Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Ten Reasons I'm Worth 18 Bucks

It's almost Chrismahanukwanzakah, and you don't want to leave your shopping until the last minute.

To simplify your decision making, I've compiled ten reasons my book is the perfect gift for anyone on your list.

1. Give it to your parents. After reading it, they'll rest smug in the knowledge that their offspring turned out better.

2. Give it to your friends. It will make the shameful drunken nights  you've weathered together seem...well...less shameful.

3. Give it to your grandparents. They sooner they stroke out, the sooner your inheritance.

4. Give it to that rich person who you assume has everything. They don't. Now their life will be complete.

5. Give it to the homeless guy on the corner. Maybe he can trade it for a bottle of Listerine.

6. Give it to your child's daycare provider. Trust me, anyone who spends their days surrounded by ticking poop-bombs needs a laugh.

7. Give it to your pastor. Then maybe ask him to pray for me.

8. Give it to anyone famous you know. Seriously. Anyone famous who can read, of course. Not like a supermodel or something.

9. Give it to your spouse as evidence that they could be married to someone far, far worse.

10. Give it to anyone uppity you'd like to offend.

 
   Orders can be placed through PayPal or Snail Mail currently.
 Amazon order info coming soon.
 
$18 ea includes US shipping or 2/$30

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Abandonment Issues

It's a damn good thing I'm seeing a psychiatrist tomorrow. My relationship with the cat is over.

We've split.

For so long we cuddled and napped as one.

But with one careless decision, in the span of an instant, it ended. My goosebumps got the better of me and I flipped on the heat. As the radiator hissed to life, Gabby was gone in a flash of fat and fur.

I am dead to her.

She won't sit on me again until spring thaw.

Here in the land of still-at-home-sick-and-getting-really-frigging-sick-of-being-sick Gabby was nearly all I had. Now it's just a laptop with a virus and Mark in the background with the PlayStation until he's done with video games and ready to watch football.

Where is the love?

Where is the loyalty?

That cat abandoned me with him!

That cat, who eats hand-shredded chicken we warm and butter for her. That cat, who has dibs on my pillow. That cat, who sold me out the moment she smelled the warmth.

I'm not sure I can handle another weekend of PS3. If Gabby really loved me, she'd have learned to drive so we could blow this hot-dog stand for a while.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Oh, My Aching....Ass

My butt hurts but I'm a married woman now so I won't show you a picture because my husband frowns upon it. Instead I'll show you an unrelated picture of matzo balls in a delicious bowl of soup.



As if my sexy new stutter weren't enough, my muscles seem to be doing the electric slide without my input lately. They twist and ache and seize up in cramps. For the past two days it's been my butt and the backs of my thighs. At one point the muscle contractions were so intense I couldn't breathe.

Acupuncture doesn't hurt if you remain still but during yesterday's treatment my body started a sort of rolling muscle spasm. This is not pleasant or recommended whilst housing 70+ needles in your backside.

Mama Bird is my chauffeur and PR rep and she watched my session out of curiosity. Afterward she informed me that the needles in my arse were inserted at least a couple of inches and that the muscles seizing made them pop back out halfway like I was trying to eject them with my buttcheeks. This is not at all relevant to my caboose hurting so much but it's funny, yes?

In the past 48 hours my butt has been fondled by my husband and mother, the chiropractor, the acupuncturist and Charley the Jackass Horse.

It's a cool sunny Saturday in September, perfect for a hayride or an apple orchard, right? Not for me, thanks. I'll be right here at home massaging my battered rear end and praying Charley has been scared off by my needle-launching butt.

Go ahead, laugh.

I would if it were you.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Pot of Horrors at the End of the Rainbow

Don't tell me you have an issue with gay people sharing utility bills or a kitchen because you don't. If you're against gay marriage it's because you're against gay sex and gay parenting.

Let's examine these terrific threats to our society.



My friends P&P are gay men who have been together for 25 real years, also known as 217 gay years since we all know gay men are sexthirsty whores who spread disease and can't commit. They're married in all senses of the word except for any social benefit. They own property and businesses, not just strap-ons and lube, and frankly, I'm guessing about the strap-ons and lube...BECAUSE THEY DON'T SHOVE THEIR SEX LIVES DOWN MY THROAT. Or yours. Maybe they just go to bed at separate times so as not to have unnecessary relations, as real life married couples do.

But let's say that's it. It's the gay sex. You have to vote to save the sanctity of a proper sexual union. A union between man and woman.

By believing this, you're penalizing P&P based on your assumption that they're humping like fevered rabbits. You're taking away their rights to create a stable family unit. Child molesters are allowed to marry and have families, as are rapists, murderers and trolls like Octomom and Kris Jenner, but you're worried that a gay wedding will somehow ruin the world?

All I know is that if P1 gets hit by a bus and lands in the ICU, P2 is not allowed to be by his side making the decisions that partners make for one another and there's really no way to say that's anything but denying someone their freedom.

And how the hell can we hetero Americans get sanctimonious about appropriate parenting? I've come across hundreds of folks in my lifetime who ought to be spayed or neutered and I can't recall that a single one was actually gay. My friend's daughter was the only girl in her preschool class living with her married and biological parents.

I have two parents, a mom and a dad, and I need them both. I get different love and guidance from each. Not because one has a penis and the other doesn't - because they are the FAMILY that loved and raised me. So if two moms want to raise kid together - or two dads - I say let's thank them. We need less people having children and more people actually raising them to be decent human beings.

There are two kinds of parents out there and I don't mean gay or straight. They are loving or they are not, it's pretty simple. There is no more important ingredient for success as a parent.

Perhaps we ought to focus on better parenting our own asshole children before we start telling gays if they can parent theirs.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Could be Worse

My husband says I'm an angry pessimist. I say I'm a dejected optimist. The difference is irrelevant I suppose, unless there's a bridge or noose.
 
All I know is that it's been eight weeks at home with no anwers and no paychecks. While yes, I do get excited about positive things such as days without my muscles twisting like they're trying out for Cirque, there have only been a few of them over several weeks and even on those days I can't converse any better than a toddler. I'm a talker by nature, it comes with the vagina, so the frustration is twofold. I can't articulate my thoughts beyond a syllable at a time and I'm rather reliant on my husband to speak for me.


We tried going for a drive together to reassess my safety behind the wheel. I've had a lot of trouble with motion and my depth perception, so it was legitimate that he review my skills, but I say I did mostly just fine. It was three miles round-trip and it's not fair to judge me for hitting the curb when I parked because I did that plenty in the past, too.

Motion to drive beyond the corner market, to which frankly my fat butt should walk anyhow?

Denied.

For the record, there are still good things and happy things and when they happen I feel good or happy. Like for two hours last night finally seeing some of my girlfriends. I felt good and happy, then exhausted and worn out and today I feel a little cheated because two hours of sitting at a table eating snacks and 'chatting' shouldn't require a 24-hour recuperation period.

Motion to get back to normal?

Denied.

I don't think it's pessimistic to react in hurt when your husband bursts into laughter because your face 'looks retarded right now'. Most of the time when he says it I laugh too, but sometimes I can't muster the funny. Like after eight weeks of hearing it, for example. Or while feeling my muscles clench and knowing it's true.

Motion to control my own body?

Denied.

I thought my humility was established back when my mother had to shower me after my femur surgery, but apparently God isn't finished just yet but I'm not so sure about His sense of humor. (I don't know that God is male, though whenever He does shit that pisses me off, I assume so.)



Meanwhile Mark and I just try to keep laughing. We know that things could Always Be Worse and that if we forget that...for even a minute...

So today I'm going to choose to say a prayer of gratitude that Mark only has to speak for me right now and not, say, wipe for me.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

The Nutcracker

There's a picture floating around on Facebook that I suppose is meant to be inspiring except that SCREW THEM, they totally jacked my picture from 32 years ago!!

Here is a side by side comparison for your investigation.


And don't go telling me how superior their version is. My parents' iPhone didn't have a digital camera in 1980.

But back to the inspirational crap.

I think the viral photo on the left is supposed to make us feel empowered by being different. Let me tell you a little bit about being different.

That ballet teacher bitched at my parents, dude. There may have been strong words about my unreadiness to participate in a subservient group setting. I believe in the military they call that falling in.

Apparently I fell out.

And I'm not very inspirational. At least I assume I'm not or I'd probably be asked to speak at colleges and shit like Elizabeth Smart or Mitch Albom. Or Oprah. Or that girl who got her arm chomped off by a shark and still surfs. I stay inside after a mosquito bite so as not to risk another.

I just did what I wanted to do despite instructions. It looks so cute in that picture, doesn't it?

I can no longer get away with wearing leotards in public, though, and my boss probably wouldn't find it so adorable if I always did the opposite of what she asked.

Enjoy being different while you can, ballerinas. You'll have to fall in line eventually and the tutu will probably start to itch.









Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Eeny Meeny Miney Mo

The neurologists thinks my issues are psychiatric. The psychologist thinks it sounds like a stroke. The acupuncturist suggests Lyme disease and the family practitioner is too busy billing me to file the short-term leave paperwork so I can get paid.

Five cliques doctors and they're all telling me that I don't belong.

Sweet baby Jeebus, it's freshman all over year again...but with bills.

And physical pain.

And less eyeliner.

Ugh.

I've decided that medical and insurance professionals should be paid like sales people - when they close a deal. If that were the case I suspect they'd take a bit more time with their patients. Since when do we pay for guesswork?

Imagine a mechanic who pops the hood, pokes around for twenty minutes and then sends you on your way with a shrug, smoke pluming out of the engine and an invoice showing amount due.

Excuse me, sir.

You didn't FIX anything.

No fixey, no billy. Yes?

So one more week down and more bills and more nothing. Thanks, doc! That helps a not.

But on the upside my acupuncture went well and I dare say I'm feeling a bit hopeful. I liked that doctor, she was (mostly) right. I didn't feel nineteen of the twenty needles being inserted at all.

That one between my eyes, though?

Dude, it hurts to get poked in the face chi.

And it'll probably hurt to get poked with the bill.



Thursday, September 6, 2012

Tick Tock

Today is the 43rd day since I went to the ER after whatever the hell it was that happened. I still can't speak right and the stuttering makes my head ache. My coordination has improved but my muscles are still twisting and clenching.

I don't feel confused anymore, thank God. For a bit there I couldn't think right. I was misspelling simple words and having trouble with basic math*. I mean, basic even for me. Second grade math.

The doctor thinks it's something called conversion disorder, which basically means your brain turns your stress and trauma into physical symptoms. Some bizarre form of crazy. They think a psychiatrist will help. This makes perfect sense. Send the speechless person to a shrink to talk about her feelings.

What the what?

I think it's an infection or something autoimmune, but hey, it's just my body. What would I know?

What I do know is that if I have to stutter-argue with one more idiot, heads will roll.

For three weeks we've been going back and forth with insurance about short term leave benefits. The insurance company swears they don't have info from the doctor and the doctor swears the insurance company has everything they need. Meanwhile, I swear that if I have to stutter through one more plea to one more fucktard to get this paperwork processed, I will punch someone. I'll probably need a long nap after the exertion but it would totally be worth it.

So for 43 days I've missed pay.

And work.

And my friends.

And holidays.

And cabin weekends.

And the pleasure of a conversation.

And life.

It's ironic that the doctor says this stems from depression. If I wasn't depressed 43 days ago, I sure am now. Every day is the same. Things hurt. I'm tired. It's hard to communicate. I'm stir-crazy from being alone but when I'm around people I just get agitated from the effort it requires to talk.

All the paperwork hassles are just the icing on the shit cake.

I'm gonna go eat a piece and take a nap.

*Silence, brother Neil. I can hear you snickering.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Harrumph

Labor day weekend, the reward for hard work. A vacation, a respite.

I've been on 'vacation' for a month.

Well, according to Merriam-Webster, anyhow. Vacation means simply an intermission - a break from something. Technically I guess it's true. I am on break - from life, from fun, from speaking. And from paychecks.

The images of pools and pina coladas the word vacation conjures? Totally our own doing since some people get to do that.
I am not some people.

Mark and I are supposed to be in Hayward, WI this weekend with friends, boating and boozing and bonfiring, but like most of life the joke's on me and we're here at home because I'm still. Effing. Sick.

Home sweet home.

Just where we were for our honeymoon last year.

And just like our honeymoon, Mark is playing video games while I wish desperately for a home sweet home large enough to have...oh...another room. You know, somewhere to escape the Playstation soundtrack.

Neil and Reena, meanwhile, depart for their own honeymoon this evening. We went to Walgreens, Dairy Queen and the free zoo during ours. They're going to London, Paris and Rome, which is basically the same thing or so I keep telling myself since envy is a sin.

I am well aware of the power of positive attitude but clearly there's a trick to this shit because frankly I'm not feeling very at all positive. I tried to get excited about the blue moon yesterday. It's a freak occasion, right? Supposed to be lucky?

I thought maybe something fabulous would happen yesterday, just to remind me that it can. Like I'd wake up and my speech would be normal again. Or I'd sell a bunch of books. Or I'd even not want to poke my eyes out in frustration at life right now.

But no.

Nothing lucky happened and the moon didn't even look blue. I used a filter on the picture so you wouldn't feel robbed like I did. You're welcome

So yeah, Labor Day vacation. Wee-hoo. I can barely stand the fun.
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