this giant set of teeth try and chew an even gianter ball.

Mmmm...balls...


And then it was over.

Mmm...dreaming of balls...


I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I was determined to see something good! We pointed ourselves towards another part of the park and knew we were getting close to some critters when the log-jam of gawkers came to a sudden and impacted halt. All to see the following.

Bored hippo.



Melancholy okapi.



OCD tiger.



Hungover monkey.





CRAP.

We were now hot and sweaty and squinty and had enjoyed the melodious (sarcasm) sounds of a million screaming children and had played dodge the stroller for a few hours and were ready to head home, by way of the best thing we saw the whole fucking day. A wall of art one could only be explained as precious. Horrible, bad and precious.

Mentally Challenged Bear and his cousin Beer Belly.



Crack Pipe Bear. Rahhh, we're my pipe?!?



Fancy Gay Men's Chorus Bear. ~jazz hands~



We'd almost made it home when after taking our normal exit discovered my little town was having a celebration and the whole street was closed. After another effing detour and a brief stop to get provisions we got home safe and sound armed with beer (him), ice cream (me) and enjoyed the rest of our day. In peace. With no snakes.

The End.

Jesus Christ!

An after midnight poem. I call it;

SHUT THE FUCK UP

Chainsaw, buzzsaw, rattling brains
Displeased, displaced, my bulging veins.

Awoke from slumber with a start
From far more than a tiny fart.

This happens every god damned time

I'm this [] close to committing a crime.

It always comes after beer six
God dammit you, now I'm in a fix.

Woke you up, 3 times at least
Can't quiet this snorting, noisy beast.

I say this with all the love I can muster
at this time of night I've lost my luster.

But...

Onto the floor your blood will be pouring
If you don't roll over and STOP FUCKING SNORING!!

Get out the hole punch, ma!

I have a big birthday coming up in a few months. It starts with a 4 and ends with an 0 so if you couldn't figure it out, I'll be 29.

How the hell did I get here? I'm so grateful to be here, but the hell? How could so much time have passed? I don't feel much different than when I was 22, I think? Maybe? Maybe not. God, I don't know. Shouldn't I have things figured out by now? It's 2007 for fuckssake. And where's my god damn flying car!?!

I have a vivid memory of a day in high school when me and group of my morose, self-entitled, overly expressive "Drama Fags" stood around in our pegged jeans and flipped collars and figured out how old we would be when the century rolled over from 1999 to 2000. I was shocked and sickened to realize I'd be 32 and man, my life would like totally be like over by then. Sha.

How silly I was.

I know a number is just and number and all that and I believe that but now that I'm staring at the last half of 39 I'm getting floods of emotions about it and my life and where its at or not at on a daily basis. It's a wee bit overwhelming and I'm not quite sure where it's all coming from or what to do with it.

And whoa, this is not the fork in road I intended to take today. I'm over-tired and probably hormonal and what I really wanted to discuss was my idea, intention and desire to do something a little crazy for or before my epic b-day this year.

I want to get my nose pierced.

Please contain your shock at this extremely important subject matter. I know it's not like I'm planning on base-jumping off of the world's largest ball of twine or anything but this does involve needles and my face and possible permanent divets in my shnoz. Plus there's the whole age thing and the new decade I'm entering into and all the stupid fucking preconceived notions and expectations on one who's in this particular age category, and man is that a post for another day. It's also a proven fact I have no luck so there's a good chance something would go wrong.

I got my ears pierced when I was in 3rd grade. What is that, 8? 9? I don't remember. I'd been begging my mother for God knows how long to be like my friends who already had their ears pierced and taunted me with sparkly pink rhinestones and painted beans dangling from their faces. I'd put up with all the lame "why do you want more holes in your head" jokes from the men in my family long enough and had finally been given permission to get them.

The day to get perforated finally came and my Mom and I embarked on the trek to the biggest mall we had in San Diego at the time and made our way to the large department store who offered ear piercing. I was nervous but excited and tried to ignore my mother's non-mothering warnings that it was going to hurt. (My mother has a long history of making injuries and such worse by making a horrible grimacing face while looking at your bleeding wound, sucking air through her teeth and saying, "Eeesh, that looks baaaaaad.")

We went through the glass double doors and walked under the bright over-head lights to the jewelry counter. I don't remember if we needed an appointment or not but it was obvious we'd have to wait a few minutes since there was a little old lady getting hers done and had already parked her fanny in the chair. We learned she was having her ears done for the first time in her life after using clip-ons for more than 50 years and she was obviously nervous, wringing her hands, her brow furrowed with anxiety.

I watched with glorious ignorance as the piercer marked the old woman's ears with a purple felt-tip pen then loaded the "gun" with a stud and backing. The old lady was with her middle aged daughter and she gripped her hand tightly, steadying herself for the pinch. The gun was placed on her lobe, everyone held their breath and just as the piercer pulled the trigger her hand twitched the lady jerked and WHAM! The earring went in crooked and the gun jammed and the whole mess was stuck on the old ladies ear.

There was a lot of hustle and bustle and bleeding and old lady moaning and actual tears down her wrinkly face crying and I nearly shit my toughskins two times. They finally got the piercing gun dislodged from her head and managed to talk her into finishing the other ear which was done without a problem. But by that time I'd gone from wary to terrified, my eyes as big as saucers and already tugging my mother back towards the door. All I knew is that I didn't want my ears pierced by Miss Fumblefingers no fucking way fuck no.

In a rare moment of understanding my mother let me take some time to reconsider instead of her normal "you've made your decision now live with it" attitude. We walked around the mall for a little while and came upon a jewelry store that also did piercings so if I wanted to go through with this at least I didn't have to go back to the department store and risk a pre-teen lobotomy from Retardo.

The new piercer person was a nice girl who was calm and gentle and talked me through the ordeal with expertise. I held still even when I was surprised and momentarily deafened by the sonic boom crashing through my brain from the gun and the pinch was more of a slam-my- head-in-a-door feeling but it was done and I had done did it.

My ears were flaming hot for the rest of the day and I was convinced my whole heart had climbed up into my sinus cavity but at least there wasn't a major malfunction. Of course I did not take care of them like I was aggressively warned about, lazy about cleaning or turning the earrings so they didn't get stuck and being the wild kid that I was diving into diseased ponds and having dog shit fights they got infected all the time. And I was forever scared away from getting any more holes in my head after that.

So yea, the nose. I think I should go for it. Totally.

Yea, baby

Lookie my new layout! Come on, people. You have nothing to say?? Nothing?*

Do you even know what it took to change this damn thing? Practically an act of gawd, I'll tell you. This crabby girl does not like change. And I mean, does not like change in a way that normal people don't like swallowing handfuls of glass or getting a used band aid in their salad. I'm talking that much.

Months of contemplation, procrastination, fear. Then there was the hemming followed by the hawing rounded out by the hate of HTML. I'm sure you feel my pain.

Finally the decision was made before I could escape the clutches of my quickly distracted mind and I did it. Only to find that certain things (GOD DAMN COMMENTS) were lost in the ether and the directions for recovery provided by the comment host (GOD DAMN HALOSCAN) were worth jack effing squat (GOD DAMN IT).

But, after several tantrums, minutes of pouting, extreme stress, one irrational accusation, and a borrowed (stolen) image, I think we're on our way. The new Blogger has its problems but some things have been easier to manage. Miracle, I know. I really like the new layout and am proud of myself for figuring some stuff out on my own and finally having a page that doesn't look circa 1999. Go me.

Jesus. You'd think I'd just discovered a new species of puppy or something. Anyway, it's (nearly) done and I'm actually happy with it, finally.

*I'm totally kidding, you don't have to lavish me with compliments, much.

~~~~~

We had a fairly quiet 3 day weekend successfully avoiding the throngs of people who arrive in San Diego hoping to spend time at the beach packing every inch of sand like 4 million drunk sardines slathered in SPF 35. We stayed in and relaxed, watched and turned off half-way through a couple of movies because they sucked ass, and I took some piccies with my macro lens that is a tricky bitch with PMS but a couple of them came out a'ight.

~~~~~

Lastly, just what is the deal with Twitter? I don't get it. I signed up but still, what? And my company has blocked it which is supposed to mean it's a good thing that I must be protected from (eyeroll) so please tell me, what is the hub bub? I must know.

G. Dammit.

Dear Blogger,

You sort of suck.

Love,

Betty

P.S. you're also a fucking liar and smell like cheese. Look what you've done to my blog, you asshole. I hate you. A lot. Wait. I didn't mean that. Give me my comments back, please? And fix my title. Love you. Mean it. (Call me.)

Wednesday Tip

When you've recently, but after nearly everyone else, discovered a deliciously naughty but talented band that specializes in the most creative of wording, kicky beats and wonderfully horrible and occasionally nasty and/or wickedly vulgar lyrics because you are often late to the party although you do arrive in all your gloriousness and manage to get served a lovely cocktail and a piece of cake your hostess saved for you because she knows you're an ass who runs a couple hours behind the entire world, it's a good idea to enjoy these tunes to yourself and pay attention to what you're doing so you don't get caught with your Ipod buds shoved firmly in your ears as you happily but obliviously and repetitively serenade away in a voice much too loud for a stuffy, no-nonsense office with the sense of humor of a school marm in the 1800's the stanza;

"NOW SHOW 'EM THEM TITTIES!!"

It doesn't go over so well.

Yawnday

Thank you to everyone who have left comments about Rass. I tried 10 times to reply to you individually but since Haloscan sucks more ass than a horny men's chorus it wouldn't let me. I'm putting whitey on the task of updating this boring blog layout next weekend and switching to another comment thingy. Fuggit. I'm a'scared of the template so I can't do it.

The news about my little girl is sinking in and I'm gearing up to do whatever it will take to keep her happy and healthy as possible (IV fluids - GAH!) I shelled out $50 for a Drinkwell water fountain on Saturday since she was completely obsessed with drinking from the running bathroom tap for awhile and we need to encourage her to consume as much liquid as possible.

The cost of the damn thing stung a bit especially since the online price was WAY lower but I couldn't wait to order it and the stupid store which I won't mention but it rhymes with METCO wouldn't honor the online price because the stores aren't allowed to "compete" with the internet even though it's the same company forfuckssake how stupid.

I got it all set up and filled with water and didn't electrocute myself in the process which was no small miracle, turned it on, let it flow and showed it to the cat who was All. Over. It. For about 5 minutes.

Apparently the entire purpose of drinking out of the tap is not for the fresh, running water but to control me like the puppet master she is getting me up and off my ass to go into the bathroom and turn the water on then stand there while she watches me watching her not drinking it.

Sigh.

This is why I loves cats. They so have you by the balls. Heh. But whatever, it's still worth it.

Not much else of great note is going on besides a list of shit I have to take care of and things on my mind and I'm still really busy coughing, darn it. We managed to leave the house both Saturday and Sunday this weekend and it wasn't all that horrible although next weekend I'd rather stay inside at least Sunday and on the holiday Monday. Your life is pretty pared down when the main goal is to never have the sun touch your skin and it's fun to not brush your hair. Both sound awesome to me.

There were a few moments of retardation, besides the METCO purchase, another one being running into a neighbor (sorry, baby) that I've never spoken too and unfortunately got into a 20 minute chat with (really sorry, baby) where she unhinged her jaw and spewed verbal napalm about her life covering more subjects and personal information that I'd never want to know about (I owe you big, baby).

She, we learned, is divorced with 3 young boys who are in a very expensive private school and she made a killing from her divorce and teaches tennis a few times a week enjoys peanut butter sandwiches on wheat bread but not the crust her ex-husband is a firefighter and on and on and on and just when we were ready to escape we reached one of these moments:

Neighbor: "So, how long have you two been married?"
Us: "Oh, we're not married."
Neighbor: ~gravely serious~"God will bless you more if you get married."
Us:...
Us later: "What a fucking bitch!!"

The fuck, woman? You think it's OK to say that to perfect strangers?? You don't know our situation, if we're religious at all, or if we're serial killers that whack people then bury them under the lawn for saying stupid things. (We're not, just in case you're wondering.) But that was o-ffen-sive. Now I'm glad I never told her someone drew a sideways penis in pink pen on the back of her minivan. What a shitbag.

On Sunday we went to Sea World, very early (sorry baby!) to try and recapture a photo I'd taken before and have entered in the county fair photo contest, which is my very first photo contest and I have no hopes of even having a picture shown but I wanted to try. We didn't spend a lot of time there but had a pretty good time. The best part being home before 1:00 and narrowly missing the 10 million people who showed up.

I tried to get some shots of fish which are generally tough because of the glass and smears of sticky child hands and greasy noses but I dig the giant octopus who unfortunately lives in a really tiny tank who was giving me the stink eye about it, no doubt.

clicky


There was also a mother duck with 10 ducklings that were so cute we wanted to shove them all in our pockets and take them home but didn't because we would have had our asses pummeled by a very pissed off mama duck and Rass would have eaten them all then barfed them on the carpet. They were key-yute, though.

Here are the only pic's I uploaded, enjoy if you so please. Sea World set.

Darn

It is upon us. Again. A sick kitty with no way to escape the disease that will eventually take her life. I'm not ready. I don't want to do this again. Unfortunately I'm willing and able because I have no choice.



We just said goodbye to her sister, Boo, last September. 33 days before her (their) 9th birthday. It was far too soon for Boo and it was a long, drawn-out death that came after a year of consistent wasting away with agonizing decisions and doubts that will haunt me forever, despite how hard we tried to save her. I thought for sure it was a fluke thing, the doctor assured me it was, but here we are preparing for the worst. Again.

I took Rascal to the vets office last Friday for a check up and to see about this acne-looking crap on her chin that seemed to be driving her nutty and didn't look right. Because she's technically a senior cat they encouraged me to run some tests to not only see why her chin was behaving like a surly teenager but to take a peek at her kidneys and other things since she was none too happy having her guts squeezed and my (awesome) vet wanted to make sure it wasn't just Rass being disagreeable at being touched. (Which is the norm for my cantankerous queen. You need permission to look in her general direction even on a good day.)

Rass was whisked away from me, poked, prodded, had her chin shaved in a most unflattering way and I was sent home with some antibiotics and the promise of a phone call. All to the tune of three hundred, fifty-four dollars and twenty-nine cents. Ouch. And it wasn't fun for her either.

Of course that wasn't as painful as the message I received on Saturday afternoon. The blood tests were already in and the diagnosis came back unfavorable; kidney disease. In other words, kidney failure. Her death sentence, to be brutally honest. Thankfully it's been labeled as mild, early stages, whatever, so a smidgen of hope is still there.



Well, not hope really, but the wish that things will progress slowly and she'll be around for as long as possible but with cats it's completely unpredictable since they just have to be the mystery fucking domestic animal and things can go haywire without cause or explanation at any time and somehow I think they like it that way because it's no joke they run the world and wouldn't want anyone to ever have the upper hand. Ever. Little bastards.

I was strangely calm about it on Saturday, thinking it was OK and I would be OK and she'll be OK until she's not OK anymore. Even while whitey was comforting me and ready for my immediate meltdown it didn't come. Until yesterday.

I had to bring her back to the vet for a couple follow up tests so we could get a better handle on where this kidney failure is on the scale of mild to say your goodbyes. I wanted to wait until I got paid again but the doc didn't, so my worry went up a notch from there.

She had to have a blood pressure taken and X-rays, sailing through the former while her mama fretted then it was reported that Miss Thing had become a very unhappy girl when stretched out and pinned down for the images and that was all she was going to put up with today.



While she was off being radiated I was given a lesson on how to prepare an IV of Ringer's lactate to give subcutaneous fluids myself (GAH!!), how to dispose of the sharps and the best way to poke your cat with a giant needle being warned that it's going to take "some practice." And that's where my panic attack started.

You see, Rascal and I have not always gotten along. Didn't see eye to eye, if you will, and she had little to no interest in me for a very long time. Boo was my little girl and while I had affection for Rass, or KeeKee as I call her most of the time, she was very independent and aloof and the little fucker ran from me most of the time so eff it. Then whitey moved in and turned her into a lover and when Boo died she changed. She was happier, more affectionate, and funnier. She really turned into another kitty and we've been bonding every since.

Let me tell you, I LOVE this girl. Like I didn't think I ever would. She's still a freak and can be annoying but she's weird and hilarious and sweet and beautiful and I feel guilty as hell for thinking she was a turd for such a long time. I don't want her going anywhere but here I am, going into support mode, paranoiaville, obsession alley. Not to mention the cost. OMG, the fucking cost.

I take care of my animals and I always say the universe sends me the ones that no one else would take because they're always great animals but fucking expensive with bizarre maladies that I'm obligated to tend to. Unfortunately it beats the shit out of my pocketbook and I'm not made of money. I hate it being a consideration but it is a consideration. 2 visits have already totalled a few dollars short of $600.00 with the drugs and tests and special foods. And that's just the beginning.

So, I'm in it. The worry and the watching like a hawk and the anguish that she'll not feel well and be in pain and have to go through all kinds of nasty shit at my hands and I'll be losing another baby in such a short time. I know it's all part of life but dammit, it's a shitty, shitty part.

There will be pills shoved down her throat daily, needles, dreaded car rides, distress, fear, uncertainty, etc. etc. etc. And to top things off right before we left the vet said she heard a heart murmer that was new. God. Damn. It.

I don't say any of this looking for sympathy. I know I have a lot of health issues myself and have been stupidly extra sick this year and there are millions of people who have it worse then me, but it's my blog and I'm overwhelmed with sadness today. I'm just plain overfuckingwhelmed altogether.

I appreciate all of the well wishes I always get, I really do, so I'm not fishing for more or expecting any or trying to be Debbie Downer or thinking life sucks or saying why me. I'm just fucking bummed. Today I'm really fucking bummed.

Too much

What's with all the scrolling message thingies at the bottom of every other channel on the TV?

Need I be so multi-stimulated when I'm trying to do my best impersonation of a leafy green vegetable sitting in front of the idiot box wanting nothing more than to be entertained with fabulous reality TV shows and The Office? Must I tax my (floatie crammed) eyeballs trying to read teeny tiny writing whizzing across the bottom of my screen that's already sitting 8 feet away from me? Is it imperative that while I'm watching a smug kitty get the living crap beat out of them by a turtle that I need to know that Paris Hilton's latest chancre was drained and treated with antibiotics?

I think not!

They're popping up everywhere. News channels, talk shows, infomercials even. It's craziness! We're totally inundated with stimuli as it is, I don't need 400 bits of info on the screen to decipher. By 6:00 my brain is nearly full and this won't leave me any room to comprehend and make fun of the creepy pawing cheesy-beyond-belief lame lecherous but may be gay Bachelor. It's too much.

You know where a message board would be handy, though? On the bumper of my car. That way I could let every retard on the road know I hate them and fuck off please when they've nearly sent me off a cliff from not paying attention while texting a resume to the local McDonald's or drifted into my lane because the driver is getting a hummer from his girlfriend, which normally I would forgive because alright, get some, but you know that dumb girl is no good at it.

Or better yet, I want one strapped to my ass and hard wired into my brain so my every brilliantly witty thought and spot-on fashion advice would be shared with the world. I'm sure that would be very appreciated.

Druuuuuugs

I've never been one to consume, imbibe, sniff, snuff, huff, puff, swallow, snort, or partake in any other handful of horrible and painful ways, drugs. Well, not my personal definition of drugs anyway. Please enjoy that caveat, I have an endless supply of them.

I've smoked pot probably about 10 times in my life with each experience increasingly nasty with me being not your typical stoner craving Doritos and all the potatoes in Idaho and maybe worrying that someone is looking at them but a jittery spaz verbally reguritating an endless diatribe about how I feel so jittery repeating the word jittery so many times that if my pot-smoking partners had enough energy to lift their heads from the back of the couch they'd pour the bong-water down my throat and send me out into the world to fend for myself.

The first time I smoked enough to feel it I didn't pass out like my (totally kick-ass) aunt (who bought me booze when I was in high school and let me borrow her BMW to run my dorky friends around), curled up on the couch looking so peaceful I wanted to slap her cherubic face. I was wide awake and wired and there was no decent food in her fucking house. I split a regular Coke with her, after I woke up her snoozing ass, and ravaged the icy remains of a box of Rocky Road ice cream in the back of her freezer.

Overall it was a super stupid night but let me tell you what. In between my crushing paranoia that my dad would somehow spontaneously know that I was up to something as reprehensible as smoking marijuana causing him to burst through the door at any minute with my first class ticket to Ground Town that was the best fucking ice cream I've ever tasted so I guess it was worth it for that.

I suppose I've never given out that drug-taker vibe. I've only been offered something more than pot a couple of times and I was too chicken to do it. I just knew I'd be that dumb kid on the cover of a Very Special Investigative Issue on the Scourge of Our Youth in People magazine after I sucked an entire can of whipped cream while being held upside down in some kids kitchen and ended up strapped to a wheelchair drooling into a cup and having my mother dress me in plaid pants with kitten sweatshirts for the rest of my life.

I just knew some bad shit would happen to me. Although I've always trusted prescription drugs, for the most part. Now in my old age I'm leery of taking anything wacky like anti-seizure medication to help me sleep. Seriously, doc, wtf? But I got my first taste of a narcotic when I was in high school and it was like experiencing my first orgasm. I liked it. A lot. Wanted more and always have. But not enough to seek it out because there's still the chicken factor and chocolate, which is my number one drug of choice.

I had my wisdom teeth out early, when I was 16 because my dentist was a direct descendant of Satan and enjoyed pulling or arranging to have pulled most of the teeth in my head. He decided I needed oral surgery again and this time the useless molars in the back must come out. It was not fun and I looked like someone had run my face over with an urban assault vehicle but I got drugs this time. Really nice drugs. Drugs I wanted to take to the prom then blow in the back of the limo.

Percodan. If I was to ever have a child I might be tempted to name them that. The love, it is still there. I took the first pill and within an hour my pain was not only a faint memory but I felt oh so shiny. Warm on the inside like all the angels in heaven had entered my body and kissed my soul.

I was lulled to sleep as if floating on the Sea of Drug-Induced Goodness and woke up needing another, which I didn't get because my parents were stingy freaks who didn't give me a lick of credit for being scared shitless of drugs despite my instant and undying love for Percodan and went by my dad's previous little "problem" with Valium in the 60's and took my beloved dope away from me parsing out a few measly doses then hiding them in their bathroom.

Which I found later when some schmuck in gym decided to pop my shoulder out of the socket but my mother didn't believe that I was in excruciating pain (typical) and I had to borrow a sling from a friend who'd broken her elbow in an unfortunate hood-riding accident that I was witness to (another story for another time) and I found my bottle of pills which I stole back from my parents and proceeded to eat them all in a few short days plus a few of the same that were my dads. So there.

Oh yea, there was that one time I was screwing around with some fringy-type friends, again in high school, and we had ditched class to hang out at Denny's and cut, with my gas card, "lines" on the table made from Sweet-n-Low. I just had to push my very sophisticated comedy one step further and scooped up a toot in my always long coke-looking pinkie nail and up my nose it went. My gawd, the pain. I blame my 17 year-old Swiss cheese brain for that one. To this day I don't like the taste of the pink stuff. Blech.

But really, that's all I had the guts to do because you know, the drooling bad sweater thing has always loomed over my head. Booze has been my thing which isn't nearly as scary as real drugs because, you know, spinning around the room and puking 20 times until you burst blood vessels in your eyeballs is a cake walk. But I can't do that anymore either so fooey! I've developed such a craptacular allergy to alcohol that I can't even get a nice little buzz from a lovely bottle of wine when I want to without paying dearly.

So, I can't drink, I won't do illegal stuff because I have no luck, I'm a sensitive freak of nature and bad things will happen to me, my thyroid meds don't get me high and my inhaler just makes me feel like shit so what is a girl to do? I could take Pamprin because that does a fairly good job making me feel warm and fuzzy but it also knocks me unconscious for about 5 hours and when you want to party and get a little funky and maybe your freak on you don't want to be snoring in the corner!

All I have left now is the occasional doctor recommended and prescribed pharmaceutical assistance that will kill 2 birds with one pill taking care of whatever ails me adding the extra bonus of getting a little happy. Odds are if you have to take something like that you're in pain one way or another so you deserve relief with being harmlessly but gloriously glazed at the same time. Makes perfect sense to me.

Therefore I'd like to voice my disdain and displeasure for whoever or whatever asshole entity decided it would be clever to add codeine to cough syrup for poor, unfortunate girls afflicted with her second bout of barking bronchitis with a head cold in between in 4 short months causing gallons of snot to pour from her face, wheezing, complaining, misery, general malaise, and rendering her useless to all mankind it's really fucking shitty that the special ingredient in that wonderful drug that makes all the bad things go away and replaced with the shiny has been REMOVED!

You, good sir, SUCK.

BLINK

So, in the scheme of things I suppose this doesn't really rate high on the scale of horrible maladies and debilitating afflictions, rendering me on some disabled list unable to function or go about my day but it's annoying and permanent, which in itself is disturbing, and big fat fucking bummer to boot and harasses the holy heck out of me and I'm sure someone would agree it could warrant if not time off for stress related Betty bugging shit at least lots of sympathy and a few pretty presents of a sparkly nature.

I have eye floaties.

I've had one in my right eye for as long as I can remember and that was bad enough then last summer I was driving home in the bright Southern California sunshine and it looks like there was a dark hair on my sunglasses but it sort of moved diagonally towards my nose and I thought, well wtf is that?

It didn't go away and actually got worse and I was due for an eye exam so I went and said, hey doc, there's a huge effing wrinkle-type thing on my left eyeball and I think my brain has torn and gotten loose in my eyeball liquid and surely I must go on disability for a couple of years because obviously I can't be expected to work with random and occasional semi-microscopic disturbances across my vision.

The doc said no.

The doc said this was normal and nothing to worry about and nothing she could do. So I kicked her in the box and left.

Then last December I'm visiting my best gay boy Matty in San Francisco and we're lounging around in his expensive thousands of dollars bed with the 800 thread count sheets reading and recovering from our shenanigans the previous night and all of a damn sudden a NEW floatie went zooming across my left eye that was already crippled by the brain wrinkle so that is NOT FAIR that it got ANOTHER chunk of junk bobbing around in there.

The Hell?

So in the span of a completely unfair and retardedly short period of stupid time I went from one vitreous swimmer to two, one in each eye with a giant slash too that happens every time I drive. Every time I drive. Over and over and over.

I came across a bit of information recently that suggested that if you look up they can momentarily go away so now whenever my horizon is nearly blinded and disturbed by this detritus debris I do this routine;

Blink.

Blink harder.

Smash eyes together.

Open eyes really wide.

Look up, look down, look up, look farther up.

Blink.

Blink blink.

Repeat. All day.

So many times during my waking hours I look like a fun-house freak a few seconds away from biting the head off a chicken and stretching my neck a foot in either direction with meat hooks.

This clearly this warrants taking a year off of work, no? Yea, I thought so, too.

Knock knock knock

Well hello there.

Let's just pretend that we are old friends who run into each other at a party and one of us (me) remembers that one of us (me) was supposed to call you back that one day to make plans for lunch and didn't and then worried about it then forgot and then thought that you probably forgot too but by the pinchy way you said "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey" in that passive-aggressive sing-song voice then pointed your wine glass holding finger at me and smiled like Cruella De Ville sporting a new fur coat made from baby cockapoos which told me oh yea, you remember that I totally blew you off and somehow I'm going to pay.

But then I rush over and give you a big old bear hug and slap your ass and tell you 12 funny stories while refreshing your glass every 5 minutes and in no time we're bff's again and all is forgiven because hell, we all know I'm fucking fabulous and how can you be mad at me? You can't. So don't tell your boyfriend my ass looks fat in these pants when I walk away, alright? We were having such a nice time, don't spoil it.

Yes, so. I got through the scan and as my girlie Tru left in the comments it was clean. Which is a big YAY!! It looked better than last year which was better than the year before when I got the dreaded "We see something but aren't going to do anything about it so have a nice life thinking you have cancer raging through your body. Buh bye."

The whole scanning process SUCKS and I felt like shit for weeks but the outcome was great so great. You'd think I'd be great but no, not so much with the great.

I don't know exactly what is wrong with me because I am grateful and happy and all that but after a couple days of being elated through an icky sick fog I remember all the other things that are still wrong with me and I still physically feel like shit so my good news is short lived.

This year I didn't feel as bad for as long but haven't been able to shake the general feeling of having a mild case of the flu and walking around like a virtual zombie after getting scant more than a few hours of sleep a night. Right before the whole ordeal I'd been told I have situational and reversible fibromyalgia which explains my constant state of shit-feeling. Of course I was told to exercise and eat right and reduce stress and here, take this nasty drug made for epileptics to help you sleep, which I won't do.

Therefore I'm trying to uncrank myself and figure this new development out. Pair all of this with a job I fucking HATE working with people who are LAME and I've been sporting one giant pair of pissy pants for weeks.

I bought The Secret because Oprah told me too but I'm so cantankerous I'd rather shove it up her righteous ass then read it. I snarl at toddlers and flip off old ladies and laughed when Sanjaya was voted off of American Idol but really, that bitch needed to go. I squish snails and yell at sales girls and agree with Dr. Laura.

I'm tellin' ya. I've been a CRANK.

And I have no real elegant way of closing this verbal regurgitation so I'm going to discreetly sneak into the guest room where all the coats and purses are and quietly grab my things trying not to wake the drunk woman snoring on top of that leather jacket and slip out the front door. (No, I'm not leaving, it was a metaphor. Simile? Fake ending.) Ahem. OK, on to other things.

~~~~~

I started the South Beach Diet yesterday. I lasted 14 hours. GO ME!!

~~~~~

Hey, chick sitting in front of me at the movies with the greasy hair and ugly striped green shirt. Put your fucking cell phone away. I'm not kidding. I've been on a mean streak lately and if you don't shove that phone in your dirty white purse I'm going to pour the remains of my diet coke over your head and give you a courtesy lobotomy with the straw.

You see, when they play that nauseating song with the creepy dancing paper sacks it's not to simply entertain the likes of you and your white trash girlfriend. It's a message. A big, fat hint, close to a demand, right around the corner from a warning to be aware of your surroundings and the people sharing the same space as your mouth-breathing self and it is a simple fact of respect that you adhere to societal rules in a cinema.

Rules which allow other paying patrons with short tempers and quick fuses to enjoy a theatrical film without being FUCKING BLINDED IN THE PITCH BLACK ROOM BY YOUR GOD DAMN PINK JEWELED PHONE WITH THE BLUE KEYS AND SEARCHLIGHT SCREEN WHILE YOU TEXT THE GUY YOU'RE TRYING TO MAKE YOUR NEW BABY DADDY EVERY 4 FUCKING MINUTES!!

PUT. IT. AWAAAAAAAAAY. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.

~~~~~

Miss me? I missed you. Let's make out.