Purse shmurse

I did not get the furry purse. I got these instead:




SQUEEEEEE!!!

Yea! I know I live in California! SHADDAP.

Dumb things I think about

1. Is wearing fake fur as bad as real fur since if you're an anti-real-fur person is it not also still bad to be donning something that looks like real fur?

Cuz there's a really cute faux fur handbag at Target that is cheap and trendy and I really want it but not if it makes me a hypocrite and puts me at risk of being pelted with a bucket of red paint by a spazmodic PETA person screaming "filthy murderer" at me while covered in a lettuce bra and cabbage panties.

2. How do you dudes handle walking into public bathrooms and whipping out your junk in front of strangers all the time?

I know about the unwritten rule of spacing an empty urinal between you and your fellow pee-er, if possible, but are you also not allowed to look? Because if it was standard that women had to flash their tits as soon as they entered the potty, I would totally look.

3. What the hell are those people on LOST using for toilet paper?

If I was stranded on a desert island I'd be totally screwed. It's all about the bathroom for me. Fuck no food, I want Charmin.


And these are the dumb thinks I'm thinking about today.

Survivor Recap - 2

Tonight’s Survivor definitely didn’t have the same exciting flavor as last week. It was unsalted butter on toast. A steaming cup of decaf. A monotone ‘I love you’. Why. Even. Bother.

After some aerial shots of breathtaking scenery, complete with several alligator eyeballs which would prove to be quite the foreshadowing since mine nearly fell out from rolling them. Episode 2 begins with a brief recap of last weeks show then we quickly join Nakúm as they limp their way back to camp in the dark after voting Jim out.

The men still looked beaten and exhausted and everyone is visibly unhappy for being the first group at Tribal Council. Well, what do you expect when all of your men puked their dehydrated brains out the previous day and were all weak as kittens? ~eyeroll~

The next morning finds some of the men slightly improved except for Blake, who is the male version of Stephanie I swear look for yourselves I do not lie



who’s sucking wind and being babied by Margaret, which does not set well with Judd who proceeds to whine that wah he wants to be the hero or Brandon who proclaims how tough he is while sitting on his ass wearing the same hat I wore to 6th grade camp in 1979. ~eyeroll~

Tribe KumbayYaxha was basking in their victory and about one minute away from a group hug as they proclaimed themselves a family after enjoying each other’s bodily stank for 4 whole days. ~eyero…aww you get the point~

Both tribes received tree mail for the reward challenge which eluded to something to do with spiders. I was so hoping the producers would get all X-treme Fear Factor on their asses and make them eat some roasted turantulas dipped in bat guano, but I was totally robbed. Both teams would have to sprint across a ramp and a net run then spider-crawl on the underside of a giant web made of ropes hanging above the water. The kind of ropes that rip all of your skin off, so I guess I got that.

Tied to the spiderweb were bags, one for each tribe member in their respective buff colors. Each person would have to untie a bag, drop into the water then race back the way they came to the starting point. The first team to get all 8 bags would win the reward of fishing gear that was total crap because it wasn’t a fishing pole but a piece of bamboo with fishing line attached and a pile of hooks. Big whoop and ~eyeroll~

Both teams were neck and neck for most of the race until Rafe morphed into Raggedy Andy and lost his team about an hour of time. Lucky for him there are some kick-ass chicks to pick up the slack and Yaxha caught up enough for a photo finish. But alas, Nakúm were the victors and relished their bowl of worms and string.

Back at their respective camps, Nakúm took their canoe out and caught a few fish while Blake continued to hyperventilate. Dude, Judd is going to stuff you into a gopher hole, or sloth hole, or whatever the hell animal they have out there, if you don’t get up. Rafe talked Gary into eating a pile of ants. Does he even realize the number of carbs those things have? Lydia the fishmonger trapped some minnows using her fishmonger wiles and everyone got a bit of protein.

Immunity was up for grabs again the next day where both tribes would meet at the mud pit for a grueling and extremely anti-climactic tug-of-war. Both teams would pull with all their might, which seemed unfair since Nakúm is made of mostly of bulls and Yaxha of poodles, but hey, there was mud. The teams had 15 minutes to pull their guts out and grab a flag. 15 minutes later and no one had moved more than a few inches and Bobby John nearly busted a blood vessel and that boy cannot spare a brain cell, let me tell you.

Since this was a stalemate, 2 single tribe members would then compete by being tied together and pulling in opposite directions towards their flags. Whoever was closest after 5 minutes, or was able to grab their flag would be declared the winner. A tribal triumph would require 3 flags. Nakúm quickly grabbed 2 then battle number 3 looked like a sure victory for Yaxha when Judd the ox dug deep and yanked Jamie about 10 feet through the sludge limp as a rag. Yaxha would be heading to the vote later that night.

Back at their homestead, the Yaxha’s began feverishly plotting for a torch to snuff. Gary got lucky when someone brought up the fact that Danni totally busted him for being an x-NFL quarterback, which could have pegged him as a liar sooner than he’d like, but he managed to successfully fib his way out of it while doing an awesome imitation of Lurch. Bahhhhhhh.

Lydia’s name was thrown into the ring and it looked like she was going home, but in a last ditch effort she campaigned herself and managed to swing the vote towards the magician’s assistant, who wasn’t pulling her weight around camp. And why the fat was Rafe not even considered? He fucked that first challenge all to hell.

Bu alas, Morgan is gone. Ta dah!


Here are the remaining teams.

Tribe Nakum
Brandon
Blake
Brooke
Cindy
Danni
Margaret
Jim
Judd
Bobby
John

Tribe Yaxha
Brian
Rafe
Jamie
Amy
Gary
Brianna
Lydia
Morgan
Stephanie

Don't tread on me

I haven't done a good old-fashioned bitter rant recently and thought it was time. In actuality, something that I read by Amalah planted this seed in my head a few days ago but since I'm still in the middle of birthday bliss I wasn't in the mood for a bitch session. And frankly, I'm pretty darn chill today but I thought I'd throw this out there and we'll see if I can muster up some really good ire. Plus I just had a piece of ice cream cake and the sugar is making me a little tight.

You see good people of the internet, there is a misunderstanding being perpetuated in the cybersphere that just isn't jiving with me anymore and watching people having to fight against blasts of shit being sprayed their way is not only getting tiring but it's time to tell some of these assholes to fuck right off.

Yes, I know we're all dealing with mere words on a screen, but there are people behind the virtual text and a community in any form does have power over evil. Even though for the most part, unless you're one of those webcam freaks, our voices are imagined yet we can still be heard. And I realize there will never be an absence of dicks in the world, but there is a way to Lorraina Bobbit them down to size. Bitching and slightly threatening education is my method of choice.

WTF is she talking about, you might be saying, well kids, I'm talking about unsolicited advice, or assvice which I refuse to use because I think that word is lame. Specifically, unwanted contributions to strangers delivered in a manner meant to intimidate, harangue, attack, browbeat, bully, badger, insult, disrespect, shame, taunt, ridicule, aggravate, and hurt. I'm talking about fuckwads leaving shitty comments on people's blogs and dickheads sending totally inappropriate and psychotic fucker e-mails to bloggers. Not people offering well-thought opinions in a rational and friendly manner.

And if you are one of these people who haven't been able to control themselves before you hit publish, post or send, I have a message for you. FUCKING STOP IT YOU LOSER WEIRDO ASSHOLE!!

This whole mentality that if it's on the internet it's public domain is crap. It is not a direct invitation to say or do anything you damn well please. Let me break it down for you since I have a sneaky suspicion that the blaring TV you're watching showing a re-run of Stacks in the background is distracting you from my brilliant testament. Just because it's on the internet doesn't mean it's fair-game for your brand of crazy.

Let's take real life as a 'for instance'. Unless you're confined to four walls, I assume you make your way into public occasionally. This puts you in the presence of other people. Say you're feeling a bit peckish and decide enjoy some ice cream on a warm summer day. You purchase a double-scoop of chocolate mixed with roasted almonds, caramel and hot fudge (what?) and go outside where you proceed to squeeze your slightly overweight ass into a plastic chair under an umbrella ready to consume your frozen treat and do a little people watching. Sounds normal, right?

Now, close your mouth and stay with me. As you're licking and relaxing, someone who's seen you at the local Starbucks a couple of times but who doesn't know you from Adam walks up, leans over into your face and screams "YOU SHOULDN'T BE EATING THAT YOU FAT PIG YOU AREN'T EVEN EATING THAT THE RIGHT WAY YOU'RE GONNA GET AN ICE CREAM HEADACHE AND YOU DRESS LIKE PARIS HILTON ON CRACK WHICH I REALIZE IS REDUNDANT BUT YOU LOOK LIKE A WHORE AND YOU NEED TO BE EXACTLY LIKE I WANT YOU TO BE. I HOPE YOU DIEEEEEEEEE".

Hey there innocent person minding your own business , why do you cry? Was it not totally fair that a stranger came up to you and offered their opinion? Did you not appreciate being blindly attacked by someone you don't know? Were you offended that someone picked on your physical appearance and fashion choice? Was it completely shocking that another human being would wish harm on you? Was it not obvious that this uninvited information was perfectly reasonable? You were in public after all...

Are you getting it now?

Just because you build your house with windows doesn't mean it's cool for someone to stand in your bushes and watch you scratch your balls. Just because you are privy to someone's inner thoughts and personal info DOES NOT mean you get to harass them like some creepy stalker via e-mail or comments and puke every demented-where's-my-tinfoil-hat thought that has crossed through your pointy little head. It does not open the floodgates for you to be as ugly as possible because you cannot see the recipient of your damage.

And you are damaged if you actually take the time to draft a letter dripping with venom, bile and run-on sentences when it's completely unwarranted and send it to someone you've never had a personal fucking exchange with.

It amazes me that this happens. Doesn't surprise me though because I get it. I get that the people who do this have something going on in their lives that keep them trapped and the only way to release the festering ooze of their brains is to explode on others who can't haul off and punch them in the face. It's done by those who are so cracked under the surface that the only balm to soothe their sores is losing control against a stranger. It's someone who needs to be awful. When it's not contructive but rather contemptible the point is wasted anyway. It's an exercise in lunacy. And trust me, I know about the crazy. I've picked a fight with the bitch at the DMV when I was really mad at my husband and I'm not proud. (Yes, I see the irony in that).

The phone used to be the device cowards hid behind, and then the fax machine but that was really only abused by Phil Collins when he faxed his x-wife a divorce request. What a tool. False bravato and nasty attitudes were so much easier when transmitted across Ma Bell. Now, with the invention of the uncontrolled internet, those who can't handle their own shit and must take every angry, stifled, crap life moment out on others can take mean to a new level. Mix mean with crazy and you have half the freaks online.

I guess I'm lucky. I haven't experienced this before through my blog. But boy-o-boy have I had my fill of internet crazies through other means. And it sucks. No matter what the method of communication. So, for any of you who've commented on someone's blog or written to them with blatant malice, unsolicited nasty advice and hatred, let me tell you this, get a fucking life.

Think before you write that stranger and think to yourself, would I like to get a letter from someone telling me I'll go to hell if I don't breast feed my baby? Hmmm, I think not. You might know personal info about me but you don't get to treat me like shit. You don't have to like everyone or everything they say, you don't have to agree, you don't even have to ever read that person again, but check yourselves before you act like an asshole.

Or get your own fucking blog where you can be as stupid as you want to be and I promise I won't e-mail you how much you suck.

I'm not taking this crown off yet

The birthday was nice and mellow and cut short by my don't do Monday's policy of being super cranky that the weekend is over and tired from work. I think Monday's poison me because really, there were 2 naps in a row and relaxation so why am I so bloody tired on the first day of the work week? Who knows.

But since the previous day was filled with animals and ice cream, the actual day of my birth didn't need to be the 4-day extravaganza of last year. And there's still Disneyland which will be my official official birthday celebration and I'm milking this fucker as long as I can.

Thank you to everyone who left salutations here and especially to my friends who sent flowers (thank you Tru!) and e-cards and e-mails and phone calls. It really made my day which I topped off with more ice cream.

The precursor to Monday was a very nice weekend spent doing some of the things I love. I had a great ride on Saturday with lots of jumping on one of my favorite horses who tried to kill me straight-away by spooking over a dandelion or some such lame thing, but being the most excellent horse-woman I am I thwarted the situation and laughed if off while silently vowing to change my pants later. Cuz that ascared me a little. I made up for it with a shopping trip for cute & comfy pants appropriately low in the rise and a kicky new shirt.

We woke early on Sunday and found the kitty to be slightly improved. It's still a touchy situation and all breath is being held, but I'll take what I can get. Even if it is her normal behavior of yelling at me for looking in her general direction without permission. Awww, she detests my existence. What a relief.

Whitey and I decided that a trip to The Wild Animal Park was in order. The weather looked decent and we had a free pass for the boy, since I'm a member and get in for free. Hoity toity me. I took a crap load of pictures but only 3 turned out nice, in my opinion. I must have sweat on the lens or something since even though the temperature was doable we ended up walking like 25 miles uphill and I pour like a pig just from brushing my hair let-alone hauling my butt across the African freaking plains.

We had a great time feeding some Asian deer-type things and I think the little critter was an antelope. One was missing an eye, ew and aww, she got extra treats. We watched meerkats wrestle each other, looking like spry old men, then freak out at a helicopter passing overhead. They had WTF looks on their faces clear as day. Too funny. We also got to see a couple of the new lions and I think the male was looking at me picturing my juicy ass in his mouth, but hey, who doesn't.

We fed some very, very noisy, beautiful birds and didn't get shit on once. These are called lorakeets but they should be called lorascreaminyourears.


click

We tried to spot the new baby elephant but he must have been put away so the workers could scoop the poop in the enclosure. Not a job I'd like, thank you, and dammit, I wanted to see the baby. We saw a cerval up close and personal and had some excellent timing to watch the always-hiding cheetah come up for some wads of raw meat. She was beautiful and had a decidedly Garboesque quality as she finished her meal, posed for a minute with her held head high then retreated to her private quarters. She vanted to be alone.

I'm telling this all out of order but it's because the very best part of the day was the giraffes. When we arrived at the park and scanned the map, which I thought I didn't need since I've been there a zillion times, I was surprised to see "giraffe feeding station". A what? You mean people get to feed them? I had to get a load of that.

We could see the giraffes from the lion camp and they were obviously very close to people so we decided to hightail it over there. What should have been a 200 yard trek turned into god knows how long since the park forced me to exercise by making us walk a bigass long trail. By the time we made it to the feeding station all the giraffes were full and gone. I was royally bummed. We saw a bunch of other cool stuff and took a snack break and relaxed a bit. I decided to give the giraffes another try and I'm so glad I did.

When we approached the spot we saw people lined up buying leaves and a bunch of long necks hanging around. I was so friggen excited. I shoved some money at whitey and garbled something about getting food for me and walked up to the "white line". I guess giraffes are shy and don't like people too close to them or making sudden moves. A kid even got shushed by a trainer for loudly whining and generally being a pussy for not wanting to feed the giraffe.

I found this fact of their timidity to be weird since they're HUGE. And I don't mean, wow, that's a big animal like when you're looking at a 100 pound dog. I mean, these things are freaky freaky HUGE. But I guess size really doesn't matter in this case.

One of the biggest males was hanging his long neck and giant head over the railing and gingerly taking leaves from people one at a time. I was blown away by his beauty and bizarro head. Who the hell put these animals together anyway? It's like a bucket of random body parts fell on the floor and 4 different animals were mashed into 1. Somebody had a sense of humor. Another case in point: moose.

I've seen giraffes in person many times, but had never been eye to eye with one. I couldn't get over how big his head was and how breathtakingly gorgeous they all were. They are regal creatures who move with grace and purpose. Blinking thoughtful eyes. Viewing the world in silence.

When it was my turn, he reached for the leaf I was holding, his long purple tongue lightly brushing across my hand and quickly backed off making sure I wouldn't try to sneak in a pat to his nose. Which I so wanted to do. So, so bad. I could have watched him for hours, but soon after I'd taken 14 more crappy pictures, he'd had enough and mosied over to his group to feast on a large eucalyptus branch.

These are the only shots I liked. The rest will have to live in my head.





I was positively high from that experience and after picking out a souvenir, we both decided our feet were done and so were we. The car trip home was a short one since I live closer to this incredible place than I usually remember, and we walked in the door before 5:00. There were hours left in the day for a cold shower and a nap. The perfect end to an awesome day.

I can't wait for Disneyland. I told you I was milking this fucker.

Happy Birthday...

to me!

Survivor Recap - 1

I am a reality TV whore. Thank whatever technology nerd for inventing the DVR because I'm having a hard time managing all of them and my addictions must be fed. My equivalent of doing a 6 inch line across a hookers ass is recording all of the horrible reality shows I'm into and squeezing the watching and catching up and hootin' hollerin' inbetween Oprah making me cry. That crack ho bitch.

So of course, I'm a yoog Survivor fan. YOOG. I've watched almost every season religiously with the exception of I think Taiwan and I don't know what was going on in my life at that time but it left a hole, yo. A big old fat hole. And no, whitey, I do not own any buffs. Not that I haven't thought about it...

Every season seems to have a different flavor of contestants. I'm sure that has a little bit to do with editing. Those scamps on the production team know what they're doing. There have been meanies and soft porn and vamps and hunks and hook-ups and overwhelming dumbassess (hello Surivor Pulau. Jebus they were stupid). This show has born some of the greatest reality stars we love to hate and make fun of ever. Almost as much as The Real World.

This season looks promising from the start. It's too soon to get a good read on anyone yet, but one thing's for sure. The men are giant pussy's! YOOG GIANT PUSSY'S. Ha. They don't even need to do another men vs. women thing, because the men fell apart straight away. And there seem to be some pretty strong personalities. I'm already salivating. And I thought I'd share the little write-ups I do for a message board I'm a captive victim of, I mean, where I post. Hope you enjoy. For those of you who already read this on the board, read it here and tell me again how brilliant I am! Thanks!

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Survivor Guatemala – a.k.a. – Someone Will Die

Sweeping aerial shots of lush jungle. A blue sky darkens and rain pours over the earth. A sparkling lake ripples by a gentle wind. A screaming banshee freak mutant monkey thing opens its giant gaping maw, throws its pointy head back baring huge sharp teeth and screeches the sound of hell. Welcome to the 11th installment of Survivor!

~music~

Oh wee oh wee ohhhh…

~music fades~

Without much fanfare or introduction, our Survivors suddenly appear before Jeff Probst in the middle of a Mayan temple. After quickly surveying their foreign surroundings the Survivors gather around where Jeff procedes to give them the lay of the land and warnings regarding their surroundings.

They are in the middle of jungle that will kill you. Filled with poisonous snakes, bugs, killer animals, crocodiles, fucking lizards, torrential rainstorms, unbearable heat, stifling humidity, and landmines. OK, I totally made up the landmines. But the rest is real. And the last person to finish alive wins. OK, that’s a lie too, but I tell you they’re trying to kill these people!

Jeff breaks the 16 contestants into 2 tribes, Nakum (pronounced Nah-coom) and Yaxha (pronounch Ya-sha) and tells them that the 18 players will…wait…what? Did he say 18? But there’s only 16 people here! Well I’ll be a screaming banshee freak monkey! They done tricked us! The survivors look around perplexed and Jeff introduces the 2 additional “surprise” tribespeople. It’s Bobby John (pronounced Babbie-Jawan) and Stephanie (the most kick-ass chick to ever kick-ass) from the last season.

Everyone acts all happy and surprised except for Jamie who whines that with Stephanie here how the hell is he going to win the million bucks. Don’t worry Jamie, you’re gonna DIE anyway. Stephanie is sent to Yaxha and Bobby to Nakum. Jeff, who gets more and more snotty with every year, mentions that these 2 are full-fledged players and feel free to vote them out first. Thanks Jeff! Everyone fusses over the new players and despite a couple lame comments it looks like this season might be a good one, because they're trying to kill them. Seriously.

The tribes are briefly briefed that they will competing immediately for their first reward. The tribe who finishes the challenge first will get the better camp with some supplies and the precious flint after they complete a grueling 11 mile hike totally uphill through the jungle and murderous wildlife, one vicious branch, 120 degree heat and carrying a thousand pounds of crap, one broken compass and oh yea, YOU WILL DIE.

The hike through the jungle kicks everyone’s asses, but mostly the big strapping men on Nakum. I don’t know what these guys did the night before the show started but they must have all dined on salt licks and coffee. These boys started dropping like flies. The cramping and puking. Oi. Then one of them gets nailed with this needle-branch thing that spears his shoulder and da widdle baby tarts pooking cuz it hoots doe bayad. Suck it up and rub some dirt in it ya puss!

Everyone ends up spending a long day being half lost and fighting their way through the jungle and a very scary and wet night. They all resume this exercise in brutality at first light where I would have sat down and refused to move until they airlifted my ass to Rio. The two tribes actually find each other and it looks like it’s going to be a close race, but of course Lydia Midgeta and Amy fell behind and slowed up their (my) tribe who never managed to catch up.

Nakum emerged from the underbrush and after a canoe paddle and another short climb, arrived at yet another Mayan temple and snitty snooty Jeff announced them trimphant, thus winning their camp, which is the actual ruins. Umm…yea…thanks for the big camp of rocks. Super. Yaxha showed up a few minutes later and was swiftly sent back to their boat to paddle their loser butts all the way across the lake to their camp. Where they found a pile of pots and nothing else. But they started to rally together to build some type of shelter so good on them.

Once the challenge was officially over the boys of Nakum got even worse. They were all barfing, very loudly barfing, and laying on the ground in various levels of pain and problems. Margaret the nurse was running around trying to help and keep Bobby John from passing out. The women are strong like bull. Go girls!

The next day both tribes received mail giving hints for the immunity challenge. They gather at the beach looking tired and beaten to learn of the next game. The teams would have to row their canoes around a buoy, grab a torch hanging from it, row back, drag the boat onto the beach then 4 members would pull the whole damn thing over some rolling logs with a rope while 3 members continually moved the last log to the front and one person would be the keeper of the lit torch. Whoever hauled their boat to the end and lit a cauldron would win the immunity idol, which looks like a hollowed out pygmy, and be safe from the first Tribal Council.

It was a neck-and-neck race with grunting and sweating and girls getting caught under the logs. But alas, there could only be one winner and Yaxha took the fugly idol home, their own piece of flint and Stephanie burst into tears for finally being a member of a team that doesn’t lose every stinking game. The women all gloated just a wee little bit for being in better shape than the men and Jim admits back at camp that he has snapped a muscle in his left arm and it's basically useless. Golly, I wonder who’s going home.

Nakum makes their way to tribal council, light your torch, represents life, yada yada. And despite all of the men going down like a ton of dehydrated baby bricks, it was an obvious and unanimous vote. Jim and his busted bicep was sent home. I’m just glad the dude didn’t die.

Here are the remaining teams.

Tribe Nakum
Brandon
Blake
Brooke
Cindy
Danni
Margaret
Jim
Judd
Bobby John

Tribe Yaxha
Brian
Rafe
Jamie
Amy
Gary
Brianna
Lydia
Morgan
Stephanie

This fucking kills me

KILLS me!

Thith too hath pathed

OK, y'all. Let's not call homeland security on my ass, alright? I don't need to be handled with SWAT gear. Don't be a'scared of the angry. I'm good. Well, better. Yes, we'll settle for better.

Sorry if I freaked some of you out, but you need to remember that most of us aren't one-celled organisms that only emit 3 controlled emotions. Like Brook Burke who in actuality only has 1. That being zombie. I'm convinced she's a fembot and if you peeled her face off you'd find circuitry and lip gloss. God damn she's a monotone nightmare in a miniskirt. I am not wrong. Still love Rockstar though. Go Mig!

As I've said before, this is my blog and I get to say what I want, how I want (not that I do 100% anyway), and last weekend I was pissed. Super duper pissed that had surpassed the depression and I needed to let some of it out. It wasn't funny and I wasn't in a funny mood. I can actually get way madder than that. Heh. But it was a time to vent and it felt good. I highly recommend it.

And ahhh...yea...umm...been really mad lately. I don't know why it won't go away. I know I have a zillion reasons to be livid, but I can't seem to let any of it go. It piles up and piles up and before I know it I'm all jittery and yelly and hate everything. With extreme hate. I just can't seem to catch a break. At least that's how it feels right now. But I am trying to figure out how to fix it since life is never going to be without problems. And don't say fix it with Vodka, cause I have a sad story about that.

When I'm like this I need space. I'm like a wet cat in a cage and please don't poke your fingers through the bars. I handle really serious shit better on my own. To sort stuff out or just disconnect until I can get a grip. And sometimes I need to scream. And whitey is fine. He's being a saint and understanding what I need. Just another reason why I love him.
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San Francisco was great. Not a whole lot to tell. Did some partying, puking, lame pedicuring. Brunch. A little shopping. Wicked was excellent, please go see it, and more brunching. I ran out of steam like normal and puked my stupid brains out not like normal. And I hardly drank anything! I had 2 glasses of wine at the condo and 2 Vodka cranberries at the bars. I think someone slipped me a rufie (sp?). I got so sick it was sick. -HUGE POUT- No more hard liquor for me. Hmf. Now do you see why I'm so pissed? And I regret that I didn't buy the t-shirt that said "Ouch is not a safe word". How funny is that? Love the gayborhood.

_____________________________________________________

It's my birthday next Monday and I have no idea what I want to do. Officially we're going to Disneyland in October. I'd be there on my actual birthday but the stinkers have closed down the Haunted Mansion to turn it into a gigantic version of The Nightmare Before Christmas for the Halloween season. And since that's like my favorite ride, right after Space Mountain and Pirates of the Caribbean, I don't want to miss it. And my girl Ginny says it's worth the wait.

I love Disneyland. I even went to Disneyworld on my honeymoon. It's not like a psychosis or anything. I don't have the Seven Dwarfs tattooed across my inner thighs. I just love it. And I don't care how old I get, I'll always love it and squeal like a little girl and giggle and eat cotton candy for lunch but not one of those frozen chocolate-covered bananas because those are the dumbest dessert invention ever. You can't bite through a fucking frozen rock-hard banana and it hurts your teeth and gets chocolate all over your face and makes it look like you just gave sloppy head to the Easter bunny or something. Cuz the Easter bunny is all about chocolate and stuff...nevermind.

Ginny is supposed to meet whitey and I up there and I'm making everyone wear mouse ears. Don't think I can't pull that off. We all know how angry I am right now. Don't piss off the birthday girl. JUST WEAR THE DAMN EARS!

But what to do what to do on the actual birth day? I usually take the day off, when it falls during the work week, and go get a massage and pedicure. But since I've spent eleventy bajillion dollars on the poor cat, I don't really have the cash. And yes, she's still hanging on and they still don't know what's wrong with her and I'm still worried sick because she looks terrible and hardly eats. But we're still hoping she'll recover.

I guess I'll work all day and we'll go out to dinner. Damn thing though, it falls on a Monday. I don't do Monday's and my favorite sushi place is closed on Monday's. Stupid. Perhaps if I eat a piece of chocolate about every 5 minutes it'll be OK. Lord knows people at my company don't give a flying fat about birthdays so that'll suck too. Ah poo. I'm a little bummed about it. Last year was a 4 day extravaganza but I guess it can't be like that every year. If you have any suggestions, feel free to throw 'em my way. Thanks.

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Dear Breast Center - thank you for your reminder letter that you noticed it's time for my annual mammogram. Even though I've only had one in my entire life, you managed to get your sweaty mits on my health history and now I have to go have my tits squished in a high-tech digital torture device every year.

I look foward to disrobing from the waist up and sitting in a narrow hallway trying to keep my open in the front putrid pink half shirt made from burlap weaved with hay from opening letting my well-endowed chest to flash everyone in the vicinity. I anxiously wait for the stranger sporting icy hands to stretch my 38-DD boob flesh across the room and smash them into the size of English muffins while I have to stand on my tippy toes holding my breath and trying to imagine the skin connecting my arm to my chest isn't slowly ripping off.

I can't wait to be handled like a raw Christmas ham, turned this way and that, while my girls are exposed sans bra, in front of someone I've never even had tea with. It will be my pleasure to spend quality time with another medical professional who has the sense of humor of Charles Manson. Watching my nipples flatten out between 2 thick pieces of glass is my favorite part.

I've laid down in front of my garage and let the doors slam down on my rack a few times in anticipation of my next appointment. And maybe, If I'm feeling really adventurous, I'll schedule my pap smear and mammogram on the same day. Just like I did last year. That was FUN! See you soon.

There's not enough Pepto in the world

There are just some things I can't stomach. Well, actually, there are a lot of things I can't digest easily since I have the the most pissy prissy guts in the world and wouldn't you know, the easiest stuff to go down is junkfood. Sorry broccoli, my colon just doesn't like you. I personally don't have a problem, but the colon, she does.

Today my burping, gurgling indigestion is caused by computers. The internet. And the wacko fuckjob asshole hypocrites that live behind my finger-printed screen. The wars that are perpetuated by those who proclaim, with rusty halo's hanging crooked over there heads, to be fostered fueled and finished by others. When in reality, you know, the reality that is actually...real, they are liars and thieves and frauds. And since I can't literally punch those who deserve it in the face, I choose to remove my fists from the equation. That's the power I have.

There are honorable people that live in this box. This is know. Those who reach out and accept. Who's hearts are lovely and intentions genuine. But I believe there are more bad people than good. And I believe that you increase your chances 20-fold by dabbling in cyber-relationships, in crossing paths with vipers and psychos, and willingly jumping into a pond inhabited by disease-infested leeches, over and over and over.

Be assured that some of us see past these angelic masks that hide warts and horns. Rest your knotted skulls on the fact that what you think is a friend has put your soul up for the highest bidder, waiting for the right offer. And you will be sold to slaughter in due time. And those who continue to stand next to evil are nowhere near nice. So please stop shining that beam in our eyes, some of us aren't blinded by your false proclamations. You make me sick.

I've had my fill. It's bubbling up into my throat like burning bile. The acid these disgusting excuses for human beings are made of. The thought of powering up my system and reading almost anything make my guts churn. Slightly unreasonable, but the crap I'm having to wade through (right now) for one Baby-Ruth isn't worth it.

It's been a rough month. I've had more than I can handle, which makes me feel like a shmuck compared to those suffering in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. My heart is still bleeding for the people and animals affected by that disaster. But adversity is relative and my world has been heavy with shit for more weeks than I'm able to process easily. And I'm facing another scary scan that is bearing down on me like a freight train and my ability to fake it is temporarily out of order.

I would say I don't have it in me, which is true, but what I do have is aggravation and contempt up to my eyeballs and I'm smart enough to know that when it gets to this point, I need a break. I need to get to a place where the trolls and losers aren't a thought in my pretty little head. Because they don't matter, I know this, but I have an open wound and even the toughest bitch is going to wince if salt is poured in it.

Sometimes the assholes get the upper hand and spray shit all over the place. I'm declaring my own disaster zone and evacuating for the time being, until this stench has cleared. I'm going to stock up on air fresheners. Be back later.

It slipped right by...

Wow. I just noticed I've been blogging on this little outlet for rants of mine for a year now. I've said some stuff and have a lot more stuff to say. So I think I'll stick around. BUT I'M STILL PISSED I DON'T GET MORE COMMENTS!! IT'S BEEN A YEAR, PEOPLE!! COME ON!

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The devastation of the hurricane. Damn. There aren't enough words. Tears and disbelief abundant. I want so desperately to do more. To go there. To help. But it's not possible. Or is it? We'll see.

Again, my heart and prayers to the refugees and animals needing care. May you get the help you need swiftly and be able to put some semblance of a life back together. I know that as soon as it's possible, I'm going to New Oreleans to sink some of my hard-earned-wasted-at-Target-every-weekend money back into their economy.

And dear Federal government - GET OFF YOUR FUCKING ASSES. Christ on a bike, you guys fucked this one all to hell.

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I can't do it this weekend, but my main priority when I get home is to get prepared. Like a lot of us, I rubber-lip, ponder and consider with fleeting thoughts, to gather the provisions my kitties and I would need in the event of an emergency. But I don't do it.

When the fires broke out in San Diego almost 2 years ago, my little town was surrounded by fires to the North, South and West that were less than 5 miles away. I was ordered to stay in my home and sat there for 3 days waiting to evacuate if need be. I was anything but prepared. I didn't have a single bottle of water in the house. I had nothing for the cats. My tank was almost empty. My sacred possessions and important paperwork in different and stupid places all over my house.

I managed to pack what I thought I could stuff in my car in a few minutes but knew that I would lose almost everything if the fires decided to make their way to my neighborhood. I went to the pet store on a day that we didn't even have safe air quality inside our homes to get a couple cardboard carriers for the kitties, just in case. It was insane and terrifying and I knew I was far from prepared.

And here I am, 2 years later with my thumb still stuffed up my butt and back to being complacent and dumb. In my area of the country an earthquake is my biggest threat, which is even harder to prepare for because there's no warning. And I know that a storm the magnitude of Katrina was so huge that maybe anything I'd done wouldn't have mattered but then again, maybe it would. Maybe I'd have some food and water and sturdy gloves and shoes and my girls would be safe and I'd be surviving a little better than the thousands of people waiting for THE GOVERNMENT TO GET OFF THEIR ASSES.

I don't know. But what I do know is that having a plan is smart. It can empower you when you're feeling helpless and tortured by what we're all witnessing right now. You don't have to buy fancy kits from disaster preparedness sites. You don't have to raid the shelves at Home Depot. But you can save those worn-out sneakers instead of throwing them away and stuff them in an old backpack with a flashlight and some batteries. You might not be resting in the lap of luxury, but I'd rather be 1% ahead of the game than 0.

These sites have excellent advice on being prepared for you and your pets. Go take a look. And don't be scared. Getting a kit together will not put a target on your head, but if it does, at least you'll be ready for it.

http://www.redcross.org/services/prepare/0,1082,0_239_,00.html

http://www.noahswish.org/Disaster%20Preparedness%20Information.htm

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OK. I'm irritated. I'm reading a bestseller upon the recommendation of a total book nerd and he assured me this novel was way fantastic and different and I'd love it. So I bought it. Now I'm reading it. And I'm irritated!

The book is The Time Traveler's Wife. Although I think it should be retitled Pete and Repeat Irritating Replay.

I should have known better than to try and read a huge book centered around time travel. The whole concept flies right over my head. Whoosh. This is why I refuse to watch the classic Back to the Future because every time they get to the scene where he vaporizes back with the car in the mall parking lot (filmed at a mall near my college, thank you) and he's also running to catch himself in real time and god dammit! Wouldn't he get stuck in a loop doing that for all eternity? I just don't get it.

The space-time continuum is lost on me. But that's OK. I have great hair.

Back to this dumb book. So I'm on like page 127 and all that's really going on is this time-flipping by the main character and he's mostly meeting up with this chick at different times in her life. Her age is going chronologically, but he's all over the map. 20, 38, 25, 40. Then he goes back and visits himself as a kid too. IT'S NUTS!

I don't want to give anything away, and I don't want anything spoiled so don't tell me details or I'll be so mad at you. But if you've read this book, does it get better? The writing is good, but the story layout is pissing me off. It doesn't make sense! And if I can't get it to make sense soon I'm going to read a romance novel in retaliation. Or at least I'll bitch a lot and make people listen to the bitching. Yea, that's what I'll do. Pft.

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Flying again tonight. Haven't really thought much about it which is good because I HATE it. Really hate. It's very scary and I've spent more than a week being really scared about the cat and upset about the hurricane and I don't need any more anxiety. But, I do have a plan. See, it's all about being prepared kids. This particular one involves prescriptions drugs mixed with booze. Yay!

My destination is San Fran and I'm SO excited to spend a weekend up there with Matty and having a lovely change of scenery for a couple of days. The weather should be a much needed reprieve from the god damn heat and we have many fabulous things on our agenda.

We're probably going for cocktails and a late dinner tonight after I get settled into the condo. Please keep in mind that I use the word "condo" with a knowing smirk since it's more like a palace decorated by Calvin Klein and I feel spoiled, almost to the point of properly so for the princess I am, sleeping on the expensive fluffy pillow-topped bed with the black satin sheets and enjoying the view of the entire city and bay bridge from the upper terrace.

To quote one of my favorite movies, it is so choice.

We have a fairly open schedule on Saturday but hope to work in pedicures somewhere since Matt and I have confessed to each other that our feet both look like we've been walking across a freshly tarred roof with bare feet after soaking them in a dorm toilet. It's bad, y'all. Therefore we shall pay nubile young girls to sandblast and buff our weary and diseased dogs. And I'm hoping for some OPI polish called something like Nina's Cherry for my toes. Squee!

Saturday night we're seeing Wicked. My word, what am I going to do with all this envy being sent my way? I've heard great things about it and can't wait. We're going to a different theater than where we saw The Lion King for my birthday last year. And this time I'm bringing my digicam that has the option to turn the flash off so I can take pictures of the architecture inside without Mr. red vested theater freak scolding me with a shaking finger in my face after my cell phone camera flashed the equivalent of a frigging searchlight. But don't worry, no pic's of the actual play. I wouldn't be that classless. I am a fucking lady, you know.

Sunday I have to be at the airport by 3:15. But I still think that leaves us plenty of time for a nice brunch and some shopping in the castro. God, how I love the castro. Where else can you get a nice meal, a barbie with a dick and a political flyer handed to you by a man dressed as a ballerina?

Monday will be spent on the couch hooked up to a Kool-aid drip.

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I shall miss whitey and my kitties terribly, but I really need this weekend. I really need to let my brain power-down for a few days and get out of dodge. After this week, I'm sure we all require a break. Hope you all have a great holiday weekend and please stay safe.

Love,

Betty

Another genius move

Man, am I dumb today. I just can't seem to get it together. I'm surprised I didn't brush my teeth with Ben-Gay and wipe my ass with the cat. I'm not sure if it's this unrelenting heat that has finally melted my brain or the thoughts of my weekend trip to San Francisco that have me vibrating with excitement. Either way, you could take great advantage of me just by waving something shiny in front of my face. IQ of a shoe.

Speaking of the cat, we still don't know what the feck is wrong with my Boo. She's feeling better every day but still not 100%, or really with cats it's more like 90 or 85% since they don't expel any energy they don't darn well have to. Her eyes are still cloudy and more opaque than a few days ago, which worries me since I'm afraid her chunky balls are permanently f'd and she's going to go blind. The good news is they've ruled out most of the scary stuff except for lymphoma, which boo for Boo if that's the case. But I'll just have to keep waiting it out. Bah.

I've been super busy today but wanted to post something and hopefully get our minds off the hurricane for a minute. I just got a call from a weeping friend ordering me to order her to stop watching the news. It's so horrible. So, here's a little story I wrote this week while reminiscing about another stellar move I've made in my life. I'd try to blame it on being a kid but the stupid, it never went away, it just dresses better.
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The Very Very Very Bad Decision

It had been a long, hot day in the late 1970's. I'd spent the majority across the street at the much coveted 'house of fun' where my friend K lived. You know the one I'm talking about. The cupboards are stuffed with all the junk food a kid could want, (not a box of stale coffee nips hidden in the tupperware cupboard like my house), the front yard is as big as a football field and they have a game closet. OMG, a whole closet dedicated to games! It was better than Charlie and his freaky chocolate factory. I mean really, do you think I want to put any candy in my mouth that Augustus Gloop has marinated in? I think not.

As was the rule, I needed to head home at nightfall to join my family for our nightly fight around the dinner table promptly at 6:00. I only lived a stones-throw away from K's house, hers being catty-cornered to the East from mine. Despite this close proximity, I still chose to ride my big yellow with the girly flowered banana seat bike and white basket (gag) over there. Mostly because my side of the street was the hilly one and I could get enough speed going down my driveway to coast all the way to K's house. Betty, thy name is Lazy.

Because of this fact, the reverse trek home was not a fun one for me since I'd have to actually pump the pedals. Oh. The. Horror. In my pre-teen lack of wisdom, and in an effort to avoid expelling one atom of energy, I thought I'd take a short-cut up my next-door neighbors driveway and just pop through the bushes to my driveway. Thus avoiding the very long and steep S-curve of my own and saving oh, 20 extra feet of effort. Hmm...I wonder why I've always had a weight problem. I just can't figure it out.

I climbed onto my bike and raced towards home. Umm, slowly and begrudgingly grunted and groaned willing my legs to work. Half-way across the street, with a violent yank that nearly catapulted me onto a handlebar, my giant bell-bottom jeans got caught in the chain. Aw fuck. Who the hell thought it would be cool to make the hem of jeans 25 inches friggen wide? And why did it take bicycle manufacturers a million fucking years to figure out the chain should be covered so idiots like me don't get their fashion statements stuck in them?

It's a good thing I was aiming for the neighbors driveway and not mine or they would have found me laying by the mailbox the next morning.

I managed to lug myself and my very heavy bike to the spot where I'd planned on "popping" through the bushes. As soon as I tried to drag my shit-show up the ivy entangled incline of bushes to my house I felt a blinding pain coming from my little pot belly. Christ almighty! What is killing me? I've been speared by a tassel!!

I looked down and saw that the unprotected, unlined stupid zipper of my stupid 70's jeans had just caught a chunk of my stupid tummy skin and was now ripping my flesh apart. So now, not only am I practically fused with my huge bike, its giant banana seat wedged into my crotch, one leg held tightly in place in the grips of the fucking chain, but it feels like the teeth of Satan are tearing into my stomach and I neglected to remember that the "bushes" separating our house from our neighbors are not only contained in a steep slope, but they are inhabited by stiff foliage with unbending branches that I can't get me an my bike past!

And of course the evil bushes jumped out and took me down. Right down to China town. I'm on the ground, under a child-eating bush stuck to my bike and my pants are eating me. Stranded. Marooned. Wrecked.

Like hell was I calling for help in that position and no one would have heard me anyway or my asshole brother would have stood over me like a dick and laughed while doing the spit-string above my dirty and bloodied face.

Somehow I managed to drag myself under the killer bush and catapult myself and the bike onto my driveway amidst the searing pain where I collapsed in a heap of scratches and chain grease. I finally freed myself of everything and slinked into the house where I'm sure I enjoyed a lovely dinner of liver and onions and nursed my wounds with mercurochrome.

The 70's were awesome.

Hurricane Relief

Looking at the devastation from this storm is unbelievable. Having an idea of the destruction that doesn't seem to be ending is heart-breaking and staggering. Almost too big to get your head around. These kinds of natural disasters are horrible. The aftermaths horrific. The rebuilding seeming out of reach. But there are ways we can help.

Thank God for volunteers and organizations, like the ASPCA and Red Cross who take on the tasks of serving those in desperate need. My heart goes out to those who have been affected by Hurricane Katrina and implore anyone and everyone who reads my words here to please take the time and visit one of these sites and give a donation if you can. Any amount will help. And if you don't have anything to spare, please think about passing the information on.

And please don't forget about the thousands of animals who also need rescuing, medical aid and help. I can imagine how terrified they are and how much worse this is for those who have lost everything. When you only have the soaking wet shirt on your back, being reunited with your pet can make all the difference. We can't forget about our animal friends.

http://www.redcross.org/

http://www.salvationarmyusa.org/

http://www.aspca.org/site/PageServer

http://www.hsus.org/


Thank you in advance.

Betty

Someone has a case of the Monday's

Things are holding steady, internet. Thank you for the vibes, they seem to be working. Boo is now the golden-plated kitty with the mystery disease and still with the cloudy eyes. She spent the day with the animal ophthamologist (I know! Who knew?) on Friday and after they squeezed her eyeballs and put instruments up her ass, a diagnosis is nowhere to be found. However, yesterday I did come across the 2005 calendar I got from the Zoological society, after looking for it the last 9 months, so that's something.

The possibilities of FIP or lymphoma are still on the table, as-well-as the incredibly frustrating accompanied-by-a-nonchalant-shrug "we might never figure out what it was". The latter being my first choice, of course, but would make the money I've spent a little more painful. An amount much closer to a grand than not. Money that I believe I'm obligated to spend since I made the choice to adopt 2 animals that are dependent on me for everything and it's my responsibility to keep and make them healthy, but is not easy to shell out at a certain point. Especially when I'm making payment arrangements for my own medical bills. Gah.

The medication routine is brutal, neigh, BROO-TAL, with much screaming and squirming and hate. Oral antibiotics twice a day causing choking, coughing and hate. Steroid eye drops in both eyes three times a day causing shrieking and clawing and hate. Did you know cats can make over 600 different vocalizations? At least 3 of those sound like a sack of parrots being stuffed through a coffee grinder with the Exorcist playing through a loudspeaker in the background. Just try and put drops in your cats eyes. You'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

And the whole neck-scruffing thing? Yea, that's not working. Thanks a lot over-chatty eye clinic chick. It does not calm my cat down. It does not make it easier. It Pisses. Her. Off. With hate.

Boo is obviously feeling better, finally, and slowly getting back to her normal moody and temperamental self. Something that I'm so relieved to see. Even if she does sometimes look at me like I smell of blue cheese left out in the sun next to a corpse. It's better than her being a little pile of sick looking miserable and forlorn and scaring her mama.

She even brought us a "fresh kill" last night. Wailing into the bedroom about her triumph. This little show involves her walking down the hallway with one of her toys while bellowing through her full mouth saying something that I'm sure means "I've kiiiiiiiiilllllled it for yoooooooooouuuuuuuuu".

I then give much praise and attention to the big brave killing beast and invite her to please, please come join me on the bed so I may give you a proper belly rub and even more love and admiration where she will undoubtedly drop the simulated dead thing and once again look at me like I'm made of a steaming dog shit with an IQ to match.

These are all very good signs in my book, since they're all things she hasn't done in almost 2 weeks. And there is still an above-average amount of lap sitting and purring. I'll take advantage of that while I can. Even to merely assuage my guilt for the eye drop agony.

Hopefully this will all turn out to be nothing more than a short, expensive scare and I'll have Boo around for many years to come for mutual torture and affection. Hope hope hope.

All that being said, I'm feeling decidedly empty lately. I'm not sure what internal/external forces are causing this. OK, well, that's not entirely true. I'm aware of several good reasons for this stinky melancholy I can't shake off. For several personal reasons, I quit taking my anti-depressants. That's been difficult. Not as bad as I thought it would be, but I can feel it contributing to this turdville and I'm back to tearing up while watching bad reality TV. Damn that Super Nanny.

Money is a huge issue. There's not enough of it, I'm not making an amount to sustain living in Southern California and very soon I'll have almost none. That freaks my shit out in a way I can't let get out of control lest we self-destruct or move back in with our parents. Perish that thought.

Also, I'm overwhelmed with a capital FUCK ME with responsibilities that continue to grow. No amount of organizing attempts are helping. It just get worse. I'm stuck in a time-warp of decisions. Stagnant like a pond full of dead tadpoles. Trudging through life on exist mode is not working for me. But I don't know how to get out of this quicksand. I need a friggen Oprah moment. WHERE IS MY OPRAH MOMENT?

I wonder if you can get high off of kitty antibiotics?

One small gem of happy, I am going to San Francisco this weekend to spend 2.3 days with my best friend Matt in the gayborhood. We've scheduled a spa day and have tickets to go see Wicked. I'm so looking forward to it. You can't imagine. Maybe a couple days by the bay will re-charge me a little. Either that or I'm gonna be drunk until New Year's.

One worried mama here

One of my kitties is sick. Sick with some mysterious disease that has made her look like a sad clown with cloudy eyes and a fever and a slightly sticky coat, but that could possibly be from the liquid antibiotics she keeps sputtering out of her mouth after I try and glurg them down her throat. She's listless and miserable and I'M SO TERRIBLY WORRIED!!

So folks of the internet, I need some good vibes today. Not for me this time but for Boo. I haven't heard from the vets office yet and have no idea what's wrong. It could be anything from a simple mysterious infection to fatal feline leukemia. Or god forbid, kitty AIDS. Of all god damn things. Just thinking about her hurting makes me cry. The waiting sucks and the worrying sucks more. But the thought of losing her is almost more than I can bear.

My Boo is my sweetheart. My I will love you when the fancy strikes me on my own terms thankyouverymuch you filthy human. She's been my little buddy since I scooped her up into my arms, while she screamed like a banshee in protest, and moved her and her sister from my neighbors house to mine. That was almost 2 years ago and I can't imagine life without them. And despite her moodiness, she still purrs whenever I give her a good hard petting and that makes me melt. Every damn time. I love the purr.

Her sister doesn't pay much attention to me unless I'm safely sitting on the couch or am possibly making my way towards the kitchen where the treats live. Otherwise she runs away. Little fucker. But Boo has been my shadow since the day my kitties allowed me to live in their (my) home. Boo has almost always slept on the bed with me occasionally on top of my guts, likes to lay in my lap when I'm at the computer, after crawling up my arm and patting me with her paw, and is one of the funniest, weirdest, most entertaining cats I've ever seen.

She's loud and picky and psychotic and loving and strange and cute and a pain in the neck and demanding and sweet and funny and I love her! She plays fetch like a dog, running back to me with wadded up paper balls and water bottle caps. She sits in the bathroom when I get ready in the morning and tells me all her exciting plans for the day. And she likes to make love to plastic bags. (Don't ask). Lord help you if you accidentally hit the end of her tail while walking past. You will get a hearty squawk of displeasure!

She loves her tummy rubbed and her chin scratched and teases her sister until she receives a menacing hiss. Then walks away with haughty satisfaction. She licks the shower tracks and runs away like a naughty kid when I yell at her to stop. She roots under the covers and sleeps there for hours at a time often joining me for a weekend nap, her body up against mine. She acts like one drop of water accidentally flicked onto her head might as well be acid. And she occasionally lets me squeeze her while I baby talk into her ear until she plunges a claw into my thigh.

She's awesome and I love her so much. I'm praying this is something she can recover from. Boo has helped me through some rough times in the too-short time I've had her and I sincerely hope I can get her through this one. So please, send a good wish her way. I would really appreciate it.



(Boo is the trouble-maker on the left. Yes, I know she's sick and I'm worried beyond belief but don't tell me those 2 don't look like double-trouble!)

Painful memory #4,922

Being a student of behavior, I'm always extremely interested in the mind and its endless weirdness. Why do we have all the white-hot embarrassing moments etched into our brains forever and most of the good moments are shoved way back in the file drawer in a dusty folder? I was reminded the other day of a particularly uncomfortable moment in my life that in my plethora of psychoses, replays often. Why? Cuz I'm crazy, that's why.

My last quarter in college happened to be in the Fall, since I was cramming 5 classes into my schedule to finish in early December. One of those at a junior college 42 miles away round-trip. I was a maniac and sick to shit of school. I wanted OUT.

Being on the quarter system, my university started late in the Summer and finished early in the Spring. Our quarters were only 11 weeks long, which pissed me off to no end that I paid the equivalent of a black-market rhino dick for books and on average we only used a third of it. Then the fuckers at the bookstore would offer something really great like a whole fucking dollar for the "used book" that you'd opened twice and still made that creaky cracky sound if you tried to open it. Was a fucking scam, it was. But I digress...

That year it just so happened the first day of school was on my 24th birthday. (Yes, it took me eleventy hundred years to get through school so just shut up). I was feeling surprisingly ambivalent about it, which is rare since I try and turn my birthday into a national holiday that lasts at least 2 weeks. But I was very focused on school, my boyfriend was 100 miles away, and I didn't really care. About any of it.

I get to my first class, an upper-division Psych. course with a flamboyantly nerdy female professor who reminded me of a proper lady from 1850 complete with that up-do with a bun, which she wore every stinking day btw, but whom I suspected enjoyed the wacky tobacky in the afternoons. She might have been dressed in silk but she was supiciously half-lidded all the time.

After her brief introduction of our syllabus, in her slow toked-out manner, she instructed the class that we were to take turns one-by-one giving our stats. Year in school, major's, some little tidbit of personal info, etc. This is normally a painful exercise, but being a Behavioral Science major I'd gotten used to it and enjoyed watching the underclassmen squirm in their chairs while they tried to speak to an entire classroom of strangers. Or soI thought...

I was sitting in the second or third seat on the right wall, my normal spot that I'd claim on the first day and send out the usual don't even fucking think about sitting here ever vibe, and was one of the first to talk. When it was my turn I started with the requested and average info, Senior, BHS major, graduating that quarter, taking more than a full load.

Much to my unending for the rest of my life regret, without the ability to stop myself, out of my mouth popped "and it's my birthday!" Oh christ on a crutch. What was I thinking? Of course I immediately wished I could suck that back into my retarded brain. These people don't give a fuck about me or my birthday. What was I thinking?

With nary a beat skipped, the professor says, without a hint of sincerity, "Well then, let's all sing Happy Birthday".

Dear Earth, please swallow me whole. Thank you, Betty.

Mind you, I've only blushed about 4 times in life, but at that moment I think I turned a soft shade of eggplant. My eyes widened to saucers and I tried to stop that train of horror with my mind chanting over and over "no no no no no" and several lunatic hand gestures. But to no avail.
I proceeded to receive the most lackluster, pathetic, and slightly resentful rendition of the Happy Birthday song I've ever heard.

To make matters worse, if that was possible, when they all got to the stanza where you mention the birthday celebrator's name, I heard "Happy Birthday dear...ahhhh, ummm, what's her name again?" And the rest either fizzled out without the proper ending or I slipped into a welcomed and short-lived coma. With all eyes resting on me for what seemed like eternity, it took them 9 years to finish that song but that radioactive lead balloon finally landed. I think I actually punched the kid behind me to start talking.

And I still cringe thinking about that one.

2 for the price of 1

Jury duty turned into somewhat of a nightmare. And not the regular imagined horror show of sitting for a million mind-numbing hours with a huge group of circus freaks in a room smelling of b.o. and breakfast burritos. Waiting on the edge of a stained seat for a heavily accented clerk to call your name or sweating bullets praying to be released into sweet, sweet freedom. Ah, yes. Freedom. I didn't have that for long...

I showed up like a good girl and turned in my 'call for duty' slip ready to be added into the pool of gong-show contestants of potentials. I'd barely warmed my seat when I heard my name called over the loudspeaker. Hrm, I thought. That is odd. No one else was called. Guess I'm a special kind of slave to the state today.

I followed instructions and went to the jury office to see what was up. Perhaps the court gods were showing me mercy and they'd discovered their horrible mistake of calling on me for the 125th time in the last 5 years, only to learn that I was too brilliant to sit amongst the mouth-breathing heathens they call peers.

I didn't pay much attention to the black uniform-clad police officers at the front desk, since this was a courthouse and they're lousy with cops. Before I was able to say any more than my name, I was surrounded. In one swift move I was told that they'd run my name upon arrival and discovered a bench warrant for my arrest. WTF?

The long arm of the law spun me around and slapped some cuffs over my delicate wrists. Everything was moving at the speed of light and I was having trouble comprehending what anyone was saying. There was something about a car accident not reported, blah blah. Laws of the state, yada yada. Violation code whatever.

Before I knew it, I was sitting in the back of a squad car with my purse between my knees being driven to "intake". My fingers stained with fresh ink, I was photographed, booked and thrown in a holding cell with very little information and no idea when I'd be released. I wasn't even offered the obligatory phone call and this sure wasn't Andy Griffith's pokey. With it's soft blankets, Otis the lovable drunk and the sheriff playing his guitar. This was hell, with an attitude.

After about 20 hours of sitting on a bench and squeezing my ass-cheeks together so I didn't have to use the dixie cup stapled to the wall that was a supposed toilet, someone walked by and called my name. I lunged myself at the cold metal bars, begging for some information. I was informed that I would need to make bail of $1,000.00 in order to be released, or wait until Monday for arraignment. Holy shit, that would be like 5 days. I had no idea what I was going to do. I began to bawl...

I needed to call whitey, but it's not like they let you rifle through a phone book and I didn't have his work number handy. And how the hell was I going to come up with that kind of cash? This was a nightmare of epic proportions and I didn't know how I was going to get out of it.

I decided the best course of action was to call one of the local bail bondsman places and see if they could help me. I had to leave a message on voice mail with the little details I had, the women's detention center I was in and the amount I needed. I thought that this was yet another very bad sign. I just hoped they were well-versed in helping people like me get out of these kinds of jams and would come to my aid, pronto. This was not to be.

After yet another night in hell, my name was called again. I was filthy, hungry, exhausted and terrified. I'd had to do things I'd never imagined I'd do. But a girl needs some tp and a smoke now-and-then, alright? An officer opened my cell door and instructed me to follow him. I obliged with pleasure, happy to be away from my crack-addict cellmate, Crazy Mary.

I was met by a small man with greasy hair and a haggard notebook under his arm. We went over the details of my bogus arrest and my financials. I was more relieved than I've ever been in my life when he told me they could help and I'd be out of there in a matter of a hour or less. I felt like I'd taken my first breath in days.

I managed to get ahold of whitey and he took the bus downtown to my car, used my spare key and came to collect my stupid ass. The whole matter was basically a goof and all I needed to do was file a report. There was no fine and the bench warrant should never have been issued. I've already contacted a lawyer and expect a hefty pay-day for this monumental fuck up. Soon I'll be wiping my ass with 100 dolla bills...

Too bad none if it's true! That would have been an awesome story.
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OK, that wasn't very nice of me, was it? But I had to come up with something creative for why I've been absent an entire friggen week. There's really no excuse, except for the fact that I have no damn extra time for anything, I'm tired and cranky all the time and just like normal, have a million crappy things happening.

I actually did get out of jury duty since I woke up that morning with my stomach playing foosball in my guts and I spent a good part of the morning trying not to shit my pants and hoping I wouldn't be called into a courtroom while I was sitting in the john. It was awful.

Then the Imodium kicked in and reversed the entire process for like 3 days. Argh. I did go to the jury office and told them I was as sick as a dog and they let me go. Just like that. Next time I might bleed a little for a more dramatic effect. That would be cool.

I had mixed feelings about the whole process this time. I think it's important for people like me to serve on a jury, but I'm also jaded and cynical and think that most humans are fucking morons and I'd hate every minute of it.

And I'm not too keen on the whole mandatory servitude thing. We have a volunteer military, where people sign up to maybe be killed, but jury duty is a draft? WTF? Anyway, I got out of it and will wait until this time next year when I get another fucking letter. Bah.

Reporting for duty, sir!

Jury, that is. My state wants me and they want me bad. Luckily it's not in the form of a warrant for my arrest or men chasing my butt with a white "I love me" jacket and shoving me into a padded room. Yet.

I get called for jury every damn year, it feels like. Last year I received a summons for Superior court on a Friday and Municipal on Saturday. Can you believe that shit? Jeez people, I'm good but I'm no Marsha Clark. I wouldn't be caught dead with that crap head of hair and those cankle-making flat shoes.

I managed to get out of the Municipal summons since the big wigs who send the perps to pound me in the ass prison over-rode the got drunk on 4 beers and stole my daddy's Saturn and crashed it into a Krispy Kreme court. Mmmm....Krispy Kreme.

I tried with all my wiley ways to get out of it last year but apparently cancer treatments aren't as important as determining the fate of 4 foreign fuckwads who try to smuggle 6 thousand pounds of blow on a stolen fishing skiff through the Panama Canal. Sheer genius. I had to sit through 2 days of...oh sorry, I was remembering those 2 days and my brain stopped.

It was lame and tedious and lame. In the end I had to stand at a podium, talk into a very loud microphone and answer too many very personal questions about my health history to complete strangers and convince the judge that I wasn't your typical weasel trying getting out of my civic duty. I'd serve if I could. I really would. If was reasonable and didn't suck the ever-lovin' life out of me.

But I truly didn't have the physical strength to endure a 6 week trial driving 60 miles round-trip in suck-ass traffic, pay $20 a day for parking, walk in the scariest part of downtown dodging homeless guys and puddles of piss, and getting reimbursed the phenomenal sum of $5 giant clams a day. And can we just talk about the bathroom issues! I have an unpredictable pooper, people! I can't be trapped in a fucking courtroom all day for chrissakes! What if a turtle crowns? I'm up shit creek, literally.

So, I was dismissed. Fat lot of good that did me. Here I am again. Dammit. Thankfully I'm in a little better shape physically, but it's still hard for me to sit in one place for more than an hour without getting up and walking around, my energy levels are wonky, and I'm supposed to get my period tomorrow. Great Odin's raven! SUCK!

I sort of wish that I felt like serving. I was on a jury in college and it was a great experience. But it only used up 4 days of my summer vacation and it was an interesting case. But I learned that people are unintentionally stupid, outright lie, and use their own personal agenda's to make decisions. Ignoring evidence. And I've seen that observation reinforced a quadrillion times over since then. Hello, Michael Jackson jury? Now I'm older, wiser, and crankier.

I'm afraid that if I get onto a jury, and we made it to deliberation, the first moron who says something stupid would find a styrofoam coffee cup lodged in their colon and all eyes would be on me. Then I'd get arrested for assault with a man-made product and my "they're all fucking idiots" defense won't fly and it'd be a whole thing.

Therefore I will be a good girl and report as ordered tomorrow, act like a surly teenager and do my best to get out of it. My plan is to either develope a raging case of Tourette's on the way down there or be brutally honest. Either way'll work, I figure. I'm sure time will come to a screeching hault, it'll suck big juicy gorilla balls, but can you imagine the parade of freaks I'll get to watch? It'll be better than sitting on a bench at Disneyland.

Will report tomorrow night.

My head is pounding, bear with me

OK, this post is going to go all over the place, I'm predicting, so please hold on to something bolted to the floor. Thanks.

I think I clenched my jaw so hard last night in my sleep that I broke a tooth. I woke up with a ripping headache and it feels like my brain is in a vice. I don't seem to have the time to tweak my tits much less write anything mildly entertaining. So pardon my retardation. Thanks.

And can someone please bring me some mother fucking candy? Again, thanks.

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I still don't feel much like hashing through my week with the famdamily. This is a combination of me not wanting to go all ranty in every post, although I know that you sick fuckers love it, and in reality, it doesn't make me feel better. Actually, it makes me feel worse. Sometimes it's not a good idea to shake that dusty rug out, you know? Especially when you didn't make sure you were down-wind and all the skin cells and dust mites go right up your nose causing your eyes to tear and your throat to close. Besides, I'm allergic to that shit.

I came home last Saturday very stressed and very sad. the really bad stuff didn't last long and I managed to shake most of it off, but I was left with a feeling of disconnection and aloneness. (That's an awkward word, isn't it?) The problems in my family are not unique, I know that, but they are to me dammit and that doesn't make it hurt any less to know that everyone's relatives are crazy.

To feel like an outsider in your own family sucks. I've always known that me being adopted and my brother being my mother's biological child has been a big factor. I used to be introduced by my grandparents, "This is Betty, -whispering-, she's adopted". Trust me, this bullshit was not lost on me because I was young. And oh crap, I've plunged the opener into this can of worms and a whoosh of acrid air just escaped. Let's just say there are a lot of fucking issues here and I probably need therapy. Whatever. I need a fuckit bucket. Where is my candy? _______________________________________________________

The subject of children continues...

As professed my entire life, I do not have a biological clock. A dogoligical clock, yes. A yearning for (more) stretchmarks, (more) sleepless nights and (more) aggravation, no. However, and baby, please know that I'm in no way thinking seriously about wanting to procreate, am I going to miss something if I don't have kids?

Christ almighty, the internet is lousy with mommy blogs and the ones I read are full of hilarious tales of kid tomfoolery. Or they at least make puking kids sound funny. And one of the people I admire most in the entire world just adopted her second child and I'm over the moon with happiness for her. It's got me thinking, a lot. We can all blame this on her.

I got really sick of my niece last week and I did feel sort of bad about it. Until that fucking whoopee cushion was blapped on the back of my fucking head for the 129th fucking time. Then I was positive that being a mommy was not for me because one, I would never have bought her that retardedly foul and loud stupid toy in the first place, and two, I would have poked a hole in it after the 3rd time I heard it.

Truthfully, I really don't have that much interest in kids. It's not about patience because I have a shitload of that, it's about enthusiasm. And I barely have enough for myself. I had to stop from being a total dick every time my niece proclaimed something like "I think I see a moose in the bathroom". Oh bullshit, you did not. I have no energy to play 4,000 games of crazy eights and I certainly don't let little monkeys win. I'm a Candyland pimp, yo. Suck it. And my stint as a pre-school teacher made me very appreciate of being able to hand the rats back at the end of the day.

But...but...but what if I'm making the wrong decision? What if I'm using this stupid cancer as an excuse? Or my age. Or my bank account. What if my instincts are faulty? Am I'm going to be missing out on the key to true happiness? Am I'm going to deprive myself of the best thing I'll ever know? What if I totally regret not having any? What if my kid was totally cool and I wanted to be around them for more than 15 minutes? Man, this is way worse than the reunion decision.
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Gosh. I'm so out of things to say. There hasn't even really been any good reality TV to dish about or make fun of. MTV has some new dec-horror show where they redo people trailers, of all fucking things. Complete with a cast of white-trash rejects and a flaming designer that looks like a coked-out blond Freddie Mercury.

Don't believe me? Check it out. Contrary to popular belief among several assholes, I don't lie. This thing was seriously one of the worst pieces of crap I've ever witnessed. So of course I'm hooked after one show. It was visual heroin. I even threw up after.

And since we're speaking of MTV, just what the hell is wrong with Shakira in her latest video and why is she having a seizure on the floor while some surley dude with a coffee cup watches? Seriously. WTF? That poor girl looks like she's trying to impersonate a sidewinder trying to pass a kidney stone. Get a grip, sweetie, get off the floor and go back to that butt-shaking thing you do so well. You're starting to look a bit loca.

Oh wait! I do have a reality TV personality (she types using the sarcasm font), to rant about. Hey Howie from Big Brother 6 or 7 or we don't care. YOU ARE A COLLOSAL TOOL! Stop wearing your baseball hat sideways you non-gangsta whiter than white man from suburbia! Stop flexing your teeny tiny biceps covered in Neutrogena self-tanning lotion! Stop talking about all the hot women you're going to bone! Because you are LAME! DO YOU HEAR ME?!? LAME!!

You have the appeal of a herpes sore. You are as attractive as a pulsating white head on the ass of Ron Jeremy. I would rather spend the night in a gas station bathroom in Barstow with severe vomiting and diarrhea and no running water than let you get one finger on my body. Your legs are made of chopsticks and you have the vocabulary of a woodpecker.

You are not hot, you are not a playah, you are not a pimp. You're 35 fucking years old and live in Colorado with your mother. You want to become a weather man so you can get laid but the only people who are ever going to fuck you are your relatives from the south and paid prostitutes. So SHADDAP already. AND FIX YOUR FUCKING HAT!
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Now, where's my candy already??

Another visit survived...barely

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