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Posts tagged “rant

I Am Mad as Hell (So I Am Gonna Blog About It)

Unfortunately, I am curious. Some might say fortunately, but no, curiosity is curse for someone like me.

Why, you ask? Because I like to learn things. I read articles, watch “educational programs,” (and yes, my fair share of reality TV, including some Real Housewives and yes, Dance Moms, but only to increase my knowledge of pop culture, haha), I have recently added to my bucket list (note to self: find out the origins of “bucket list”) the task of reading 1000 books before I die (and with my current medical issues, this may be a more gargantuan task than normal). I love to listen to stories of people who have lived lives different from mine. I like to learn about opposing opinions when people can articulate them well, rather than resorting to what they learned from talking points. I like knowledge. But when I learn things, I get angry. And things I learned today made me super angry.

Before we go there, I will tell you a little story. I once had to read a fairly boring and dry book by and about some historical figure in graduate school. I had to be the person who presented the book and led the class discussion, but I stopped reading the book around page 400 of a 500+ page book because it was redundant and narcissistic (not unlike my blog in that respect) and it was unlikely that anything the author said in those last 100 or so pages was any different than anything he had not already said repeatedly in the first 400. I believe it was called The Education of Henry Adams – supposedly a book from the American Studies “canon”. This was the book that showed me that cemeteries are great places to read, because you have no distractions.*(see footnote) I believe the general premise was that Mr. Adams had the best education ever and every educational system that was not like his own personal experience sucked, and that he was the best educated person he knew. Anyway, that simple classroom exercise later influenced my teaching practices to include making my students read a book about a person they did not admire – and learn something from them. The point being, that even the things that we hate or despise or loathe, can teach us something if we force ourselves to see through the eyes of the things we do not like. To educate ourselves about the things we oppose in order to properly hold that opinion So with that in mind, we shall begin.

So the things that are pissing me off today are:

Homophobes, misogynists, men’s rights groups and their counterpart, father’s rights groups, racists, sheeple, badly designed facebook business pages, and their counterpart, shitty business websites, the health insurance industry, poverty, injustice, political corruption, poor education and standardized testing, the absence of the McRib (okay, that’s really not pissing me off, just makes me sad) cancer, mistreatment of LGBT foster kids, the apathy of Americans toward their political system and war. And sex trafficking. And genocide. And bad grammar. And the Oxford comma. And climate change deniers. And using religion to justify pedophilia, and hate homosexuals. And pedophilia and child abuse and neglect. And people who bully. And the labeling kids bullies, rather than just naming their behaviors. And child psychiatrist who just put kids on drugs instead of encouraging parents to step up and act like parents. And I am sure there’s more, but that’s enough for today.

Oh, I forgot – pro-life groups. Stay the fuck away from women. We don’t need you to make our decisions. If we want you up in our uteruses, (uteri?) we’ll invite you.

*Intermission*

gppy

Okay, so I snuck out of the house with the car to go sit by a lake and blog. Against medical advice. And two days without effexor so if my flow is a little off that is why. I escaped the tower. I went and got my effexor. I covered a bounced check while I was at it too. Time for sharing. Effexor acts on your serotonin and norepinephrine parts of your brain. Now messing with serotonin is not that much of a biggie, like when you stop taking anti-depressants that just impact that neurotransmitter, you just kind go back to being depressed as the drug wears off, and your brain is still not responding correctly. The norepinephrine, now that gives you wiry brain worms if you miss more than a dose. What are wiry brain worms, you ask? Well, you know that zzzzzzzt sound an electrical short makes? Imagine that in your head ALL FUCKING DAY. Like your brain is short circuiting all day. What I did discover is that singing loud in the car will make that sensation goes away. However, I do not sing very well, but I do it loudly, and no one can just sing all day. Of course, the other way to make it go away is to take the medication, which is why I snuck out of the tower, because I could not go another day with my brain attempting to implode. Now I am happily medicated, sitting by a lake because I needed to self soothe and no one brought me a puppy or baby to cuddle.

(Note: I have a lovely car full of potential clients unloading next to me to have an outing at the lake. Grandma (obvious meth head, or salter) her barely 18 yo daughter and the daughter’s child, and teenage male all have sprags hanging out of their mouths ( not the baby, of course) and hot ashes are sprinkling the baby. Lovely. F bombs all around. Job security. OH wait, there’s another teen mom unloading. And another! Three teen moms all came out of a car clearly not big enough for three car seats. Damn it. Caseworker brain off, and they are here to have a photo shoot with grandma and child #1 on a dock at a boat launch with no safety floatation devices, (my guess is that none of them can swim) and if the child falls into the water, guess which great bald-headed whale is going to have to jump in to save said drowning child? Well on the plus side, it will at least soothe the child’s burns from the cig ash.

Back to my anger fueled rant. I am not going to point out the stupidity of any of the things that I am angry about today, but rather, since I did some “tuning into self and others” on my way here, I am just gonna ramble. First, there was a female college student who was apparently murdered because she turned her school’s rugby team into the administration for chanting a vile hateful chant about rape and necrophilia and it was caught on tape. The school disbanded the rugby team, whose members then decided to threaten this young woman’s life. When the young woman told the administration, they said there was nothing they could do ( I paraphrased here – here are some articles http://jezebel.com/entire-college-rugby-team-suspended-over-recorded-fuck-1692488876 and http://jezebel.com/college-accused-of-ignoring-threats-before-murder-of-fe-1703069555 – these articles do not link the two events, but others do) And now she’s dead – strangled at school. And men’s rights groups are cheering about it, with comments like “she took one for the team.” Disgusting vile pigs. Not men, beasts who think only of their needs and selves. And if you are one of those men’s rights assholevists, fuck you and your misandry. You have lost no rights, you have no fear of violence anytime you are alone, no one fails to take you seriously because of your gender, you still make more money, get more opportunities and have more advantages in this messed up culture than me. If you want to take on “reproductive rights”, then how about you make sure you don’t “accidentally” get us pregnant? Take responsibility for birth control. That is a right no one is interested in taking that away from you. You can’t expect a woman to include you in the decision about what to do about an unwanted pregnancy when you did nothing other than ask her if she was on birth control before it happened. Wrap your shit up. Not only does it minimize the likelihood you will become a surprise dad, it also shows you respect her enough to not give her whatever STD you had and forgot to mention. Oh, right…when you passed on those genital warts, you did really think about whether or not she would have cervical cancer because of your gift later in life, because there were no obvious symptoms for her, until she got that uh-oh it’s cancer biopsy.

Now right about now, those people who want to inform me that none of this is a logical or valid argument are like, I’ll set her straight. Don’t waste your valuable typing skills. I don’t care. I will delete it anyway. (for the record, meth grandma is back at the vehicle). I can be Judgey Mc Judgeyoants here, cuz it’s my blog. And truly, while I can be judgmental, and I will admit that, I do try every day to catch myself when being hateful and mean, like with grammy meth head. I remind myself that I don’t know her story, and I try to send thoughts of well being and compassion out to her. It doesn’t make judging her right, and I wouldn’t want to live in a world where we were all the same, but because we live in a culture that tries to make things fit in the right/wrong/black/white mold all the time, we grow up assessing things My job is about assessing things, particularly child safety. But sometimes I am that w. word. The one that rhymes with bong. My goal in life is to accept people without judging, particularly the people I disagree with. I can accept the person and I can continue to reject their philosophies/belief systems when they are detrimental to others, especially those who are culturally “The Other.” If you want to have a debate with me, I’m down for it, but blog comments or facebook posts are not logical debate forums, rather they are opinions. I like lively discourse, but I won’t tolerate pedantic statements and high brow insults. Don’t try to appear the sophisticated intellectual, because dude or dudette, when I turn my serious academic brain on, I will not back down.

*Intermission*

gppy

Well, I left the lake and returned home. Upon opening the laptop, I discovered I had accidentally deleted a large portion of my rant. I am sure it will come back to me another time. In the time that has passed, I was also re-angered by more cultural stupidity. Seeing that I have already blathered on for three or so pages and who knows how many thousands of words – I’ll end it here. I am really tired, and now that I am happily medicated, maybe I can fall asleep at a reasonable time. If you are wondering about the whole cancer thing, scans are Friday and I am tying to focus on other things until then, like, going to see that feminazi film, Mad Max. Oh, there are pictures of my trip today too. I am just too tired to post them now. Bed time.

anak kirik wengi sing apik!

*well, there are those squirrels, woodpeckers, bits of foil, grass, chuck-chucks (aka groundhogs), sticks, robins, chipmunks, lawnmowers, clouds, a breeze…

 

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Late Night Chats with the Zombie Monkey

So here we are, 2:49 am. I’ve clipped my finger claws, restrung my mandala (someday I will figure out how a bead fell off and left me with 107 beads…and the bead that fell off, perfectly normal), took a stroll through the house, and had some quality time chatting with monka-monkey and zombie monkey, listened to three podcasts at Anxious and Angry (you should too) and gave some serious thought to laminating something. So I decided, hey, I’ll blog a bit.

There’s snow on the satellite dish, and I felt guilty asking Andy to go out on the roof and clear it off, so I’ll hope the sun comes out tomorrow, and melts it off. Today was a snow day…although I was already in the car on the way to work before I found out I could have stayed in bed and savored the warm comfy comforter. Needless to say I turned around and hit the grocery store, because naturally, it might be 24 hours before I could again go to the store and buy milk and bread. Or less, because quite frankly, the roads weren’t really too bad on my way home. So there was no TV all day. Not really a bad thing, but I couldn’t get motivated to read, so I started watching Helix on Netflix, and then a quite troubling movie called “Come Back to Me” (you should too). I planned a whole bunch of projects in my head that I will do someday when the energy returns to my body, ate some crackers, and then some more. Such a busy day. Right now, I’m busy hoping there’s a delay in the morning because I am clearly not going to get a lot to sleep.

My weekend plans have fallen apart. There’s a leak in pop’s furnace, which means he’s not going to go, so since taking pop to my brother’s house was the reason we were going, now means we’re not. I was lamenting remaining trapped in the tower, and I realized I have been too much of a whiner lately and need to refocus on being grateful, because quite frankly, so many other people are in far worse straights than I am – I still have a job, I work with a wonderful group of generous, kind, caring people who make being at work bearable. Andy has really stepped up and taken on the responsibility of paying most of the bills, as I have little bitty paychecks since I burned through my paid time off back in December (yay for paid snow days/delays!). We have heat, I have a bed, there’s food in the house, we have a house, a roof, clean running water, indoor plumbing. I have boots. A computer with internet access. I have health insurance, actually, I have excellent health insurance. I have a good education. I like myself, mostly, and I am comfortable being alone. I have multiple talents. I have a nicely shaped skull. I understand the secret language I talk to myself in. I’m kind, funny, and have a vast amount of useless knowledge. These things so far outweigh the negatives in my life, I sometimes get too caught up in those.

So is life hard? Yes. But it’s not the worst place I’ve ever been.

And with that said, I’m gonna try to hit the bed again, not because I think I can, but because my toes are cold.

And spring is only 14 days away. 14 days.


Sleepless in Shenandoah

Update on my new year’s resolution(s): I was unable to refrain from reading comments on articles posted on the interwebs. #resolutionfail. And this entry includes the name of the town in which I live. Let’s hope facebook doesn’t read my blog and find out.

I’m doing better. Not as insane as I was just six days ago, but not nearly normal either. I made it to work this week – three days in a row. I was in the office on Wednesday and had training Thursday and Friday. Next week I am planning to do a full week in the office, then Monday and Tuesday of the following week, and then it’s time to roll up the sleeves, pump up a vein and get down with the mad chemo party. Chemo buddy for the next adventure will be the lovely Heidi Y, and I am way to excited to be able to bring and play the Chupacabra dice game with we are there!!! Yay!!!

I’m struggling a lot with anxiety at night lately – this is new to me – I’ve never had this kind of panic/terror/unsettled feeling before. My legs are mad restless, and then as I close my eyes, all kinds of madness creeps into my mind and BAM, I am wide awake and trying to find a way into sleep. Last night I tried to meditate, listen to some talks about lovingkindness and the only thing that shut my mind down at approximately 3 am was a coconut vodka eggnog and two percocet. Yes, I know it’s not the wisest combination or something I should use on a regular basis, but hey a girl has got to sleep. I try to unwind in a myriad of ways – not a single one worked.

It’s a day later, I’m still writing this entry and it’s again 3:30am. I’m having a lovely hotcocoavodka, listening to some classical music and trying to write myself to sleep. I was going to read myself to sleep, but then I couldn’t find my glasses – until I got out of bed and settled down in the writing chair to write. I’m still having anxiety. I’ve realized that my body is also out of control with hunger lately, that too is partially anxiety. The other part is my body stocking up for the next great famine. As for the anxiety, I can feel it in my shoulders, my stomach and neck. It’s hard to be “ok” when your body is being a rebel.

There really isn’t much more for me to write about tonight – I mean there is, but I’m not feeling it. It’s like it just wants to stay bottled up inside – maybe it’s waiting for me to be funny again? To write better? To not drink vodka? Who knows, but I know that this is the best way out of my head for me. I can’t even describe how different this whole experience is this time – it’s so much harder emotionally and psychologically. I hate being a reader. I hate being curious – it turns up way more information than I am ready to handle. I know that much of what I learn is really not applicable to my situation, but it’s still now in my head. That is why I am trying to turn my intellectual pursuits in a more spiritual direction. No, I’m not begging God to heal me – not that I mind prayers, because they are positive energy that I need right now to help scour my body of this nasty annoying disease – rather I am seeking a way to center all this fear and anxiety. To find my spiritual core again – I shouldn’t freak out in the middle of a lovingkindness meditation because cause I can’t forgive myself and love myself completely while I am still blaming myself for choice I made in my 20’s that may or may not have contributed to cancer in my, well, my later life. And bam, writing that hit the crux of everything. I’m blaming myself – for my cancer coming back – was it negative thinking? Was it poor food choices? Is the laptop on my belly causing radiation to make cells grow? Is it negative thoughts? Too many sexual partners? Poor health care? Eating ice cream? Birth control choices? Hamburgers? I can’t accept that this is random and keep blaming myself, irrational as that is, that my negative thinking and bad decision making caused this and the only way out is to get back to a better spiritual core and man, I suck as a a human being.

And there it is, and now you see visually what writing this blog does for me, other than give me a place to randomly make commentary – it lets me keep picking the scab of what I am trying to bury until I make it bleed. And when it bleeds, as painful as that may be, I get to let go of a layer of self-blame and self-doubt. The other night as I was meditating, I couldn’t get to the place where I loved myself unconditionally – I know that this is an issue for a lot of people, but I couldn’t let go of the big grey concrete block keeping me from forgiving myself and being able to love the wondrous, loving and generous person I am – the creative and funny and intelligent being – the person who has a spirit of adventure and sense of magic – because all I could see was the person who made some less than stellar choices in my 20’s, choices I don’t regret, because they are the reason I am who I am and if I had made other choices, my life path would be completely different, but I still can’t get those monolithic barriers out of the way so I can love who I am completely.

~ Newsbreak ~ 4:11. One of the drunk ass neighbors on Lloyd St is making his relationship issues public in the middle of the street. I am always torn between being a lookie-lou and running to the window to hear more and just hoping the police arrive and make an arrest. I usually go with the latter, and I am tonight. I don’t understand the people of this town, at least once a night, somewhere in the two block radius of my house, someone is always in the street between midnight and five am, having some sort of argument, involving screaming, daily. The only time I don’t hear it is when I have the AC on. And it’s winter, so no luck there. ~End  Newsbreak ~

So yeah, back to my inadequate self, and my loathing of it. I believe tomorrow it may be time for a list here of my good qualities. And some clean up in this cave I call a bedroom. Some day, I will have my own studio, with a real desk, and storage for my mountains of craft supplies, and I won’t be all jam-packed in one room with it all like I am now. I wish I could apply some of my incredible life-coaching skills to myself. I am so good at helping others get their lives together, mine, not so much. Then I put off doing things until I shit in order, which I then don’t, and then I have just a mountain of unfinished projects and snakes of yarn everywhere. I just need a giant dumpster that seals itself shut after I toss stuff in it right outside my bedroom window. When did I become a fucking hoarder? When did I get so attached to my material shit?

I think it’s time to go now. Otherwise, I will start to analyze my actions and I want to sleep at some point. Sorry again for boring you with self-psychoanalysis. I’ll get funny again, I promise. But for now, I must finish my cocoa and crawl back into bed. Since I found my glasses, I will be starting to re-read “Awakening the Sacred Within” – I’m going to shoot for a book a week. For now my friends, this is it – and although boring, this entry is at least, somewhat shorter than most. We are almost one month through this winter thing! So, bon nuit mes amis. I was going to say don’t let the bed bugs bite, but for those of you in the child welfare system with me, that will simply evoke itching because we’ve all had to encounter the little critters at least once in our illustrious careers. Sleep well my friends. And remember to send those cancer killing thoughts my way. xo.

abcsleep


Aside

Mission Gyro: FAILED (or What Maps Are For)

I wanted a gyro for dinner. I was headed to Nesquehoning where there exists an alleged Arby’s that serves this coveted treat. Yes, I know it’s not a “real” gyro. But it’s tasty. And what I wanted. And I was hungry. It’s not really alleged. I’ve been there. And had said gyro. This time however, I was trying to find it from a completely different direction. Yes, I had my cell phone and I could have mapped that shit, but where’s the fun in that? I was going to guess where it was. Bam. Gyro is minutes away.

I know the road where the Arby’s is. I just need to find it. I’ve gone there on a back road before, and though it was in the middle of the night, and few lights or roadmarks were to be seen, (and it was two years ago) I believe I’ve retained enough details to easily locate my dinner with minimal difficulty. Of course I can. Toss in the added factor that I am on a long-acting narcotic, I’m tired and according to my treatment coordinator, it probably isn’t my best decision to be driving, I will still continue on this fool’s journey. I make the first turn of my adventure. Crossroad? Left, right, forward. Um. Left.

Here’s where I tell you that my sense of direction sucks. Which is why I also have a compass app on my phone as well as the maps app. Am I using either of these? No. That would only make sense. And there’s no need for sense on this road trip. I decide at the next intersection that a left turn is in order, because another left turn is probably required at some point, so let’s just go for it. It only takes a few miles on the road to realize I am driving in a direction that is probably directly opposite of where I would find Arby’s because I am on the side of a mountain. I know this is definitely where Arby’s is not. I suppose I could turn around, but I know I’m not going to. Because becoming lost in my attempt to find my way to dinner has just become the allegory of my life.

I can see how this has caught your attention. I will explain. I realize as I am driving along, that the scenery is gorgeous. I know I’m not headed in the right direction. I know what I should do is turn around and find my way back to what I know, but I’m not going to. I’m going to keep driving and see where I end up. The gorgeous autumn colors of the mountains have caught my attention. I’m not paying as close attention to the road as I probably should be because I am looking around. I’m pretty much alone on this road anyway. I spy a lake. I decide to tuck this nugget of knowledge into my “check that shit out another day” file, even though every fiber of my being wants to go see it now. I remind myself I am on a mission, and I am already headed in the wrong direction. My curiosity is forcing me to explore this new road. Normal people would turn around. Normal people would look at a map. Normal people would have looked at the map first. I am not normal people.

This has been my life. I know where I need to go, most times, even how to get there, or how to figure out how to get there. Sometimes I am on the right road, and make a wrong turn, or sometimes I am on the right road and let something else distract me, or sometimes I make a wrong turn right at the start. And instead of turning around and correcting my course, I just plunge headlong forward. I justify it in my head as “learning experience” – sometimes I get so lost that I never get to where I started, but in that journey I get so many lessons and rewards, as well as setbacks and deadends, that even when I fail (IE: no gyro for dinner) it’s okay, I’ll just make do with something else (IE: sucky Turkey Hill mini pizza). This has been my whole life. But so far, instead of enjoying the ride, I’ve been cursing my stubbornness and cursing the fact that I didn’t turn around. I forget what beautiful (and dangerous) things I’ve seen along the way. I forget that the success was in continuing to go forward, despite the obvious signs that this was not how I was supposed to go, but going ahead without reservation. Not traveling recklessly, like crossing into clearly the wrong lane, but sometimes driving onto the shoulder and suffering some bumps until I get back on the road. Sometimes traveling too fast and hitting a pothole that jars me back to reality. Sometimes just losing track of time that I miss out on something else. My life is a series of wrong turns that start off as trips to other places. I sometimes get to where I was going, but even when I don’t, even when I break down along the way, it’s an adventure, and I see a lot of cool things, and sometimes I learn the hard way that some chances aren’t going to work out.

So what did I see on my trip today? Beautiful scenery, gorgeous houses tucked in the woods. Log cabin. An amazing line of gnarled trees to go back to photograph another day. A lake to investigate, a new alternate route to a destination. Knowledge that next time it’s a right turn or straight ahead instead of left and left. Knowledge that Turkey Hill pizza sucks and that I shouldn’t have an energy drink if I am already cranky. Sunbeams. And the knowledge that I just need to keep driving.

So this is the lesson grasshoppers. It’s okay to use a map. That’s what they are there for. However, when you choose not to, you also choose to accept whatever the road you follow brings you to. Good or bad. Yummy gyro or nasty pizza. You can go probably go back for gyro another day, but if not, you can still have other delicious treats. Unless you refuse to let go of your desire for the gyro. This is all very zen.

I leave you with a picture of how you can take something ugly, like the stubs of dead bushes, and turn them into something magical. Or you can leave them like ugly remnants of another life – the choice is yours. Every time I see them I think of the great imagination it took to transform those dead sticks into a roadside coal reef to make the day brighter for every person who takes the time to notice it.

IMAG0962-001

 

But wait, there’s more. There’s this tree.

IMAG0942

It’s at the top of a hill. A hill in the middle of a cemetery. You can see death all around it, or a magnificent tree at the top of a gorgeous hill on a sunny afternoon – which leads me to this parting thought…I saw a retirement/nursing home today adjacent to a cemetery. It made me think about the home’s residents – does it trouble them, this reminder that their time is now so limited or is it comforting to have the constant reminder that every day is precious and that the reality of death keeps them focused on the present. Just a thought.

No news from the Dr. BTW. Pain is still my constant traveling companion. Always screaming for attention in the background. Hopefully tomorrow brings answers. But for now, it’s carnage and death, SOA style, my guiltiest of guilty pleasures.

Be well pretty ones. If you’ve got gyros – eat them.


When Last We Met With Our Not-So-Fearless Heroine…

First, I apologize. I’ve been lax about my blog. Not because I haven’t had anything to write, because I have, but like so many other people who write or draw or do creative things, occasionally you feel like you are boring your audience (even when your intended audience is yourself) and you can’t get excited about things as you used too. I’d blame depression, but for me, depression is often the one time I want to write because I don’t want to keep that chaos bottled up in my brain case. I didn’t want to bore anyone with my incessant whining. However humorous it often is. So I’ll recap, and then end with the current quagmire.

Picture it, Shenandoah in mid-July, 2014. We’re headed off to have the pufferfish poked and prodded and punctured and badness sucked from it’s soul. The day after the procedure I am stunned by the relief that comes after pufferfish is defeated. I revel in the painless days and nights – I don’t even touch the percocet or the Advil or the Tylenol. There’s no need – I am happy to frolic about without even an inkling of pain. I can eat with reckless abandon, and I do, nom nom nom, like a non-stop Miss Pac-man gobbling anything in sight. Yeah, yeah, I gain a few pounds, but hey, my body is functioning normally again. I am happy. My two year cancer free anniversary comes and goes, with nary a second thought because I am blissfully not being tortured by my body. I go to my one year radiology check, and gush at Dr. J about how not in pain I am. I do things like swim. Ahh, life is good.

At least it was. For a while.

About four weeks later, I start to notice subtle changes in the way my bladder is acting. I harken back to the days of pre-pufferfish-puncture and suspect that it may be returning. I try to pretend it’s not, I mean, hey, I’m not in pain. Changes keep happening, and I feel something pushing itself about in the great darkness. I’m pretty sure stupid fucking pufferfish is back, but hey, there’s still no pain, so perhaps I am just projecting the imaginary growth of a giant grapefruit sized squishy mass in the darkness of uterus-used-to-be land. Then, without warning, one Friday morning, at the hour of 4:30am, I awake in screeching agony. Welcome back pain, we’ve been waiting. I rock back and forth in bed, stuffing Advil into my mouth in between sobs, cursing the fact that I should have already called the Dr. After about, oh I don’t know, maybe 15-16 Advil, I am able to move without the shriek of a banshee. I head to work.

I should have called the Dr that day, but I didn’t. It could have just been a fluke. I would have preferred a fluke inside me instead of the pufferfish. I thought I should just test my theory. Just one more pain day, and I will call then. I swear it. I don’t know why I didn’t believe my body when it was clearly telling me what I already knew, but hey I never claimed I was the queen of good judgment Although the next two or three day were pain free, my body is never one to disappoint and BAM, pain’s back. Daily. I call the Dr. and in another week, I’m off for another CAT scan. I know what’s going on, but apparently, my word isn’t as convincing as a CT scan. There are still no cats at these scans, which is good because I don’t know if I can refrain from attacking one if I saw it considering the amount of pain I am in. I am eating Advil like it is candy. And there is only ONE, just ONE percocet left from this last prescription. I am saving it for that night when I seriously am weighing the option of self-surgery in which I remove the perpetrator of my pain myself and nail it to the wall. Then I will take it. That night comes pretty quickly and much to my glee, I realize that I have not paid close attention to the stash of narcotics because there are almost two left. There is one tablet, and a half and a quarter from another that I was clearly gnawing on at some time past. It’s an opiate miracle.

Now I am sure I mentioned before that my scans appear in my medical records long before I hear from my medical team. This time is no exception. I can clearly read that gargantuan sea creature has again returned and it trapped behind my bladder and on top of some nerves and is wedging itself snuggly in there to make sure it maximizes the torture experience. Oh, and this radiology student/resident/drwannabe has taken upon himself to decide that my spleen and pancreas are atrophied. What is this new development?!?! Away to Google we must.

Google at the ready, I enter this new information. As Google does, it gives me the most terrifying response one could expect…these are the first signs that the above referenced organs are affected by cancer. I know what pancreatic cancer means and that’s death. So, it’s 7 pm, there’s no Dr available, and I have just read in my CT scan results that I am not only full of the vile fishy torturer but I am facing death. Most of my friends try to talk me down. They know the perils of googling symptoms, but I will not be deterred. I know I am dying. FML. I will acknowledge that being the reader of several of these scan reports that say nothing else is wrong but the bloaty fishy in the past, that perhaps this new scan reader is an arrogant ass who just wanted to find something else the others did not. I agree to not make funeral plans until I hear from my Dr. And the longest 18 hours of my life begins.

Finally my treatment coordinator calls and leaves a message that I will be treated to another delightful out patient visit to radiology to have my friend puffy aspirated. It will be on Tuesday. No, it cannot be on Tuesday. I have training that Tuesday. I call back. We will reschedule, and I am told in no uncertain terms, to stop reading my own CT reports. Don’t worry about the spleen and pancreas until they do it with a contrast dye. And your new date of probing and poking is next Friday. I ask for a new prescription of percocet so if this repeats again, I will be ready – they say it will be ready for me at the procedure. Unfortunately, I am not going to make it without percocet until then, and I call on Tuesday, begging to be able to pick it up. I head to Hershey and retrieve my magical paper. I try to fill it at the hospital pharmacy, but it will take an hour! AN HOUR???? I don’t have an hour…so I take it to another nearby pharmacy and in just 30 minutes I am on my way to sweet fuzzy relief. I get home and sleep the sleep of the blessed poppies. I manage to avoid taking the magical tablets during the workday, but on Thursday night, the throbbing and stabbing are not quieted easily, and I head out for my procedure in drowsy narcotic haze.

Andy drives me to the hospital. I tell him to not even bother coming in with me, because I know the drill and I will just sleep till the designated pufferfish slaying time. He can reappear during my recovery period. I arrive and hop into my hospital bed. I tell the nurse that I had to take percocet before coming to the hospital and that I would like some more. Denied. They will talk to the Dr. and see if they can give me some pain meds during the procedure. The very kind and helpful nurse tells me they usually don’t give any pain meds because it’s not a painful procedure, I’ll just feel pressure. I sweetly tell her that this is my third go-round and I am feeling pain now, a six on the 1-10 scale, and there will be pain during the procedure, pressure is just a nice way of saying it will fucking hurt. I have gone through this twice, I know there will be pain. She assures me she will let the Dr. know this. She tells me I am lucky, Dr. S will be doing my procedure and he’s a great Dr. I am somewhat relieved. I relax as much as a person writhing in pain can until they wheel me into the procedure room. It’s a bait and switch. Dr. S. is there, but he’ll be supervising Dr. G, who will be the gutter of the day. I slide into the CT machine and there, inside the machine is that pufferfish sticker that mocks me every time I am there. I stare him down and mentally tell him he will not defeat me. Another kind nurse discusses what position I should be in, I just tell her how we do it. She promises me some fentynal. I like this nurse.

The procedure begins. I can tell from the start that it is not going as smoothly as the previous two. It feels rougher, less routine. Then I hear, from the twilight of my fentynal/whatever else is in that IV drip the ominous “oops, uh, not, not that, stop, okay” and some more rough movement toward the pufferfish. Yes, I am awake through all of this. I feel everything. The kind nurse with the fentynal asks if I am in pain. Seven I say, I am at seven. She ups the meds, and while it still hurts it’s not as bad. Soon, it’s over without any more issues, and I feel the relief that comes when the beast is defeated. There’s still pain, but it’s a different soreness and not monster eating my spine. And tomorrow I will feel nothing but a little ache. It’s totally worth it.

I hop back onto the hospital bed and get wheeled back to recovery. The nurse there lets me skip out early after Dr. G checks in on me. I told him I felt fine, because well, at that point, besides the achey soreness I did. They drained as much fluid this time as they did the last time. Hopefully this will be the last time I will have to endure this. I spot the cute male nurse from the last time. Hey wait, I’m not ready to go yet…

But I go. Saturday dawns and I’m still pretty sore. No problem, I’ll just stay in bed. Sunday morning and the sun’s shining on me. Still hurting. This is not right. But maybe it’s just because this is the third one. I’ll just wait and see, and sleep some more. Hey whoa, Monday’s here. PAIN. PAIN. What’s this???

Well, I’ll just give it until Wednesday. I mean no reason to jump to conclusions. Tuesday. Ditto with the pain thing. Not happy about this. But it’s SOA night, I’ll just rest. Hello OMFG-what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-me-and-who-replaced-my-hip-bones-with-jagged-razors-broken-glass-rusty-nails-Wednesday? That’s it. We’re calling Radiology. I call off work, I call radiology, Dr. G assures me that it’s a good thing that it’s just this razor pain and no fever, because at least I don’t have an infection. I can’t lift my leg over the bathtub to shower, but hey I won’t die of sepsis. Come on down for another CT scan, and we’ll see what’s up. We get there – I can barely stand up straight. I go down for the scan, they get me in quickly. I enter a new CAT scan room. The first thing I see staring at me is that mean pink bear from Toy Story III. This is a bad omen. It all goes okay until I have to get off the machine bed. I am in blood curdling screaming pain, and I am sobbing. The nurse helps me to the waiting room. After a short wait, a nurse comes in and tells me to call Dr. K., my gyn-oncology. It is not a positive sign that it’s not radiology that wants to talk to me. Now I’m scared.

They gave me a direct line to Dr. K. By the time he gets on the phone, I am crying out in the courtyard like a giant baby, a baby who is can’t sit because I am in so much pain. He tells me there’s a hematoma on my peritoneum from a vein being nicked during the deflation procedure. That’s why I feel like there are razors slicing me to ribbons. He wants to see if it will resolve itself. He is prescribing me a long lasting more powerful pain pill to take with the percocet. I ask if I can work, and he laughs, and says I shouldn’t even be worrying about work with this pain but yes, I can work, if I insist on it, but I should stay home a few days let the pills work. It’s a narcotic damn it. He says if it’s not better by Monday, we’ll figure something out. He doesn’t want to do surgery, not at all, because the pufferfish is in a deep awkward part of the uterine ocean, like the Marianas trench of uterine cavities. It will be a severe major surgery, and it won’t be easy, there are no guarantees that they will even get to it, or that it will resolve it. But we’ll talk in a few days. Take the pills. Rest. I tell him I will send Andy up to pick up the prescription and to tell the nurses to not be afraid to give the 20 something kid with the dreadlocks the powerful morphine prescription because his mom really is in the car. He laughs. I say, “you think I am kidding, I’m not.”

We get the prescription. While it’s getting filled, Andy tells me all the ways we can parlay the pills I am given into cash on the street, enough to supply oil all winter and have cash for a vacation after we sell them, and use that cash to buy some weed which we can sell and get more weed, and then…and then… I tell him they won’t let me have these meds in jail, and to stop making me laugh, because it fucking hurts. I slip one of these beautiful deep blue pearls into my mouth and we head home. Morphine Sulfate XR, bless you, as you cut quickly to the pain and make it just a grit your teeth and whistle level instead of the tearing your fingernails out one by one level. I spend most of the next few days asleep. And then I am told I should not be driving if I am taking the morphine and percocet. So with a note from the Dr. faxed to the office, the soonest I am going back to work is Monday. The next five days are fuzzy, I fall asleep randomly, sometimes with a sandwich in hand, and glasses on, or in the middle of typing a sentence. Sunday I try to wean off the morphine. My body’s response to that? You’re one crazy bitch, that’s not gonna happen. This brings us today – my hematoma is still here, my cyst is back to the size it was before they drained it, I can stay off the percocet, but my pain will not allow us to say no to morphine. And I’m waiting for word from the Dr. on what happens next. He’ll be back in the office tomorrow. The pain is manageable for now. And I keep telling myself at least it’s not cancer. And that I am grateful that at least some of my doctor’s trust me to know my body.

Thus ends the most recent chapter of Cancer, A Gift That Never Stops Giving. I am sorry for this novella, but now you’re on the same page as me, and we can wait, impatiently, together. I am headed to my bed now, to rest quietly and gear up to face tomorrow – I am applying again for FMLA, so that no matter where this is headed, I’ll still have a job to come back to. And this better not interfere with me being able to attend the upcoming adoption of one of my kidlets at work, because then I will be seriously pissed off at this nonsense. I’m not gonna let this noise interfere with the one good thing that comes out of the work I do.

It’s really hard to stay positive with life throwing up road hazards around every turn, but I keep reminding myself, I still wake up every morning and I get out of bed to clean water, and an inside toilet and electricity and food. So I am richer that most of the rest of the world. And I have cookies, so that’s just icing on the cake.

Stay healthy my friends, and keep fighting the good fight.

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Buttercup kicks “the sick” out of the amoeba boys


The Racing Mind at 1AM Edition

Yep, just sitting here doing the math on how much sleep I’ll get before I get up for work in the morning

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It’s been a sort sucky day in a sorta sucky week, but if you harken back to last week’s dismal forecast, I’m sitting on top of the world in comparison. But it’s been a rough week and it’s only Wednesday.

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I sometimes think I am so naïve. I always try to see the good in people. Even when people repeatedly disappoint me or take advantage of my compassion. This makes some people hard and callous, and I am, a little – but I still don’t let it color my perception of the next person down the road. This week was hard, because sometimes in the baby snatching world, you go above and beyond and put all your faith in someone because you see potential for success, and then despite every possible effort you could have made, things just collapse to a level lower than you could have expected. And yet, I was lying in bed thinking as upset as things have recently made me, somehow I can continue to find that hope. I suppose this all came from my listening to Ryan Young’s Anxious and Angry podcast. If you haven’t listened to it yet, you should. Because it will make you think. A lot. And laugh, also a lot. I will pause here to allow you to click on the hyperlink or here to get to the sight and listen to the podcast. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

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Welcome back. I am sure you enjoyed it. Tell your friends. In this week’s episode, Ryan urges people to do one nice thing for people everyday and talks about how good it feels. I am far from being the kindest or nicest or generous person in the world (most brilliant, witty and craft are enough for me), in fact, I can be meaner than a honey badger, but I do always try to say one nice thing to someone every day. Or make them laugh. Something, and I do it without even thinking about it. Not because I want to be magnanimous but because I know how good it feels, and it’s a plain self-rewarding activity that makes me feel better about me. It takes nothing to say hey, I like your hair, or you look nice. And yet it means all the world to someone. I don’t know if I ever wrote about the story about the person who jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge in a suicide attempt, and survived. The person said that they told themselves, I’m going to kill myself, and hoped that one person would see the tears streaming down their face and ask what was wrong, and when one person stopped him and he thought, wow someone cares, only to find out it was a tourist who wanted him to take her picture. And he did, and gave the camera back and when the tourist walked away, he jumped off the bridge. One person could have made a difference. So I always try to smile and say something nice when I see someone, because I don’t ever want to ignore someone’s pain. Not that it works with everyone, but hey you put the effort out there. This is the same reason I buy stickers for the kids in my families for my visits. Because I might be the only person that month who gets down on their level and asks them to pick something they like when I see them on a visit. For those few minutes, they know someone cares.

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Of course there are going to be kids who will hate me anyway, but that’s the same as adults in my life. Some people will never change. And just because I want them to be happy/succeed/prosper/stay healthy doesn’t mean that’s what they want. Like my sister, maybe she’s happy with her choices – maybe she doesn’t want more than to live in public housing, on disability, drinking. Why do I think she does? It’s funny how we both had/have diseases we have to fight, both have kids we love, and yet my path couldn’t be further from hers. (note to my readers: ironically, I have the reputation of being the bad one in my family – you know, the drug user with the older boyfriend ((which creeps me out now)) who was wasting her brain nightly in a small town hanging with the bad seeds, my sister on the other hand, was all your typical homecoming and spring queens, head cheerleader, great husband, money, kids) and while I have clearly failed at snatching me up a husband and having a white picket fence, I’m pretty comfortable in my nest. I tried for years to help my sister, until I just had to say, done! I’m not going to continue letting your refusal to want more drag me down. So she does her thing, and I do mine, and if she ever gets sober and honest, I’m still gonna welcome her back in my life. As for now, I don’t need that drama. (note: the previous reflection was the result of running into my sister in the city where I work, as I was entering a rehab for a work visit, and she was merely walking by it – again, irony.)

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How does all of this related to my central theme here? I will tie it all together for you now – Jane is my sister, also sister of my brother Mike buys me a satellite radio → I hear Against Me! On the punk rock station → I go to see Against Me! → I want to see them again → they play w/ Off With Their Heads → I buy some OWTH downloads → I see OWTH play with AM! → OWTH’s music gets me through the roughest six month of my life with cancer -> Ryan Young is the vocalist of OWTH -> Ryan Young starts a podcast → podcast says do kind things → I blog. Of course in the midst of all that is some other stuff, but it’s all connect. Everything is connected so if you do something nice by way of OMG I THINK A SPIDER JUST RAN ACROSS MY BED…sorry… if you do something kind because you read this blog, then you will be connected not to just me, but that stealthy spider, Ryan Young, my brother, me, and even more people and things. What I am trying to say as I get more tired and ready for sleep, is that doing kind things is good, and it doesn’t even take any cash. Listen to Episode 13 of the podcast here.

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Sorry I have been failing at amazing humor the last few weeks. I’m really trying to stop being so reflective. I was going to relay my bad experience with my mobile phone providers customer service today, but that will just get me all fired up again, so instead, I’m going to crawl into bed, read a few chapters in my new book “Horns” and hopefully fall asleep with my glasses on. Peace.


Sunday, Mopey Sunday.

First, I’d like to just put my personal opinion out there: Ladies, I’ve grown used to seeing your naked pregnant bellies popping up in my newsfeed. I’m happy for you, I personally loved being pregnant. I do not however, have any desire to see your vagina. Not now, nor during childbirth or the 3d image of your unborn child. Babies grow in a dark womb for a reason, if we were to admire them during their spawning, they would mature outside of the darkness. I will see plenty of pictures of your offspring once it arrives, let me have the excitement of not knowing what it looks like before it’s done. Birth is a miracle, I know, but it’s a yucky, creepy, messy miracle, and if I wanted to see it every day, I would have become an obstetrician, instead of investing tens of thousands of dollars in a master’s degree in American Studies which I don’t use daily to earn the fear and hatred of scores of families as I invade their homes to protect their children from poor parenting. Please let me defer the joy of meeting your child on the interwebs until after they are detached from the placenta. Your cooperation is appreciated.

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Advisory: I am still in the black void of depression. You’d probably be better served eating ice cream. Or watching Netflix. If you continue, please remember that this blog isn’t a cry for help or attention, it’s my therapy to work out the shit that’s in my head. I enjoy you sharing my world with me, but not because I need you to do anything about it.

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Alas, the joy sucking depression continues to oppress me. I enjoyed another Saturday in bed yesterday, although I managed to leave the comfort of my completely uncomfortable bed to shop for food. Today I sprayed toxic chemicals in the shower. And tried to kill the giant fly that has invaded my space to torment me. I wake up crying. I peek out the window at the sun shining and wish for rain. I think about leaving the house and really only want to go sit in the peace and quiet of the cemetery so I can be one of those people that people visiting in the cemetery wonder why that person is sitting there in their car. It’s quiet there and there are very few people who will try to engage a stranger sitting in her car in a cemetery in casual conversation. Cemeteries also have squirrels and crows to entertain you. At least it’s out of the house.

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One of the hardest parts of feeling like this is trying to get past the whole belief that it’s a mindset and not a chemical imbalance. Like I could somehow just think positive thoughts and shit would magically change. I want to believe this. I spend a lot of time thinking how much more fortunate I am than the people who lose people they love, have to hide who they are, are homeless, have physical disabilities, are dying. I see these stupid movies about people who are dying and have this great zeal to live every minute and all it does is make me feel bad that I can’t turn this shit off and be like that. Why can’t I just be enthusiastic about every fucking thing? And the self-loathing increases a hundred-fold. Because not

only am I in the throes of depression, I am a completed and abject failure because I live a fucking mediocre life and don’t do amazing things. Or even semi-good things. Or even things. Unless you count blogging and watching Snapped: Killer Couples marathons as things.

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Ugh. I can honestly say that this isn’t the worst it’s ever been. I’ve been in far darker abysses (abyssi?) than this. I’ve hated happy people more bitterly and I’ve felt less human. I guess that could be considered a positive. Ironically, I continue to do some of my best life coaching for others while I hate everything about my own. I really want this fly to be dead. I really want no advice or consolation. I just want to go to sleep and wake up with enthusiasm to face the day. That’s not to say that I don’t have any desire to do things – one of the great benefits of depression is that in the attempt to escape the horror of one’s current predicament, one often finds themselves dreaming of what they should do to make their life better by choosing rather impractical solutions. Like quitting one’s job and buying a houseboat. Or a tiny house. Or taking to the road in a car and living in it. Or getting a dumpster and throwing everything you own into it. Or spending an inordinate amount of time on how to transform one’s life, because you know you have no desire to do it. Or doing digital jigsaw puzzles, hoping that this time, the picture won’t include some kitten that you just want to smash with a hammer. Or wishing you could live in a commune with people who laugh at your nerd jokes and want to talk about books and philosophy and raise organic vegetables and alpacas and pigs.

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Ultimately, you get up, take your pills, suffer through another day, knowing that one morning this seemingly endless slog through the days will have ended, and you get an awesome day, where you laugh and cry and make amazing memories. And then you’ll have another hurdle tossed in front of you and another setback, but you’ll make it through, marveling that other people have lives that aren’t lived in spite of the blackness. In the meantime, I’ll feel guilty that I can’t be like other people and that the way I feel right now makes other people feel uncomfortable, and that I can’t just turn it off.

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Or maybe I’ll take a shower. And move my contemplative angst all the way out to the front porch.

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tough it out tuesday

so yeah, Heidi, I stole the title from you. #titlethief

 

so today started out with my forgetting the aux cord, so I was forced to listen to cds in the car. and it was hot. and I found a hole in my skirt. and I ran out of quarters for the meter. and I had to do another unpleasant work related task this afternoon. and then I went and tried to spend my last four dollars on an orange cream custard at Rita’s but you can’t use your card then for under $5, so I was forced to go to dunkin donuts for a watermelon coolatta. as I was drinking it I realized that I had just paid $4 for a medium size cup of ice with watermelon syrup and I could have bought a real watermelon. and then, I was heading home, excited that there was about to be a thunderstorm, I realized tomorrow is street sweeping so I had to park my car AT THE END OF THE BLOCK. and then there was a double rainbow after the “rain” because I never got that promised storm which i did not see. so I ate ice cream once again for dinner.

the end.

 

and ps. the vitamin b is making me sick to my stomach. so I still depressed.


Soul Sucking Sorrow No Puppy Can Cure (or Even Cute Babies)

Caution: It has come to my attention that sucking blackness has arrived for one of its destructive visits. If you care about me, you will not ask me how I am, or suggest happy things or try to elevate my mood. Trust me when I say I am on it, but as anyone with depression can tell you, depression isn’t something you switch on or off, or can wish away. I will get through this as I have through every other episode, but not without my usual bitterly wry assessment of what this torment feels like.

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If depression was a circle of hell, Dante would have described it as being damned to an unlit coal mine inside of a supermassive black hole in which there was a bubbling pit of tar and the damned would be drowning in it, while crying tears of blood. No, really. It’s exactly that. When it’s under control, it’s a black cloud following me around, rumbling and grumbling, but not surrounding me. Today, I feel like my soul has been ripped from my body and I start crying at fucking butterflies. I thought I was just being cranky on Saturday, but I knew then. I tried to sleep it away. Nope, not gonna happen. So I got out in the sun and took some vitamin d and b and drove fast and screamed along to music at the top of my lungs until I was sure my throat was bleeding. (I am sure there were also some innocent ears bleeding too, because that stereo in the car is an harman kardon, and it’s LOUD, and I was singing/screeching louder.) Unfortunately there are pauses between songs during which sorrow spilled out of my eyes like rain in gutters after a storm.

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Now I’m in it. It’s like a huge fucking weight crushing me. Squashing me like a bug. I can’t talk about it because it only turns the sobbing on. Talking doesn’t help it. There’s nothing I or anyone else can do. I have to ride it out. That’s what sucks about this disease. It’s a waiting game or, if I want to be generous, a challenge. Writing does help, because it lets me give it shape and form, a giant fucking monster made of molten coal that squirms and oozes all around me with its fucking stupid gaping mouth making sucking sounds. It just sits there, mocking me. And all I can do is write, jam b vitamins down my throat, take my happy pills and be grateful that I still have the strength to get out of bed and go to work. The only plus of this despicable plague is that I also become brutally sarcastic. I should have known I was teetering on the edge when I decided to write the “I Hate Everyone and Everything” song. Which was really just a title, and no lyrics.

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I woke up crying early Saturday morning. I had had the most vivid dream, which I may or may not blog about another day. I woke up crying. It should have been a clue. But no, I wanted so badly to believe that I had this shit locked down, I wasn’t accepting it. I wasn’t even buying it until I was driving to an appointment today, and I started weeping like a banshee. Thank dog for sunglasses. But I pulled out the happy face, dried my eyes, and got through the afternoon. And mourned the fact that I need to stay put for another three years because I need fucking healthcare. Yes, we have guaranteed healthcare now, but just like before the affordable care act, there is healthcare and then there’s good healthcare. I have good, even excellent, healthcare, and I am stuck in a job and a state that add nothing to my rainbow of happiness because I have a body and mind that have defects that require superb medical attention. Stupid body. Stupid brain. And just so you can get a really good understanding of how my depression works, as I was driving I saw a perfectly lovely bird flying in the gorgeous blue sky on a delightful June day. For about 30 seconds I though “I wish I was a bird” and then bam! My brain switched over to this: no, I don’t want to be a bird, because I would probably be starving most of the time, or attacked by a hawk or a vulture or shot to death by some sociopathic child with a bb gun. Or pecked to death by other birds. Oh look at those pretty rhododendrons, how gorgeou….wait they are already dying, everything is dying, death everywhere, summer is almost over, it’s going to be winter again, I hate winter, why does everything die, why are we even here, life is hard and it sucks and I am going straight to bed when I get home, I don’t even want to talk to anyone or see anyone, ever. Yes, laugh, it is funny, and also horribly sad.

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On the plus side, I still get up and go to work. I put that smiling mask on and function, because I have to. And I cling to the fact, that it will pass. Hopefully soon, because I have enough shit in my life that I don’t really need the added bonus of a sucking pit of despair right in the center of my chest (although I wouldn’t complain if it actually sucked out fat instead of joy).

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And that is that. I am going to go brood, mindlessly wishing that the sky would turn black and we’d have an awesome thunderstorm, because I appreciate when the weather mirrors my mood. Maybe I’ll get out some black paint and do a depression self-portrait that someone will buy for $10 and later sell for millions after my death.

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That is all.

BpJk2vMIQAE6CTM.jpg largeThis is not a tar monster.

I was not able to upload that picture.

So instead I uploaded this small monkey

who is contemplating tearing the heart out of this white pigeon

others often call doves.


Good Weekend? Bad Weekend? You Pick.

I came home this evening from hanging out next door with the Rooney’s, enjoying a glass of blueberry wine that I bought at the Pennsylvania Flavorfest, laughing til I cried while listening to Eric Rooney read some of my best impromptu poetry, including “Ode To Mikey” about his dead rabbit only to get some weird facebook message about pictures being posted of me on some ugly people website. At first I wanted to look, and then I decided not to, because one, I just had a weird vibe this was some sort of hacking activity, and two, because why would I subject myself to someone’s need to hurt me in that way (the link this person gave me had my name in it). This of course took the edge off my happy. I was about to launch into a rant hear about bullies and people who do ugly things like that. I was like, really, at my age who really hates me that much and has pictures of me that are, as the person who messaged me put it, disgusting. Whatever, nothing anyone else can say or do can cause me to feel worse about my body as I already do. So sorry mean people, I believe the word is “fail”.

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What that little message did though, was make me realize, once again, that nothing is permanent. And maybe, I should take my own advice, and make a list of positives and negatives and see which wins out in the total score for the weekend.

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Positive: Ryan Young actually had my email to him on his podcast (Episode Number 8, Anxious and Angry – Free on Itunes or here Anxious and Angry) You should download all of the episodes. They’re funny and interesting and will make you think.) He also said nice things about me. It made me happy.

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Negative: I re-read my email and saw that not only did I use some poor grammar, my dumb ass fingers are still switching letters and my brain is still tricking me into thinking I typed one word when I really typed something else. So, if I have spelled things wrong or used the wrong words in sentences, my brain corrects things so I don’t catch it until days later when I re-read something, or in some cases, never.

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Positive: I had an awesome Saturday with Kelly and her boys who are the most delightful littles ever. Rodney even performed a magic show with a rabbit in a hat. We had an awesome lunch and a semi-awesome milkshake. (Note to Sonic – Jalapeno Chocolate Shakes would be awesome if they did not have chunks of jalapeno getting stuck in the straw all the time. Find a way to fix that.)

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Negative: There were so many chunks of jalapeno in my shake, I thought it was salsa.

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Positive: I went to two impromptu barbecues today.

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Negative: There’s none for this really. I had fun. played in the pool with Presto. wrote some side splitting poetry. Ate corn. Drank wine. Can’t really find a downside.

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Negative: Andy was a served an arrest warrant for non-payment of parking tickets.

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Positive: See above, because those unpaid tickets were mine, and the car is in his name.

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Positive: I had three days off from work.

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Negative: My weekend started with having to do something I hope I never would have to do and trying to prevent from happening for almost two years. This was a big negative. Huge. Unfortunate. Sad. Troubling. Some days, work sucks. The only minute, teensy-weensy upside was that I took care of it myself, and no one else had to do it.

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Negative: I can’t sleep again.

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Positive: You get to have one of my more boring, less comical, blog entries.

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Honestly, I’m a little fired up about misogyny, murders, the internet, stupidity, gender inequality, remembering things I forgot to subtract from my bank account, the lack of breakfast food delivery services. I also hate my hair, the fat suit I am living in, the lack of motivation I have to do anything about it, social injustice, climate change and the fact that there is no IQ or other suitability test before people are allowed to use the internet. I need another week or three off. I got some bad news about a friend and my dad has some serious valve issues with his heart and I am not thrilled with the hospital he is choosing to address it.

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However, I got an awesome hug on Friday from a little who wouldn’t let me go until the stress was all hugged out of me, I laughed a lot, I ate good food, I slept, I met an alpaca that was wearing sunglasses, convince a little that his magic wand turned a girl’s hair pink, got to re-live some of the fun that having little kids around brings to your life, spent some time with my niece and relaxed.

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In other words, it was life. And tomorrow will also either suck or be awesome. Since it’s court day, probably more of the former and less of the latter, and I have the paper work from my unpleasant Friday surprise to deal with.

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If your Tuesday is in need laughter, you should check out Ryan’s podcast, really. It may also make you sad, but again, see above, ie: life.

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Be well my pretties. I wish I had flying monkeys.

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