Tuesday, December 29, 2009


Each time we take that step to rent a vehicle for a trip I dread having to face the haughty little brats that rule the counters. It's not easy for me to hold my tongue and even more difficult at 7 or 8 in the morning when I've just rolled out of bed with very little sleep.

In my experience so far, the car rental companies will find ways to make you (the consumer) to feel like you've made a mistake when essentially they are not prepared for you when you arrive.

This was the case, once again, on Monday morning when we came to get the truck we'd rented for a trip to our other home (the south house) to pick up some items that I wanted in this house (the north house).

We were about 30 minutes late from the expected time of arrival; therefore Miss-know-it-all turned her snotty nose up and made it sound as if our tardiness was going to cost us the rental of ANY vehicle for the day.
What it really meant was, the truck we rented was actually down for maintenance and they didn't want to upgrade us for free (which is basically their requirement) and ...sort of what we were hoping for anyhow. If you get to know these companies from enough usage you'll figure out that the upgrades happen with great frequency.

It took a few minutes and a lot of attitude and eyeball rolling but we eventually headed out to another office to pick up our upgrade, which was a wonderful new full-size truck that made me tingle in places that shouldn't be stimulated so easily...

Let me explain myself a little bit for those that don't know me personally, actually those that do know me these days don't really know me THAT well nor my youthful history.
I ama speed demon, I have a great love of living on the edge. I want to experience everything as hard and wickedly as possible. Quite frankly I'm convinced that I will have a short life especially in light of my genetic makeup and my case history of medical problems.

Some people say, "oh, be positive and think of all of the ways you can prolong your life through medications and assistance"

Screw that bullshit, I don't want to be a dependent any more than I already am. (today for instance as I'm writing a few days after totally fucking up my back lifting 8 sheets of drywall and my moving my treadmill)

If and when I am finally so decrepit I will ask someone close to me to only assist me in committing suicide if I haven't devised a plan on doing it myself. Believe this, I will have all of my shit in order and prepare my loved ones.

Will they forgive or understand, not likely but they have to accept because it's my decision.

We are allowed to humanely euthanize pets when they are suffering, well damn it - let's do it to our family members also.
Have any of you looked into the eyes of someone that is terminally ill and they are kept on tubes and pills? Eventually the light blinks out of their eyes, the soul disappears and they are pleading for mercy yet most are afraid to ask for this.

All that said and done, this goes back to my youth and my love of speed. There once was a time when I was involved with automobiles, high-performance automobiles!
On weekends I took trips to the local speedway. (okay, so it was barely better than a dirt track) I would tag along with the guys and look forward to my turn at the wheel down the quarter-mile.
No circle track for this girl.
I like it long, hard and straight.
The rumble of a well tuned 350cid (small block Chevy) or even a DOHC 4.6-L V8 Mustang Cobra thrills me but what I drove was an '87 Buick Grand National (turbo charged) and that bitch could haul some ass!

My daily driver was a beauty that was souped up a little bit, which is why this new full-sized truck was giving me chills along my spin and goose-flesh on my arms. That old girl was curvaceous and throaty, actually a bit like me. A shade between burgundy and maroon and the windows tinted just a couple of levels below illegal but just dark enough to keep the driver mysterious.
There were so many miles I sat in that seat, so many hours and so many songs I compared my life to. Contemplating change until the day I finally made the changes that led me to where I am today.

However, like all other things - they must evolve. Between my health, finances and the Bush administration it just wasn't feasible to keep a gas guzzling full size truck any more. With sorrow I said goodbye to her, patting my pocket as I waved to the boy who bought it for more than I paid many years prior (see ya later Sucker) and said to myself, "there will be a day again when you WILL have a truck again."

I AM the country song where you lose your job, your sweetheart, your dog and your pickup truck but the song is so beautiful that its hard to feel that bad because you want to sway to the music and feel the melody.

Renting that truck for 24 hours brought back the music for me, it wasn't a country song but it thumped a beat that pumped my blood that flushed my cheeks and had me smiling until I laid my head upon my pillow when it was through.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Not that cute

Certainly the baby is cute to you, to your family and to other folks that have babies but not everyone in the surrounding area believes that your baby is adorable.
The peels of sound emitting from the pursed pink lips are not the sounds of delight to my eardrums, instead they are piercing screeches that rip my mind into shreds reminiscent of New Years parade ticker tape.

Monday, December 7, 2009

you dirty whore

In the medical world it would be defined a 'sign' but initially to the self observer we would say, this is a symptom of VD.
VD you shout quietly in your own mind! OMG she's not going THERE is she?
Now of course we first examine the definition of VD, which is any disease characteristically transmitted by sexual contact.
A symptom is defined as subjective evidence of disease or physical disturbance observed by the patient.
A sign is defined as the objective indications of a disease.

Does food bring you satisfaction and completion in the ways that you would compare to orgasm? You scoff now but take your time and you will come back time and time again to agree with me, true appreciation for food is a sensory overload.

Should we not discuss the signs and symptoms of the diseases created by the Frigidaire?
Perhaps she doesn't have the beguiling curves that you'd find on a table lamp or the cushy welcoming embrace of the sofa but there is something oh so alluring about that box that brings us back again and again.

A siren's song silently beckons us without our conscious knowledge, we are oft tempted again and again. Fingers wrapped tightly around the handle to jerk open the door and expose the wonderful delights from within.
The door now yawning, brightly lit from within it now exposes the delights that would soon light upon our lips.

A moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips (that's definitely VD if you ask me).

It starts out with a few nibbles of cheese in the middle of the night. A cube of Cheddar or a slice of American and then that's later followed by some reheated spaghetti that you had for last night's dinner. Wow, that's so good, you'd better wash that down with a cold glass of milk.
Perchance a slice of chocolate cream pie? I spy buttermilk biscuits at the ready.

Yes, it's 2:12 a.m. but you rationalize that dinner was at 6 p.m. and you are hungry and you always skip breakfast which is the most important meal of the day.
Each time you come back to visit your gleaming rectangular gal resplendent in her magnetic dress of white (or almond or black or if your fancy! stainless!) she is ready to give you something tasty to stuff into your mouth.

Just like crack addicts, we rarely realize that we are addicted until we are at our lowest and need an intervention or we've just hit rock bottom and there's no turning back. Just one more nibble, one more bite, one more taste. Each of these are packing on the ounces, then the pounds and the next thing that happens is we are unable to recognize ourselves when we go to look in the mirror.
Who have we become?

The disease, the symptoms were so slow to recognize even though they were there!
Ugh, I've gotta loosen these pants about half way through dinner.
Hey, did you run the last wash on hot because I think you shrank all of my denim!
My boobs are getting bigger!
Does my ass look fat in these pants?
Get your own dessert, I'm eating this one.
(3 a.m.) Let's go get pancakes, I'm starving. Get dressed? no, nothing fits I'll just wear sweatpants.

The symptoms continue to grow until they are bright neon lights (SIGNS) for everyone to see!

No matter what, those around you will still love you. They aren't helping you help yourself however! (BASTARDS!)

No one wants to hurt someone's feelings when it comes to their weight, well not until they get into a fight and then it's a free for all!
Instead, we are most likely to sit back and watch our friends get progressively fat.
Interestingly enough though - if our friends get sickeningly THIN we'll step in and stop that shit in a hurry. No fucking way are we going to let someone get skinny.

Don't you go and get anorexic. Seems that the disease Anorexia has more of a following than Obesity, it must be scarier because you look more like a skeleton rather than a cuddly something-or-another.
Fluffy = cute. Emaciated = dead?

There doesn't seem to be an in-between for most of us since the majority of anyone I know are borderline neurotic about something or another in their lives so why not obsess about weight and/or food while we are at it.

I decided - all of the weight I've gained is simply the symptoms of the VD I've caught from my refrigerator.

She is a dirty whore and I'm a junkie.
I could sure go for a Twinkie right about now.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

sweet chocolate, deliver me.

intoxicating, hypnotic and commanding.
you possess me, a lover without form yet I fold to your taste and scent when I press my lips upon you.
I hunger for you, my stomach clenches and I can feel the fluttering of butterflies within me and my skin flushes with excitement when I consider the trespass of our union.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Inspiration or Perspiration?

The holidays definitely bring out the enlightened and 'blessed' individuals that have been camping quietly in their private places leaving the rest of us alone. They suddenly burst out with a fervor and passion, from Christ? All the goodness in their hearts will save us from our own greed, hate and evil that is destroying this world.

This begins right after the final jack-o-lantern is picked up. Next the holiday advertisements start splashing their way into the newspapers/ commercials on the television and jingles singing on the radio.... AND THEN the Jesus freaks suddenly converge upon us (the sinners and faithless).

We, the ones that need a Savior, must have a certain glow about us that attracts them to us like moths to a flame.

Perhaps its a pheromone of sorts, or do they have a special scenting ability like the Beagle dog?

Whatever it is, these lively and well meaning individuals weave their way through crowded stores, restaurants, bumping this way and that to reach over and touch your hand or lock eyes and offer you a moment to say a prayer. Sometimes wringing their hands or fretting with beads, eyes baleful and ready to pour their hearts out to blend their own sorrows with yours. It is better to understand the pain of others by sharing your own.

Oh I do TRY to behave (and I had someone that was with me that can confirm that I DID behave the other day) and not push them away every time or perhaps give them a debate as to why it's an intrusion on my life(style) to put their beliefs upon me. If I am sitting for a cup of coffee and having a nice conversation with a friend, please do not step up and ask me if I need a blessing. Seriously, I'm sure you mean well but I have enough thank you.

Here's a thought, go have a seat over there in the corner and put your hands together and say a prayer for the whole room. Thanks for taking up nearly 20 minutes of my time looking quite neurotic and needing a hefty dose of Haldol for your Schizophrenia.
Perhaps when Jesus comes to talk to you again ( while you were sitting in the shitter at Starbucks He told you that someone just outside the door was having leg pain and another was having problems with their family) and you can ask him why you are coming to a cafe to spend $5.00 for a coffee instead of $0.50 per cup at home and you could donate the rest to a charity and REALLY make a difference!?!!

When someone sneezes, I'd prefer not to say "Bless you" instead I would offer 'Be Well".
Interesting enough the use of gesundheit is quite proper for those of us not wanting to invoke spiritual intervention. It is used as an interjection in German to wish good health to a person who has just sneezed.
A note on "Gesundheit"

Most people think "Gesundheit" is synonymous with "God Bless You". The confusion over the real meaning of the word Gesundheit, which means simply "health," probably dates back to the time of the Bubonic Plague, where sneezing was a symptom of the disease. Sneezing was supposedly the person's soul making a break for it! It was believed that sickness arose due to the lack of a soul. And so "soullessness" and ill-health became synonymous during the middle ages.

The custom of saying "God bless you" after a sneeze was begun literally as a blessing. Pope Gregory the Great (540-604 AD) ascended to the Papacy just in time for the start of the plague (his successor succumbed to it). Gregory (who also invented the ever-popular Gregorian chant) called for litanies, processions and unceasing prayer for God's help and intercession. Columns marched through the streets chanting, "Kyrie Eleison" (Greek for "Lord have mercy"). When someone sneezed, they were immediately blessed ("God bless you!") in the hope that they would not subsequently develop the plague. All that prayer apparently worked, judging by how quickly the plague of 590 AD diminished.

The connection of sneezing to the plague is not the first association of sneezing with death. According to Man, Myth, and Magic: The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Mythology, Religion and the Unknown, many cultures, even some in Europe, believe that sneezing expels the soul--the "breath of life"--from the body. That doesn't seem too far-fetched when you realize that sneezing can send tiny particles speeding out of your nose at up to 100 miles per hour!

We know today, of course, that when you sneeze, your heart doesn't stop, nor will your eyes pop out if you can keep them open (www.straightdope.com/classics/a2_30 4.html), nor does your soul get expelled. What does get expelled are hundreds upon thousands of microscopic germs. (thanks thestraightdope.com for the above blurb)

Does the Satanist say instead: "Satan curses you"? Do Buddhists retort, "Buddha bless you"? Allah for Muslims? Darwin for evolutionists?
What about meeting in between and just saying "Einstein" when any anyone sneezes. It works well. It's quick, easy and encapsulates the essence of religion vs. science in one fell swoop.
(thanks to The-Brights.Net for the above blurb)

The whole year can practically go by without a single sign of human compassion and sharing. People run and bustle daily with their own lives, often forgetting those around them until they are reminded by Thanksgiving Day circulars, diddey's on the radio and the bell ringers outside of Wal-Mart.
Your $0.77 might really help someone, well after they peel off the first $0.43 to pay overhead and THEN maybe someone will get a crust of bread.

I do not have children, I don't want children and I'm not particularly interested in taking care of yours therefore I do not share our gains to welfare of any such.

crazy cat lady I am, or so I'm told. Therefore I donate my efforts to needy animals. However, I do not give the shelters money either because quite frankly the same situation happens there as it does anywhere else. Money has a trickle down effect, but supplies are always on demand.
A bag of food WILL feed hungry mouths. A helping hand will clean faster than a promise will get something done.

Since I have all of my issues people always want to say a prayer for me, ya know what - DON"T.

It's not working. You've been doing it for a really long time and nothing has changed. Pray for someone else or just wish really hard for me to win the lottery, wouldn't that better improve anyone's life? I think so. Money will buy better medical coverage than any health insurance will cover.

Wanna do something good for me, want to just give me something that makes me smile.

I like expensive chocolates.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Boogie Nights

I don't go out dancing anymore, it makes me sad.

Perhaps it's because of my age? I'm over 30. Actually I'm over 35 now. Do you remember when you could NEVER imagine being THAT old? Remember when you were a kid and you thought, "Wow my parents are so damn old!" when in fact they were probably only 35-40 at tops. (well with the exception of my own mother and father that had me so late in their life that my father could have passed for my grandfather when I was just entering junior high school.

My own parents never danced, they never went anywhere together in a romantic fashion. The only thing they did together was on Saturday nights was head to the Moose Lodge or the Elks to play bingo. Now and then there would be a function there for the families and we would get gussied up, (that meant no T-shirts) combed hair and headed there to Polka and eat a lot of Kluski noodles, sauerkraut and Polish sausages.

Back then I would be so excited to dance. The floor was a shiny parquet and there was a stage with a heavy brocade maroon curtain and there were silver microphones on stands waiting for future acts. Further back on the stage stood a bingo ball cage and a podium. Up above, spinning and sending beams of reflective colorful light was a disco ball. To a little girl like myself this was truly quite the experience, it was a grand party every time we came to the club.

My parents would sit at their table, plates heaped high and glasses half full with who knows what. Now in my adult years I really don't remember if they drank cocktails because they never did at home even though there were a few bottles in the house they never drank in front of the kids. I always saw them drinking coffee, awful instant coffee that left them with stale breath while they smoked cigarette after cigarette.

Mom would nod with encouragement, tell me to have fun and I would traipse off winding my way through the cramped rows of tables until my dress shoes finally clicked onto that floor. The sound excited me and the rhythm of the music flowed in me. It didn't matter what kind of music was playing because I was ready to show off no matter what. I loved the attention given to me.

Toes touching the floor and my arms raising up I swirled and twirled, weaving my way around the dancing couples. There would be a Polka and suddenly I found my tiny hands grasped by a kind pair of weathered hands, so large they engulfed mine. I'd look up to see a wide toothy smile, all dentures and dimples. In these days, the older gentlemen wore their hair a little bit long on top and it would flop over their foreheads, very rakish.
A Polka could be immediately followed by a tender Country two-step, I was ready to learn these also but I couldn't ever quite get it down because the sound of it sorta hurt my ears. Makes me giggle these days, I still can't stand the shit. Not a good situation now 20 plus years later and I'm smack dab in the center of Texas.

In my early 20s I used to hit a club in town, it was new and the hot place to go. Well, it was actually the only place to go. 3 nights a week it was country music and 2 nights it was rock and top 40 dance. Those nights it was rock, I went alone I let all my inhibitions go, it was so freeing it took me back to my days as a child even though I didn't really have all of the eyes on me I wanted; I did have plenty.

Now I dance alone in my living room, no one sees me except the cats and dogs. If anyone is looking over the security fence its a pervert Peeping Tom.

He will experience nothing but true expression. I won't pull up a chair and yank a line to have water splash upon me like the scene in Flashdance...and I'm not going to do a glissade through the room like a ballerina but I WILL drop it like it's hot...

'cuz baby got back!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

To Pee or Not to Pee

That is the Question:

Oh so many years ago I was working as a part time waitress and part time bartendress at a bowling alley, yes I say, a bowling alley. The scent of bowling alley wax an underlying and mysterious scent one doesn't really identify unless you've been there for extended periods of time. Generally you just muster enough sniff of stale socks, beer soaked polyester carpets, cigarette stained concrete walls and dashed hopes of washed up high school jocks that didn't decide on a career and kept the same dead-end summer job their uncle Dave hooked them up with.

I really enjoyed working there myself because I liked the fast pace and the smiling faces plus when people drink and league bowlers drink heavily they tip heavily. These were the days when I was still cute, had a great figure and could talk anyone out of their last dollar for the evening.

One particular night however, I'd gotten up and pretty much felt like this was a day I should just stay home. Yes the job needed me but I needed me too. For some strange reason my back hurt more than usual but it was a strange hurt, not the FMS ache but this was a sharp nasty pain and it was in my lower back like someone had done some World Wrestling Federation Hulkamaniac kicks to my kidneys. Added to that, there was a twisting in my lower tummy, wringing me out like a wet dishrag - cramping and I wasn't due to have Aunt Flo come to visit any time soon let alone be pregnant since I practiced the safest of sex (wasn't getting any in part due to my ex husband being a cheating bastard).

The day progressed and I kept thinking to myself that something wasn't right, maybe I might be getting a little bit of a bladder infection so I'd stop at the market for a bottle of cranberry juice that should help out some. Oceanspray to the rescue! 16 ounces of the tart treat with a Dasani chaser, that should do it - flush the stuff out and I'll be right as rain.

Getting ready I put on my finest, consisting of the standard uniform of black slacks and bowling alley provided logo shirt (which I kept unbuttoned rather low to expose Every Ting ), washed and styled my hair and did up my eyes to bring out the green trying to detract from the freckles on the bridge of my nose which I detest.
It was a chilly night, late October - really not far from this time of the year so the memories are really so very similar to now. Cold enough that when I'd return home close to midnight that I'd need to wear a medium weight coat.

When I usually clocked out, I would go running out to the car (ohh how I loved this car a 1972 Ford Maverick), praying for the heater to kick up, start to hum and sputter. The initial breeze blowing its chill air and rattling the vents and whispering in the dark.

My butt would go numb on the icy black leather seats, and I would listen to all of the sounds of the night waiting for my Mav ready herself for the drive home. Creaks and groans, duct tape crackling as I would lean forward a bit to fiddle with the knobs on the Am/Fm catching the local radio station. Crunching of hoar frost that's starting to collect on the ground, proof that an early snow will be here any moment (aaahh life in the Midwest!)

This night however would be so different, I came in to the alley and was hit with the usual sounds of glee. Laughing and shouts along with the tumble of urethane balls slamming down the lanes and crashing into pins. A wave and greeting from the pair manning the front desk, each with a can of disinfectant and spraying out the dozens of shoes as they ready for the groups of league bowlers that evening. Each bi-color shoe always reminding me of Bozo the Clown

I wander past, head to the bar to find out which section of the lanes I would be assigned and get my apron plus I ask for a glass of cranberry juice because I'm really feeling this cramping hard core now. But wait, I haven't gone to the bathroom all day - now mind you, this hasn't crossed my mind yet but it will before too long. This is odd simply because I have always been a frequenter of the toilet. I like going in there, a nice little break, sit down and take a moment to think...relax...let it all flow so to speak. I indulge with a few drinks now and then and the boys on the lanes are wont to buy an extra shot or two for their waitress. No one is any smarter if she leans back and tips one down, she's a jolly sort and if she giggles louder or tells a dirtier joke so what. Happy customers spend more money.

Up and down I'm marching the lanes, bobbing here and there taking orders for burgers and fries, Budweisers and Boilermakers all the while taking dollar bills and making change. However, some of my regulars are noticing that I'm not my cheery self and I'm spending less and less time on the floor and going into the bar for extended periods of time before coming back out to deliver their orders.

What am I doing in the dark room, where the big screen tvs are blaring football games to empty tables and a few lone drinkers at the bar? I am standing, nay, I am being held up barely with a hand gripping the rail and gasping with sweat beading on my brow as I pray for the pain tearing through my lower body to just go away.

I have the desire to bear down and wet myself, but I've made a half dozen unsuccessful trips so far. Now its gone too far, some of my food orders have been sitting and the other wait staff have had to pick them up for me and I've lost tips and starting to raise concern plus quite frankly beginning to scare myself. Not sure what I need to do really, I decide that the best bet is to just go home and try to rest. Maybe this is a bug and despite how bad of a position this puts the other 2 women for the night I know they can manage and they'll love the extra money for the night even though they are lazy cows.

Passing the information on to the boss, I scramble out to the car. Well when I say scramble what I really mean is that I crab walk out, clutching my stomach while bending my knees slightly in a hobble all the while still certain I need to whiz and as I sit on the cold seats I feel a moment of instant pain and gratification. The sensation of fullness in my pelvis is overwhelming and it fills me straight up through my spine yet the ice cold also numbs it immediately afterward and gives me enough comfort to begin the drive home which is only 7 or 8 miles away.

Those miles disappear in a blur and I do the crab walk again into the house where I collapse immediately onto the sofa, not even making it into bed. I'm shivering, quaking with pain and fear and misery. Pulling the throw from the rear of the sofa over my shoulders and trying to roll into the fetal position to possibly get all 5'8" into the 50"x70" of woven fabric covered and warmed while my teeth chatter and I pray for death as well as whine pitifully for my then bastard husband to 'help'.

He pulled himself away from God only knows what, at this point I don't even give a rats ass simply because my story is far too terrific and all about ME (oh yes my narcissism consumes) and asked if I needed a doctor. It took me a while to commit to the idea because I really detest going. Sometimes I ask myself to classify my reasoning for hating going, its not as if I'm afraid of them, actually I'm fascinated by doctors but what it boils down to is that I hate to pay or have the obligation of paying when medical care should be free for all.

After a little bit of crying and coming to terms with my indecisiveness including his commentary about my stupid reasoning I caved because the pain was consuming me. I'd also determined at one of the lavatory visits at the alley that a little thing called hematuria had happened (for the medical terminology challenged, simple translation = blood in urine) when I did manage a trickle.
There's nothing scarier than seeing that when you know you are not on your period!

We drove in to the newest hospital in town, I'm definitely not a fan of these damn hospitals going up all over that are influenced by the Churches - first thing they want to know is your faith. Shut UP, I am not going to die because I can't PISS! I am agnostic ( THE HORROR) and I am about to get medieval on your ass.

The put me behind a curtain,"please remove your clothes" ...I am ready lickity split; the sooner the better though I don't think the top needs to come off because my tits don't pee and it's colder than necessary on an already freezing night somewhere near Lake Michigan.

Thankfully I was there for only a short time before a kind doctor came in and asked me what was wrong, to which she was concerned and understanding and explained exactly what was going to happen..and then the word CATHETER and Foley and URETHRA...and and and..well I said, WOW okay well if that's all gonna happen I wanna watch. She and her assisting nurse just stared at me with wide open eyes and said, "Really?" and I said, "really, so bring a mirror"

To which they did and I was fascinated . I mean come on, if someone's gonna be all up in your junk, and your miserable and its already a horror why not at least watch the story unfold so to speak?

Last night I went through the same feelings of misery all over again however I refused to go to the ER again, well not really refused. I went through almost all of the motions. I went a few extra steps but never walked into the building...I took a shower so I was fresh and smelling pretty, did my hair and didn't smell like bowling alley (wait, I didn't go bowling yesterday), dressed in comfortable loose fitting clothes that would slip right off, packed my bag with fully charged phone and my netbook so I could surf the net and/or blog the fun, put in a couple of bottled waters and lastly packed a power bar for a munchie.

Right before I left though I remembered the last 3 times I got one of these damn infections the type of prescription it was (the name) and it clicked that not so long ago I'd purchased a HUGE bottled of that very type of medicine for my cats to keep on hand in case of who knows what.

Cats and people oftentimes can share the same types of prescription medications and even diseases - Wow, who knew pussies had so much in common?

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


Rules disturb me, frighten me, anger me and make me dash my head against the wall however recently I've tried to conform. Oh shit you say, Rebekah - conform!?! What is this little line of bullshit she's shoveling and why must I swallow it?

Open wide and swallow because it's going to taste of the sweetness of sugar and spice and everything nice. My recent switch to rules would be the rules of measurements and recipes. Since my introduction into the world of domesticity I've always just 'winged it' and with that I've managed to amaze and wonder. (heaping it on even thicker now)

--- seriously I don't have a huge ego, I'm not that great of a cook but lately I've had such a low self esteem I need to buoy myself up on something ---

Once a month in my attempt to assist the husband in "his impress the big-wigs" at the job-site, I've been sending him in with and/or catering lunches. This is quite an effort at times, these can be for as few as 7 and as many as 15-20.
Sans assistant, I get to work providing box lunches along with scratch made soups/chowders/stews/chili and all of the fixin's that go alongside. Additionally I also set out place settings, have beverages...you get the gist AND stay out of sight an sound, then do the clean up and go home to wash up the dirty plates too.

Right now there's an important close-out on some of the portions of the job and a new situation is arising where it would be nice to thank the customer, and I mentioned perhaps a gift from the heart would be nice...ahhhh shit, here goes. I said maybe a cake or some cookies.

Now we damn well know that hubby already puts in almost 60 hours weekly he's not about to come home and bake up a storm and make pretty little packages to boot. This is where I get to step in, and for right now I'm in the trial and error stage. If it sucks the 'boys' on the job-site (that would be the grunts in hardhats) get to eat the mistakes until I finesse the recipes.
Baking is an art-form in my eyes, it just doesn't come naturally to a cook and cooking doesn't come naturally to a baker.

What makes this all the more interesting is that I am a disaster in the kitchen. Husband just stands out of the way because I'm a whirling dervish, many are reminded of Animal from the Muppet Show. Arms flying, knives chopping, bits of vegetables rolling here and there and now I'm going into the world of baking lord help my kitchen FLOUR EVERYWHERE.

Eggs cracked, ooze dribbled on the counter. Granules of sugar glistening as the light from my overhead fluorescent fixture bounce off them.
My face reminiscent of a circus clown, either just starting to put on their make up or starting to remove it - smears of white down my face and my cheeks red, flushed from the heat off of the oven preheating for the cakes.
The smell of each thing cooking drives me a little bit insane. I have such a sweet tooth, but my eyes and nose are always bigger than my stomach despite how chubby I am. My real love is salty but when I smell sweet all I want is sweet. There's no way to want salty because you can't smell salty cooking!

This morning at 4 a.m. I approached the kitchen with trepidation, a recipe I've been wanting to tackle has been sitting before me for 3 weeks and today I decided was THE DAY. Yesterday I was in bed most of the day feeling like crap so I didn't sleep last night so what better thing can I do than something quiet. Certainly can't run the sweeper and I can't turn up the tunes and dance (not that I can because my back hurts like Hell still) but I can go and whip some simple ingredients into a treat that feels like sin.

Wish me luck .. I hope it tastes like cake and not charcoal!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Dry as Dust

A few weeks ago a discussion about BMs reminded me about my experience with a particular surgery I had about 6 years ago and the resulting lack of poo.

Now one of the reasons people have issues with poo is that prior you're told not to eat or drink a few hours before going in, then you are not eating a few hours after going in. Your desire to eat is lessened even further for days, you are pumped full of pain medications (pain Rx cause constipation) and all of this results into the fact that the moisture content of your intestines is being absorbed back into your bloodstream rather helping to flush out the poo and that leaves each of these into crusty ol' hunks.

Add all of this to the fact that the anesthesia is a paralytic which causes your intestines to stop the contractions that push food through your intestinal tract down to your pooper shooter.
I found that no amount of using the salad shooter would help my pooper shooter.

The doctors and nurses on staff were quite insistent to find out if my frequent trips to the minuscule restroom in my shared room (another story since I had to share it with a dead woman) resulted in a floater, they were also concerned because I insisted on getting to my feet quickly walking the halls and showing that I was ready to return home as quickly as possible.

here's the beef -

show energy and ability
drop a log
equals = GO HOME

stay lackadaisical and depressed -
retain your feces
equals = STAY LONGER

My kitty's and husband wanted and needed me, my Temperpedic bed was a lot more comfortable and the privacy of my own bathroom sounded like a dream to me. I was pretty well tired of having my rest disturbed every hour to have someone check my blood pressure and temperature in the middle of the night, adjust the compression cuffs they put on your feet which I've now since forgotten the name for and annoyed the living Hell out of me.

I was positive they'd hired Nurse Ratchet to do my IVs because it was forever inserted at an awkward angle and causing me severe discomfort, mind you that I am one tough cookie when it comes to pain tolerance since I've suffered from FMS for most of my life.

Needless to say, I was ready to return home even if it meant telling a lil' white lie about a lil brown pile. What could it hurt, I poop pretty steady actually and have some issues using too much tissue. Everything should be regular the minute I have a great big glass of milk or a cup of corn.

The good patient was released, my lilly white ass to be seen no more trouncing through the hallways in my house-slippers and hospital gown. I returned home on the liquid diet they recommended to ease into my normal habits of ribeye steaks swimming in garlic butter and mashed potatoes with gravy. My culinary grace in full swing, I did not really take notice that everything was entering my pie hole but never exiting my bunghole until a week...two weeks..and finally clutching my stomach in agony the 3rd week was upon me.

Now I really was in so much discomfort, the 2nd week I felt when I sat down I was squatting on top of a bowling ball as well as having one lodged within my stomach, plus I was plummeting down in one of those Midway rides that you go up a hundred feet to be dropped down suddenly (Disney had one called Demon Drop). The intense pressure and G-forces would make your stomach feel like it was coming up and out of your throat, the feeling I had was reversed as if my stomach was being jammed down my shitter but nothing was going to come out except farts.

During this time of healing my 'help' in the house, a young lady we'll call Libby, was coming over with frequency because I should not be lifting. She'd gone from working 6 hours weekly to 10-12. Whenever she could pop over between work and school, she'd drop by and scoop litter boxes and wash some of my cats an get the garbage out. If she wanted to she could do anything else she wanted to but was never obligated to - I just got lucky and found myself a nice housekeeper in the mix. She would run the sweeper and even wash the dishes that might sit in the sink.

That final week where I was practically on deaths door from pain, I felt as if I did not crap someone would just have to shoot me and put me out of my misery, I finally decided that I would have to accept I needed to just ask someone what I could do. Already I'd gone the way of Fleet, Metamucil, Milk of Magnesia and drinking gallons of water in desperation of trying to flush out my demons but again I was dry as dust.
Sitting on the throne, my brow furrowed in consternation, sweat beading on my forehead, elbows digging into my thighs as I leaned in and grunted with effort nearly blowing an O-ring I was in tears from the lack of production... I finally would just fall to the floor, laying on the shagged rug listening to the exhaust fan and the reverberation of my sobs on the shower tiles.

I crawled back into bed, reached for my telephone and dialed the ER and with a pitiful voice I explained my situation. "Hello, yes I was there a few weeks ago for such an such surgery (ladies lower abdominal) and well, I haven't made a poo in over 2 weeks going on 3. I'm in a lot of discomfort (that's being nice - since I'm gasping for air after the sobs have subsided) and just don't know what else to do."

"Well you would have to come in and we would do digital dis-impaction (where the doctor or nurse use their fingers to help dislodge the hardened stool) or (in advanced cases) surgery."

"could you please tell me, when you say digital...your telling me someone's going to put their fingers in my ass?"

To which there was a little bit of an intake of breath, a giggle and then, "Yes ma'am that's about it. Basically someone is going to have to pluck it out for you. They will help flush it and dig it out."

"Well ummm thank you for letting me know, I think that I am going to give this a try with someone that already knows the ins and outs of my asshole and if it doesn't work then I'll go ahead and let someone else have a whack"

To which I hung up and cried a little more for the stupidity of letting this go for so long, then telephoned the husband and in a voice that lacked my vitality and verve I asked him to stop at the pharmacy for a box of rubber gloves, some Vaseline, another box of enemas and some Motrin.

This was going to be my own little surgery.

Dejected I hung up, laid my head down on the pillow and wept myself to sleep, curled into a fetal position as it was the only way I could find some comfort because of the heavy pain in my stomach and back. Oh I feel for you ladies that are pregnant and I am so grateful for the very reason I had that surgery, I will never get pregnant and have that great big fat miserable feeling!

Half way between sleep and wakefulness, I whine and moan to myself when I hear my front door open and thinking it's the husband I start to make little sounds from the bedroom which is down a long hallway from the door (which is slightly ajar and right next to the restroom which stands open and awaiting my dark delivery).

It's not my husband, it's Libby and she is not aware that I am home in bed, she says aloud, "OMG it stinks to high Heaven in here like some old person SHIT themselves and then DIED!"

She wandered first around the living room, picked up a few papers and tidied up all the while I could hear her..."Them cats couldn't make that smell, I wonder what happened in here? Someone musta ate something bad last night"

The farts escaping me were like deaths butterfly kisses, squeezing past my poo and blowing through the air to soak my home in the smell that permeates nursing homes.

Make sure you shit it's an important function in life.

Woe is me.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Thoughts about All Hallows Eve

It's been years since I've had the 'treat' of going out for tricks, and this year was such a pleasure for me. This year I talked the husband into doing something which I find a great deal of fun - dressing up in disguise and joining the rest of the silly adults for laughter and drinks.

Halloween to me is a non-holiday, it's the opportunity to shed our daily mask and don one of the many persona's that hide within us. Whether you might be a clown, silly and wishing to turn a frown upside down or perhaps you always wanted to be a police officer ready to arrest someone for their wrong doings (or just be naught and slap the cuffs on and have that power over them!).

Seriously if you ask me, Halloween is the day we release ourselves from the daily grind and cut loose. Behind the make-up or the rubber mask we are free at last to express ourselves in the freest fashion possible.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

inject me a cure

now I betcha are wondering what the hell is the delay in my blogging? well I'll tell you what? Everything, first off 'Blows' transcended into my reoccurring autumn pneumonia. I can't just have a little flu in which I was doing my best to treat in a holistic way, but it settled it's juicy phlegm filled self into my chest and now I wheeze and rattle instead of sniffle and sneeze.

Going to the doctor is not one of my favorite trips because I am so damn cheap, I cannot stand spending any money in order for someone to prance me around on a scale (and then find out that all of the hours and hours of hard work I've been putting into trying to lose weight...well never mind!), then take my blood pressure (to be told that it's excellent - NO SHIT) and then jam a thermometer into my mouth an tell me I don't have a fever.
No shit again, I could have told you all of these things.

Gone are the days when I could telephone my family doctor (Dr. J who delivered me, took care of me all of my childhood too!) and say, "hey I have this an this going on" and he'd just call the Walgreens and my mom could go and pick up my antibiotics.

Instead now I have to go through this fucking dance, sitting in a waiting room with a dozen or more other sick people with God only knows what diseases that they are possibly transferring to the rest of us. If you don't feel well and you are waiting you really just want to lay your head down and die but instead they have televisions blaring loudly in a couple of different corners of the room. The noise from public service announcements and advertisements for different medical treatments pounds in your ears, and the screech of whiny babies/children that are there are grating on your last nerve.
Don't get me started on how parents today have not taught their children to cover their mouth/noses when they sneeze or cough.

When you are finally taken back to the patient rooms, you go through the whole weight/blood pressure/temperature situation the nurse then asks you about your symptoms and what medications you are taking and then you wait again for the doctor to come in, only to repeat yourself all over again.

This is the part I don't think I understand. i don't want to repeat myself 2x. I still want to lay my head down and die, I want a magic wand to be waved over my head and tiny sparkles of happy confetti dust glitter around me causing me to miraculously stand up and bounce around the room completely healed!

.....now it's been at least a week since I started this blog. This is a sad situation, me, the woman of many words and I can't even get them down because I just plain feel like shit. I'm nearly through with the antibiotics the doctor prescribed but now my Fibromyalgia is flared up again.
I always hurt, let's remember that but sometimes it gets so bad there isn't a word that exceeds misery.

today I have had more sleep in a single day than I usually achieve in a week's time!

Thursday, October 8, 2009


The night before in the wee hours of the morning while tapping away on my itty bitty little netbook on the networking site which is highly addicting (Facebook) one of my gaming companions instant messaged me to see how things were going.

We frequently will pass some time between pillaging and whacking other mafioso, collecting imaginary greenbacks (in my mind dreaming of fingering each of those lovely Federal Reserve Notes) and amassing our deadly armory.

Our conversations floating between our beloved spouses, local weather, work or play, musical interests and our great affection for animals.
The friend also happens to be a bit more mature than I am, and takes on the role of big brother at times and this night definitely was one of them - he'd decided to start in on me when I told him how I was feeling crummy.

Now C'mon! If y'all haven't figured it out by now, I'm going to tell you in black and white. I am pigheaded and will do and say whatever I please. There's no pussyfooting around with me. We have one life to live, I want to live it if I can.

There are days when even I know I can't live life to the max so I'll curl up in a fetal position with the sheets pulled up tight to my chin only a portion of my face peering out. The blinds swiveled shut, if there are drapes on the window they are pulled shut and if need be I'll even toss a blanket over the rod to bring an extra cover of darkness to cocoon me in obscurity.

These are the times when I've laden the bed between our pillows with a few bottled waters, a box of Kleenex and even some of my favorite snacks to reach for between naps. I will stay in bed as long as physically possible waiting until my bladder is nearly ready to burst like some forgotten water-bed bladder attached to the garden hose too long.

The Tuesday before while at work, a gal from the home office came down for one of the many meetings the husband has here in town, she was a little under the weather and later released information that her son was positive for the H1N1 flu (oh yes that would be Miss Piggy's affliction - the Swine flu).
The media is toting this as quite a deadly bastard of a flu, of course if you ask me ANY flu can be just as deadly however its the individuals response to it that matters the most. How we fight off germs, how we rest, what types of vitamins we get and such.

By Thursday morning the husband was feeling crappy, he started off that morning saying he had a sore throat. Now my darling husband is a bit of a whiner about sniffles but hey, so am I! The two of us need to have the world's smallest violin constantly playing for us.
He doesn't usually mention his throat though, so I figured that this was the real thing and he did look a bit more tired than routine.
Like a good drone he went to work anyhow, Thursdays are hard days
Friday night he was sweaty and came straight home and went to bed for 6.5 hours.

All the while this is going on I'd been going on as planned with the 'Cleanse'. Hard work by the time day 2.5 was upon me and I was reading some material about how this was actually a very poor idea. Now ya know, I'm sorta the type of person to just jump right in and do whatever I want - I didn't consult my doctor first. That would have been the best idea but fuck it. He'd have said I'm a crazy fool.
It wouldn't have been the first time for that either kind of comment either. (he's still telling me to ditch the cats)

After doing my reading I came to the conclusion that I'd better get some food in me before I did further damage to the very organ I was trying to cleanse (kidney) and woke up husband who was doing another late night nap session, stuffing him full with a tasty double cheeseburger late in the evening.

Sunday morning rolls around, mind you I've kept my distance from Mr Sick and guess what? I have a fricking sore throat! He's coughing and I feel like someone has hit me with a shovel upside my head. What a pounding headache, WTF did I do to deserve this? Been minding my own business, not causing any trouble - not sharing any spit with anyone and I'm a neurotic hand washer so there's no reason for this crap to find its way into my nose or mouth.

Getting back to my friend he says to me in quite the accusatory way, which I'm drawing this heavy drama and tone out of the text that I did it to myself from my fasting. The fasting lowered my immune system, so it's no wonder I got sick.
Now really, did the flu climb up my sore bung hole through my intestinal tract to finally settle itself in my chest and sinus' and torment me?

I'm on this health kick, every day I hoof my chunky ham hock legs around the neighborhood for 60 minutes streaming music through cheap ear phones that make my ears sweat, I refuse to put chemicals into my body until I feel I'm at death's door. For the time being it's only fluids, vitamins and my new favorite drink - Kombucha!

Tonight I think I'm going to get some Vicks Vapo-Rub cuz my nose and chest are like stuffed green peppers. I hate Vick's with a passion, just grosses me out to smear that greasy crap on my chest and then it gets slimy and tacky throughout the night. Starts to get your shirt mushy and stains it up and smudges your sheets when you lay in bed.
However, I feel terrible and when I try to take a deep breath one side of my nostrils flares the other does nothing at all. My nose is so stopped up on one side, the other is running a 10k marathon.

In the middle of the night when my sniffer starts dribbling I'll grab a square of tissue and wad it up and smash it into my nostril. I hate waking up with snot running down into my lips.

That will be as far as I'm going to give in on the chemicals - I absolutely must breathe, this flu shit really blows!

Friday, October 2, 2009

48 more and pass the Boudreaux's Butt Paste

hungry yet?

Not entirely.
When I'm home alone I really have no desire to eat. Floating about the house, tapping on the keyboard, petting the cats, maybe washing laundry or reading a book or zoning out ..I just don't stop to think about eating because it doesn't interest me enough to expend the energy to MAKE something for me alone.

Sure my stomach is growling a little bit, getting that clutching feeling sort of like the cramps (ladies, you know what I'm saying) but it's tolerable. However I'm not having this awful need to scarf down a plateful of mashed potatoes yet. It's only been 48 hours which is hardly a long time seeing how there were times when I've been sick with the flu and unable to keep food down for days.
Maybe I would choke down some chicken broth or a few saltines, (jello too) but essentially we all know when we have the flu no one wants to eat we just want the blissful sleep of the dead.

The night before I joked that I should put myself into a Benedryl coma for the next several days to help me get through my fasting but ummm that could be really bad since the effects of the "Cleanse" really takes you to a place that should not be IN your bed.
Makes you wonder about the sanity people have when they purposely make themselves defecate for days and days, doesn't it? The saying Your Full of Shit goes a long way in situations like this, seriously if we stop and think about it we really are.

Research states that our colon and intestinal tract holds several extra pounds of fecal matter, a regular flushing is quite healthy to do a couple of times a year. These new age hippy freaks that talk about it (going for colonic- or colonic irrigation) really swear that they feel so fantastic afterward doing them.

I bet y'all didn't know one of the earliest proponents of the colonic was the founder of the Kelloggs cereal company? He frequently lectured about the therapy of it's use for many conditions including depression and arthritis! (no shit - pun intended!)

It was said that Elvis had upwards of 40#s of dung in him and even John Wayne did too - however if you check Snopes.com this is all bullshit (hahaha I am enjoying my use of the word crap today).
John Wayne's family would not even allow an autopsy to be done so no conclusive evidence to this rumor, but it really can't be true.
Elvis did have quite a bit of poo in him, his intestinal tract was stretched out far more than the average person due to his ridiculous eating habits of fried, greasy foods (can I get a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich somebody?)

Colonics are used for the prevention of constipation, stops harmful bacteria and yeast growth, and they cleanse stagnant toxins absorbing into the bloodstream through the colon wall (that's called autointoxication).

Butt (hahaha) I'm not shoving a tube up my ass by a stranger and blowing fluids in only to have someone massage my gut and then report to me what color and consistency my turds are as they flow back out. Instead I'm popping a few pills several times a day that are chock-full of weird stuff I'd never put in my mouth as a meal.

This afternoon my stomach rebelled a little bit, I've never been a happy pill taker. I'm actually taking a candida cleanse (that's yeast) and a liver cleanse (hey, okay so I drink a lil bit. no harm trying to reverse some of the mistakes of Crown Royal) and the colon cleanse..those are 3 gigantic pills PLUS I also have my gazillion other pills for my various issues.

Anyhoooo - I take a great big ol' swig of water and try to choke down one of these horse pills and it gets about half way down and the next thing I know - GACK it's coming back up. WOOSH!! Water and some stomach fluid with smelly bile come flying out.
I even manage to do the 'out the nose' trick like you would if you heard a great joke - and I'm going full-on projectile squirting across the living room as I sit on the sofa where I've set up my shop of pill horrors.

Not to be outdone, I have an audience (as usual) and here come rushing several well padded naked feet to my rescue to sniff and delicately taste my none-to-delicious explosion.

what's in this crap?

Fennel seed powder (I hate fennel), licorice root powder (I hate licorice), Irish Moss root powder (what the fuck is that?), a couple of barks (woof woof -- fucking TREES?) a couple of unpronounceable fruit powders, marshmallow root powder..huh? I thought marshmallow was yummy puffy Sta-Puft man from Ghost Busters! red raspberry leaf powder..well okay that's not so weird and cayenne powder..but hey wait - I just figured out I'm nightshade sensitive and cayenne is a nightshade.

Fuck me raw..oh wait. that's what this stuff is doing to my bum!

pass me the Boudreaux's Butt Paste

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

this is not a funny blog -

punishment can come in all sorts of forms:
physical (anatomical)
and on and on...

I've recently been physically punishing myself for my years of gluttony, which has been in response to years of emotional and physical discomfort.

In June 2008 a photograph was taken of me while attending an event. While at the event, which was an awards ceremony that I was receiving yet another commendation for my dedication to the bastardized feline association that recognizes you only if you stuff cash into their coffers. Originally they awarded you for true revolutionary marks in the breed but as in all things, it just gets down to ass kissing and one-upmanship.

Anyhow, where this is going though is that I still like a good party and enjoy attending because I did make 'friends' and this is the one opportunity that I have always allowed for a formal photograph to be taken yearly of my hubby and I. All of my years I've been pretty much against photos because I'm not a huge fan of my appearance.

Some of this stems from the 'punishment' I received as a child, statements like 'your ordinary', 'plain', 'not a beauty', 'no beauty queen' ...I even knew a boy that once said that I looked like a rat because my eyes were beady, too close together and my nose was aquiline.
I grew up a strange child, spent a confused year trying to ignore my budding womanhood by hiding it under men's suitcoats and Ace bandages strapped across my chest to try and trap my bosom. Hard to do when your hooters are honking like Canadian geese in the fall.

...I've trailed off, the pictures were returned a few weeks later and in them stood my husband who is always recognizable. His dome nice and shiny and eyes twinkling. He practically looks the same year after year just add a fresh shirt/coat, he doesn't age except for a few new gray hairs in his mustache and a few more smile lines/crinkles near his eyes.

However the woman standing next to him was unrecognizable, who was she but a bloated perspiring version of me? it was as if the movie magicians from an Eddie Murphy comedy got a hold of me and made me into one of his characters like Sherman Klump in The Nutty Professor.

For months my hormones were going absolutely crazy, the hot flashes were unbearable which I'd pretty much attributed to the hysterectomy I'd had a few years previously. This was a partial hysto - to put it lightly I erased the artwork out of the frame. My uterus was taken but those 2 delightful ovaries left behind, like miserable lumps of toxic globs.
Some of this sweating misery can be attributed to the surgery but for the most part, I believe is directly related to my enormous ass.

Back when we were first dating we used to say that we'd never let each other blimp out and be grotesquely fat! Yet, here we are a decade later and both of us are easily 100#s heavier than we were in our youth. Our health is failing, our looks not nearly what they were and certainly our sex appeal not what it was when we met. I know that I don't feel attractive when I look in the mirror. I hate that person that looks back at me, that's why I don't look at her anymore.

When we met I'd just been going through a good period in my life when my pain was tolerable, I'd been taking care of myself and staying active. Even though I still ached I was quite fit. That time has since lapsed and it has spiraled into years and years of long lasting pain, it is so extreme that I finally succumbed and allowed for one pain specialist to give me caudal epidurals.

That is the worst mistake I've let a doctor suggest and will not repeat again (and recently suggested to me again). If y'all didn't know, in those injections they are putting prednisone (anti-inflammatory)into your lower back, the lovely side effects of this medication is that it can make you ravenously hungry (even quoted from Health.com).

Did you know that individuals that are on long term medications varying from sleep medications, antidepressants and anti-inflammatories also suffer from 'Snug-Jeans' syndrome..or let's just spell it out - we get fat from our illnesses.

You take a pill to cure symptoms of one problem and instead you have another problem which then starts another problem, and then that problem (the obesity) will cause yet NEW problems..and it's a never ending vicious cycle.

While visiting a new pain specialist the month before, a rather abrupt fellow, he immediately suggested the caudal epidural which I quickly declined and he poo-pooed. I described my dissatisfaction with results (no pain relief, incorrect placement of needle insertion and future sciatic pain and weight gain) and he ROLLED HIS EYES! he said that weight gain is temporary is minimal and rare in most cases, additionally that predisone does not stay in the system that long.
Funny statement because my family doctor disagrees and says the half life and side effects stay with you a lot longer, including those hunger feelings, irritability and sudden tiredness. Why would I want these symptoms when I am already someone with chronic fatigue and pain?

That's like giving free needles to a dope-fiend!

Then the bastard says, you know if you lose weight you'll feel better.

To which I begin my onslaught, Look here Mister let me give you a little insight. Once upon a time I was fit as a fiddle and I hurt like a mutha fucker. I stayed active, played sports and lead a semi-normal life and I hurt. I hide and cry when I'm alone and I don't lead on that I'm dying inside because I don't want pity. For years I've avoided doctors because I don't want to lower myself and ask for help. There are worse things in life than some pain but when I finally ask for it, help, then I damn well expect to get some.

Whether I'm 135 pounds or 280 pounds (at my worst) I have had equal amounts of pain and I am now here, asking for you to help me.

So I'm back to punishing myself years and years later. The doctors don't really want to help us other than to put a pill or a needle into our bodies, these just cover up some of the symptoms but don't cure the problem.

I know now that I am not going to get better. I read books, look online and read other people's stories, listen to other folks experiences and all I can do is make choices that can and possibly should help me.

For the last 13 months (on and off as I can tolerate through my pain, depression and desire) I've tackled exercise both the gym when I can afford it and then just good ol' fashioned walking, a reduction in some junk food and increasing my vitamin intake (FUCK I HATE PILLS even if they are 'good for you) and have managed now to lose 75 pounds.
This week's punishment - i.e. torture, is to cleanse my body of impurities (shit myself)
if the Muslim's can do this for 30 days I'm sure I can make it for at least 3 days and push it for 5 if possible. if I can't then I'll try to do 3 days every month. Maybe that will be a healthy change.

Walking is killing me and I would definitely appreciate any donations to obtain a low impact exercise machine, every night at the 2 mile mark (45 minutes) I am weeping in pain. I don't like to cry, especially in view of others but the pain is unbearable. My knee is singing Figaro and there is no beauty in this opera.

I beseech thee to bolster my strength and stave off the tears.
and find a cure

and if anything - perhaps I'm ready to try for another picture with my husband and I'll recognize myself again.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Moo moo buckaroo

Cattle - the general public appear to be cattle.

No matter where I go or what I do - if there are other people involved in the situation I'm usually left with this complete amazement at how utterly pathetic the public is.

Driving - everyone stops because one disabled car has stopped. Back-ups happen on the road because one individual has had a vehicular hiccup, instead of pulling to the side and traffic continuing on; the entire stream of motion is completely interrupted ...

Banking - waiting in line and no one moves forward unless the teller says NEXT PLEASE. It's as if no one can make a decision without being told what to do.

Then we have the people that decide to have children only to have them complete certain tasks because they've become too fucking lazy to get off their ass to do it themselves.
Mow the grass, wash the dishes, start the laundry. My favorite - this last Saturday on a trip out of town to purchase massive quantities of cat litter - we stopped at Arby's, this particular cafe was severely understaffed. One on the drive-thru, one in the back making the food and one up front on the register. (I'll mention ahead of time the one on the register was of a different culture than you'd find in this part of Texas)

We must have made it there in good timing on our part because right after we placed our order 6 different cars with 4-5 people in each came in. WOW did I feel a little sorry for the 3 employees, ha ha - not really. It's Saturday morning, and we were in a town known for heavy military presence, a new shopping mall and the weekend had a big classic car expo. Poor scheduling if you ask me.

We have our seat and get ready to dig into our meal, watching the line start to back up and the foyer fill up with bodies and the room growing loud with the sounds of dissatisfied voices. Next to us were a family of 5, parents and 3 children ranging from about 11, 8 and 5. They ordered directly after us and were starting to look anxious when we were half way through our meal and by this time I had seen a few trays of food already go out.


Mom's foot is starting to tap, quickly...knee is bopping and toe is slap slap slapping and she's starting to gnaw the inside of her cheek. Her 2 youngest children have gone up to the fountain and refilled their cups for the 2nd time with soda. (oh boy I hope they have a nice long drive, the kids will be full of liquid caffeine).

Now the oldest is sticking his finger into a paper cup of ketchup and dad is saying under his breath to mom, "where is our food?" to which I am laughing with my husband because these 2 are so lazy and afraid of confrontation that they will not get up to inquire about their meal. I also think that they are especially intimidated by the employee I'd previously mentioned.

Arby's is NOT low cost, if you're going to eat fast food you could have at least 2 visits to Burger King for the one meal at Arby's. Marketing goes a LONG way..Arby's IS Different!

...another couple of minutes pass and mom finally gets her middle child's attention and says, "Can you go see where our food is?" she gives him a puppy-dog sad face replete with full pouting lip.
In typical lazy kid fashion, he got up and walked about 5 feet and looked through the employee entryway and didn't see a tray of food out on the counter and came back and said - "Nope"

The mom was SO ANGRY that he didn't complete the task the correct way she had to get her ass up and do it herself. She gave EVERYONE at the 2 tables a horrible look including her husband, obviously he should have gotten up to do this, and went up to get the food.
When she returned she was victorious and explained that indeed their food HAD been given to someone else but they remade the entire order for her.

We were finishing up (clearing our own space just in time because now a family with a squalling baby had come in) and left listening to them argue over which sandwich belonged to whom.
"HEY that's mine and don't eat that...that's MINE"

Years ago I knew a woman that had 6 children; she let them run all over her. Every time I spent any time with her I left with the most unpleasant taste in my mouth. She had absolutely no spine. She didn't even know that the kids disrespected her, living in her own little world everything was perfect and she absorbed the damages.

I tend to be hotheaded and hate to be walked on.

In fact, the more someone abuses me the more I get pissed off. I'm either going to explode or I'll bottle it up and wait until the right moment to unleash all of my anger like an erupting volcano - the bubbling lava ravaging everything in it's path.

Don't let me become a Cow! I already belch like a pig, one farm animal is probably enough.

Friday, September 25, 2009

sleepless again

While all of you sleep I'm fully awake.

I wonder to myself most of the time, Wow, how wonderful it must be to rest my body and mind from the trials of life and relax at long last. Letting my soul recharge, just as you would plug in a set of nickel cadmium (NiCd) or nickel metal hydride (NiMH) -

but I can't silence myself that easily; I keep going, and going and going until I'm disposable.

May as well be disposable because I burn myself out like the hot ember of a struck match. Flaring ferociously, immediately combustible in bright red and orange, settling into blue.
Finally the flames lick and devour everything around me just like they do the thin paper stem.

All that is left is a smoldering puff of ash.

That is what's left of me when I've finally wasted every last ounce of my crazy energy.

Ashes - extinguished but quietly ready to rekindle with just a breath.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


Who knew that when the weather finally switched from scorching to soaking wet that my mood could sink so quickly. Well actually anyone could I suppose, no amount of Zoloft or Xanax can fix my mood swings.

Typically I love the rain, in fact the first 2 days of this deluge I was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and now my smile has turned upside down into a frown.

My sleeping habits are screwed completely up, my general malaise is at it's all time worst and those aches and pains I whine about are kicked up into the highest gear. If
I were a motorcycle I'd be one of those crotch rockets that is being revved up into the red-line zone and squealing with the tires burning rubber.

Mother Nature? Could you possible consider doing something called BALANCE? It sure would do wonders for screwballs like me...thanks darlin'!

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Ancient Buffet

Old folks are a riot to watch, dontcha think?

The older I get, the more I enjoy watching them for the humor and the humility it brings to me. It wont be long before I'm in the same position. There are already plenty of days where I'm off my rocker and damn screwy!

I wonder how nutty I'll be?
If I will make it into my late 60s?

Recently while geezer watching at a buffet in town, we had the real treat of having a whole table of Depends reliant seated next us. It was an outing which looked like Ron Howard's old farts from Cocoon (Don Ameche and Wilford Brimley) and they were deeply enthralled with the variety of treats to be found on all the hot tables in the center of the room.

I could barely hold a conversation with the husband because I wanted to catch every word that this group of prune dependents had to speak about. They had close to 500 years of combined wisdom in the accumulated years amongst them and I was the fly on the wall to gather Intel.

What fascinating stories ...what sagas to soak my mind in...I would be clueless if one boastful fellow told another a canard, just as long as it was juicy!

The time we spent listening, we spent giggling at the group. They found such joy over the variety of food, trying to hear one another (calling in their outside voices that we'd ask children to never use inside), and even using potty humor when it was time to start saying goodbye.
Literal potty humor because one gentleman had a day nurse that demanded he go use the restroom now or she'd make him piss on the curb where she'd pull over because she wasn't going to stop at any gas stations or restaurants along the way.

The genuine affection they had for one another really brought a smile to me, it reminded me of the irascible behavior of my father in his older age.

If by chance I get to be an old fogy,I really hope that I have the same zeal for life PLUS I hope I look great when I'm ancient.

My sense of humor; I doubt it can be dented... there's far too many funny things going on to slow me down.

But gravity is a bitch and it's already yanked a few other things down so please, try not to pull my face down and make me look like an American Bulldog!

It's bad enough I have tits like a cover of National Geographic.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

In the Gutter, again

Soused in sangria we sipped and celebrated being together, being women.
Some women have a biological clock that ticks, the need to have children burns in them and the ache starts to swell; before too long their 20s slide into their 30s...and those 30s start to inch into 40s and their womb hasn't been filled with fleshy beasts.

My clock is missing the mainspring (believe me, my pendulums are still there) and I have no need for children but I have a mothering instinct; but it stems with my desire to feed.

I enjoy being in the kitchen, the counters strewn with saucers and bowls, knives and forks and all sorts of spices. Knowing that my creations are going to soon land onto the plates and shortly thereafter into the waiting mouths and tummies of my friends.

My girlfriends were over and I was delighted because they were satisfied, we sat and laughed and told stories over pasta.

I serve our meals in a very casual way, despite my love of cooking I have a great hate of cleaning up afterward, so I will set out picnic plates and cups instead of sticking my hands into another sink-full of sudsy water.

If anyone wants to wash dishes and eat off of the good plates...by all means they can certainly get out the scrubbie and have at it. However, we all know that no one wants to wash dishes so let's just get sloshed and contribute another paper plate to the landfill.

The plan for this little party was dinner, drinks and then to hit the local bowling lanes. Originally we were going to attend a local festival for a margarita contest but it was in collaboration with some country music, the tickets were ridiculously priced and we opted to find something a little more affordable to do!

Heck, I can make some mean 'Rita's at home if need be for a fraction of the cost and play lousy country music on the radio, we'd only miss out on the cute cowboys in their tight Wranglers...however all of us ladies are married and faithful to our own cowboys.

Once dinner was cleaned up, we decided it was just about time to get it over with and we climbed into our cars and headed out to the bowling lanes. Bowling is definitely going to be an experience unlike any other I've had recently because it's a physical situation I haven't put myself through in quite some period of time.
Let me remind the reader that I'm asthmatic, fat and happen to have a tumor growing inside one of my lungs. Not conducive for hefting a 10-12 pound ball down the lane, prancing like a dork in rented two toned shoes that some other smelly out of shape housewife wore prior to me.

(I am grateful to be an Amazon when it comes to shoe size and believe that the set of clod stompers loaned to me where fairly new; rarely rented! Many years ago, I spent a few weeks with my sister when she lived in the Ozarks. There was a series of commercials running on the radio or the television but she kept making reference to them and really giving me Hell. Apparently there were girls used that had large feet, a phrase was stated that a good woman was the type that a stiff wind wouldn't knock them over with those feet planted firmly onto the ground)

After a lane is given to us, we traipse over and realize we're only 2 hops and a skip away from the bar AND then only 1 more hop farther from the restroom - we set to getting those shoes on.
The bartender comes over, lord help us all. She has about 6 teeth in her head and Crystal Gail hair, probably to detract from her face. The thing about living in this lil' country town is that everyone's very nice, very kind but the degree of education versus the degree of inbreeding...well you get the idea which one is higher.
She takes our order, believe it or not the Lanes have these nice laminated menus with pictures of fancy mixed cocktails like you'd see at a restaurant like Applebee's or Chili's. The girls order 'Rita's, the man orders a beer and since I'm a fish I order a Long Island

We set into the grand game, encouraging one another to go for strikes but barely picking up spares let alone hitting anything at all. my closest friend is pigeon walking across the boards, stopping short right at the line and then flipping her wrist so that she gets mad spin action on the ball.
The spin doesn't do shit for her, the ball goes careening from one end of the waxed surface all the way down the lane to the other side of the surface straight into the gutter and never once kissing the pins.

The 4 of us high five, scream and WOOT WOOT with excitement for another failure and then take heavy slugs on our straws from our tasty beverages. The same beverages that took a minimum of 30 minutes for our delightfully dumb mixologist to prepare because she kept coming over to let us know that she did not have this or that ingredient to make the particular flavor of margarita the girls had ordered.
The girls finally settled on anything she could find enough ingredients for, just so long as we were drinking and before our Sangria buzz was worn off.

The lights were dimmed the next thing we knew, we were glowing in the dark! The white laces of our shoes were alight, our bras were glaring through our blouses like beacons in the dark...one minute I was Rebekah the next I was a Buick with it's headlamps on.
The 10th frame was upon us and I urged our girls to go for a turkey! dancing behind them gobbling..."gobble gobble gobble"...Don't think they KNEW what a turkey was, but it was still great fun dancing around anyhow. I have my hands planting on my hips, flopping my bent arms to and fro with my knees slightly bent and waggling my backside..."gobble gobble gobble".

Then I step back to let my other friend take her chance, grabbing my cell phone and setting the camera on and get the warning from her, "you better not take my picture...I better not read about my big butt in your blog". to which I am laughing and snapping pictures and plotting away.

When it's finally my turn, I switch on the charm because I should let y'all know that I am secretly in my own heart, a bowling champion. On the overhead, my theme song has come on from Queen "Fat Bottom Girls" to which I'm gyrating. Dropping it like it's hot, sashaying it, flipping my hips from side to side, ya, that's right - my big ass is the center of attention tonight.

Balancing my ball(a twelve pound beauty in tangerine orange) in my right hand while cradling it with my left I ponder my next move.
Bowling is a solo dance with props. I take my initial step out and quickstep my way towards the line, hurrying until I'm nearly there and raising my arm I start my swing but I've already put too much hip into my step...I start to slide...
I raise my arm, flick my wrist and release the ball and feel my balance go totally wonkers!

Since I'm already a goofball this is the opportunity to really go for it, as I'd been taking this attempt to impress everyone with my bootie shaking dancing I go with the slip and start windmilling my arms and fall into the lane, my foot goes into the gutter!

Down for the count? No way, I stay in for the show and with hands down, fingers splayed I twirl myself around so that I'm now facing back towards the seats I belly crawl like Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video.

You know what really sucked? Everyone laughed (which I loved) but I got a strike which didn't count because I fouled!

Damn it all to hell, I'm always in the gutter!

Monday, August 31, 2009

Find my 20

Wednesday was the last day I remember getting a full night of rest (for me that's 4 hours of continuous sleep). Once I woke up Thursday morning I was awake all of that day, into the next and kept on trucking until 11:45 Friday night when I crashed and burned simply because of the necessity of medical intervention (damn it I was chewed on again by a bug).

Friday, I have the car ....it must mean that I have my check in the mail which gives me the day to run all of the errands that I try to cram in for the entire month. Bank, two grocery stores, the pet supply and since I've nabbed the car I'll be required to return to luncheon with hubby because he doesn't have wheels to get his own.

Needless to say I am running on fumes and this can either make me giddy or it can make me cranky but either way I'm not hitting on all my cylinders and somethings going to crack.

I start my shopping through the store, heading this way and that willy-nilly. First trying to hit all the dry goods and then going back through to get the cold items like meat and dairy. I honestly should plan my shopping trips like the little old ladies that push their buggies one handed while clutching scraps of paper with flowery scrawled lists of items that are must-haves for their pantry.

They are diligent wives that plan the meals for the week, knowing exactly what they are going to prepare or worse yet - they probably prepare the same meals week after week, year after year.

More than likely the list is reused once monthly and another 3 lists are picked out..for the other 3 weeks of the month.
I head into the store and start thinking of menu items off the top of my head usually by proteins that I want to eat, almost always these involve chicken and beef. I hate fish products but buy at least one for the man since he adores the swimmy critters.

Once I know what flesh I'm going to consume, I start to add vegetables and the necessary goodies to compliment them.
Closing up the trip, I've pretty much filled the basket and chatted to everyone I know and some that I don't. I then added up in my mind what I figure I can afford in my budget I head to the lane that looks the shortest.

The lane I've chosen is being headed by a retiree, she's a sweet grey-haired gal and her bagger is even older and looks a bit like the Crypt Keeper but I'm reserving my opinion that they can handle the job for the moment and I start unpacking my shit onto the conveyor belt watching it trolley forward into the wrinkled hands of my cashier.

"How are you today?" she greets me and I respond with my usual cheerful howdy and we exchange pleasantries including how she was impressed with my amazing steal on the chicken (I found 4 bags of chicken quarters for $3.00/8# bags!!!)

Before too long it was time to pay, I attempted to use my debit card which was declined -- always fun and a moment of enjoyment do I either laugh at this or find mortification. I'd just deposited my check; so obviously it hadn't hit the account yet, I'd have to suck it up and use the cash I had.

She says, "that comes to $159.24"

I count up $160.00 in twenty dollar bills and she watches me (so does the Crypt Keeper) and I hand it over and then go back to looking inside of my purse because my cell phone just lit up from a new text message (CHRISTINE!).

When I glance over she's just finished counting the 20's and she says, "This is only $140 and I watch her count it again and sure enough I see her count seven bills.

Well this makes me fly off the handle. I go from white zone to red zone immediately and I state to her, "Well you'd better find that $20.00 right this instant because I am NOT leaving this building until you do. OBVIOUSLY you've dropped it somewhere because you and I both know that I gave you $160.00 and I am NOT going to return any items, I am not going to leave the store without my groceries and I did not short you any money. So start looking around lady"

The look of surprise, the gasp of breath she took in and the immediate action she took was not a surprise because I was pretty damn firm with my demands. She quickly bent down to the floor and start scrambling about looking under the register, behind the bags even lifting the floor mat - which by the way, theres absolutely no way for it to have creeped under but I think she was desperate to find it before I punched her wrinkled face in.

Then I start in and say, "Maybe it's slipped in between the belt and the other side of this partition, look down between there."

Whatever happens, I'm not leaving and the bagger is even starting to make antsy movements as if she's about to come around to assist in this scavenger hunt for my Andrew Jackson.

She's apologizing all over herself, "Ma'am I don't know where it has gone, I can call a manager but its disappeared are you sure you gave it to me..?"

to which I said, "I'm certain but just to make sure let me look inside my bag..."

There between my debit card which I'd just had declined and my drivers license which I had just shown to her for the 2 bottles of wine purchased (my ever so young face gets me in trouble with the older cashiers)...sat...Mr Jackson.

He was folded tightly not once but twice, tightly, snugged between and hiding like a naughty school boy.
As if to say, NO please don't make me go away. You need me, in these desperate times you need me most of all.

So chagrined, I had to dig in and say - "Well I suppose I have to say I'm sorry because it appears I've counted one of those twenties 2x and this was hiding all along. Please accept my sincere apologies.."

She gave a small nervous laugh and said, "Don't you worry one bit because I watched you count that money and saw you count $160.00 the first time. I just had to count it again because its my job. If I hadn't and my drawer was short I'd lose my job!"

To which I replied..."I think both of us pooped our pants today"

"Yes, I sure did" she said....

"and so did I" the bagger said..."so did I"...

I really should get some sleep before going out in the big world

Sunday, August 23, 2009

oops ...my bad

Why are the cup-holders at the movies never the right size for the drinks available?

This sincerely pisses me off and it frequently leaves me in a sticky situation.

Yesterday afternoon we took a daytime date and saw a matinee film (YEEHAW! Quentin Tarantino you did a fine job, I could pick on a few items but it was genuinely entertaining).
Now the theater we went to is the better of the 2 available here in Hillbillyville, but we'd forgotten that the less attractive and updated one has the more comfortable seats.
We should have opted for the older building, the movie was nearly 3 hours long and my buttcheeks are still singing from the numbness they started to feel after sitting for so long.
Most movies I'll get up and go to the restroom and not worry about a few lost moments, but I didn't want to miss a single second of the action on this film as I felt that each section was going to be integral to the next.

We saved several dollars coming at lunch, always a good feeling. Then with the frugal heart I have, I emptied everything out of my purse prior to leaving the home-front and then restocking it with Milk-duds, Reeses-Pieces, M&M's, 2 Dr. Peppers and even a bottled water. You'd be quite surprised how well I jammed all of this and still managed to get my wallet in there also.
All of these snacks would have run about $20.00 but because of my penny pinching ways I only spent $3.89 for the lot of it!

Now let me preface this story a little bit more with the fact that this WAS a noontime film and I have a strange sleeping schedule, oftentimes not shutting my eyes until 10 a.m. and sleeping until 2 or 3 in the afternoon.
This day was no different, I'd gone out for my morning walk - which was quite eventful I will add (should I make a blog...? ) and basically did not find myself snoring until nearly 9:30 and awoke to hear the hubby heading to work. LATE I might add!
I say to him, "so I guess we're not going to that noontime movie after all?"
he said, "yes we are I just have to go to a meeting at 11 and then I'll go back after the movie".

He slipped out the door and my eyes SLAMMED shut again for another hour+ only to realize that noon was right on top of me. Where was that man? He's full of shit I think to myself, not taking the time to look at the movie schedule online.
Fiddling around, reading email and generally just nursing the aches and pains I suffer I let time start slipping by.
A few minutes shortly after twelve my mobile rings and it's the man to announce he's on his way, make sure I put on my 'boob bag' which is the furthest most degree of getting dressed up I suppose. (maybe its just his way of protecting the innocent from these dangerous pendulums)

No sooner did I hang up the phone and start moseying to the bathroom to run a toothbrush over my teeth and try to get rid of my morning stank breath then I hear the front door bang shut and a call, "Hullo, HULLO - Let's GO!" and the bathroom door opens and he's standing there with hands on hips with a look of expectation as if I should already be dressed and fit for a dance.

I sputter, foam from my toothpaste dribbling off my lower lip and lightly splattering forward onto my nightshirt.
He gives me THE LOOK as he has in the past prior to our jaunts out during lunch hours, and then comments, " are you going to wear your clown pants?" to which I smile and consider it just for a moment but opt to switch to some grey slip on's. My clown pants are these fantastic flannel pajama bottoms that are predominantly pink but with vertical stripes in lime, hunter, white, royal, teal, royal purple and robins egg blue.
They are TERRIFIC!
Clown pants? nahhhh comfort pants! I really don't see a big issue going out in these pants, the night before I saw a pair of girls in the same garb walking around WalMart with nearly the same thing on sporting wife-beaters along with the pants.

He says to me that the movie actually begins at 12:50 so we have a few minutes before we have to get there and the drive isn't far but the dilemma is that I'm HUNGRY now that I'm awake. Let's not forget that at 4:30 this morning I hoofed around the neighborhood for 2 hours with the dogs, swallowed a liter of water and that was it. The last time I inhaled a meal was around 8 the night before so by now at 12:15 my stomach was starting to sound like the rumblings of a thunderstorm in the high mountain reaches.

Little known fact about me, well known fact with husband and a few close friends. If I don't eat when I'm good and hungry, when my blood sugar starts to get low...I get mean. Not like a little bit crabby mean, but down right cat-piss, burn your eyes ammonia lit by a match; mean.
I'm so mean that I am likely to start chewing you out faster than a cop chasing a doughnut down a hill. I snap like a crocodile and don't often go back to apologize, my need to stuff something into my mouth (food you fuckers) and have that instant rush of sugar to my bloodstream is absolutely necessary to make me a halfway normal and decent person, otherwise I'm absolutely intolerable.

Pants & a clean T on as well as my favorite sandals - off we go (donning my huge Jackie O style sunglasses) and the man says, "are you going to have a dog at the theater?"
to which I reply, "nope, not unless you want me to miss half the show while I sit in the can crapping out mechanically recovered meat that's been squashed into sheep's intestines? However, I could choke down a burger or taco."

We manage to find a Taco Bell (God help me), order a pair of tacos and inhale them in the parking lot of the theater - literally it's a race to see if we can get them done in 3 bites or less and sprint to the ticket counter.
Amazingly enough we have 3 more minutes to spare, since it's common knowledge that the show times are just for when they start the previews - and we have time to get that beloved bag of popcorn and even laden it with the much desired and unnecessary 'butter' please tell me, what IS IN THE butter in all actuality?

Just to be safe, since I've discovered the length of the film and against my tight-wad ways I've opted to buy an extra bottled water (sigh) and off to the first screening room we head.

I open one side of the doors with a sweeping motion and in grand game show fashion I beckon the husband to enter the door with a flourish and we walk in with excitement and confidence.
The room is pitch black and the final rolling of the last preview is on hand, which hastens our step! Oh boy we have to hurry because our favorite seat in the house is straight up to the top, where we like to perch like a pair of eagles.

Gripping the mucky steel handrail with one hand, my bag of corn in another I shuffle up the stairs and pray not to trip and fall flat on my face in the dark. While heading up the steps, there's is a blink of brightening light a moment here and there and I can scan over the rows of seats looking to see if a pair of seats might be available at least 40% into the middle of the row.

We are lucky enough to get that spot but I end up next to a singular fellow - and I fear he might be rather odd...which proves to be right. He spends the next 45 minutes of the movie giggling at EVERY humorous and semi-humorous bit. His snickering becomes so hard to take I'm ready to pop him in his nose.
However luck would have it....I chase him off after this little fiasco!

I've just swigged down the last delicious gulp of my purchased water, Oh it's cool and refreshing swish slithering down my throat so yummy. I really don't want a lot of soda while at the movies, it just makes me need to pee and therefore you take the risk of missing a lot of the film running back and forth. Let's not forget that I'm sitting in the nosebleed seats so that doubles the amount of time to take purchase back into my seat and settle back into the groove of the story.

My last gulp of water consumed, a rather dark scene of the film beginning I fumble in the dark looking for the over-sized plastic cup-holder and try to place the cylinder within it's confines but, alas I miss completely. I might as well have been trying to make a 3 point shot from half court.
I fucking miss, the bottle tips, hits the side of the holder, falls to the floor with the loudest plastic to concrete clang and of course the theater is absolutely silent in a moment of silence in the film.
Not only does it hit the concrete, but then it rolls....whirrrrrrr....CLANK....CLANK..and it hits the row below us...and then one more row below that before finally coming to a stop, most likely from coming to rest at someone's foot.

Ahhh SHIT I say just a bit more than a whisper. My giggling neighbor looks to me, snickers and even has a little snort and returns to the film. However...a few minutes after the drop, clank...whiirrrr - he sits up and moves down the row about 15 seats and remains there alone where I can still hear his giggles drift down to where we sit.
I'm not so much embarrassed as I am just pissed that it happened and try to forget it but the husband is looking at me like I've just sharted my pants.

WHAT? it's not my fault that these cup holders don't fit the drinks they sell!

Hasn't anyone stopped to consider making the type of cup-holder that has the expanding rubber mouth that grips anything that's inserted which will snugly hold whatever has been jammed within?

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

celebrate gas

I farted on a kid at the mall Saturday.

Friday night we indulged since I give myself the chance to really eat garbage on the weekend and Friday I had an all meat pizza.

Saturday I was dying with gas and heartburn.

I warned my girlfriend that I was jet propelled first thing and throughout the day.

We're in one store *the first of the day*, thankfully it was so loud from the music playing no one would hear me tooting along with the beat. They were playing tunes from the 80s which was perfect because my girlfriend and I were cracking up with the resurgence of all of the 80s clothing which has come back with a vengeance.
There were colorful headbands and leg warmers which I'd piled on and was doing little dances among the aisles while singing "Madonna's- Like a Virgin".

Inside the store towards the back just outside the dressing room area there was a settee, that's where there was a teenie-bopper sitting waiting for her mom as she tried on her clothing.

The dressing rooms were very dark, a bit Gothic and the rooms were barely big enough for one person let alone two. I varied positions from going inside the room, cramming my ass inside with my girlfriend so that we could comment on how her outfits looked to standing just outside the door and appearing like a slightly creepy peeping Tom(ette) and then heading back out to the settee and having a squat and waiting for my friend to give a lil holler.

We'd finished our mission, which was to try on as many naughty pieces of lingerie as possible (believe me this is another blog in the coming) and then to head to the register we would go...
as I goosestepped passed the young girl sitting at the settee I blasted one Hellofa Fart that felt like I'd squashed one of those novelty fart bags. you know the ones, "WHOOPIE cushions". The rubber pink ones that you can buy from the backs of most cartoon magazines.

This fart was the real flapper style.

The kind you can feel burn and the stink punches you in the nose instantly

I'd gotten the girl immediately because the line to the register was so long and we had to stop right there in front of her. She knew it was me also, I'm the last in line and I did a shimmy shake to wiggle it out just in case I'd left a skid in my pants.

She instantly had her hands fly to her face and grabbed her nose, pinching it with thumb and forefinger. Nose wrinkled up under her tightly gripped fingers. She has her lips curled up exposing her pearly whites, reminding me of how my cats will continually keep sniffing something that stinks like the worst kind of shit but they sniff it anyhow.
Don't you find it interesting that no matter how bad something smells a cat will go back again and again to sniff it. They shove their nose in as far as they can, sniff sniff sniff - face squinches up and then back to sniffing again.

Her eyes squinting as though she'd just smelled a freshly cut onion - tears rushing to her eyes.

She even shook her head in quick succession as if to say NO NO ...holy shit NO

I'm not one to feel worried about blasting one.

Everyone has to fart

I'm the queen of belching. I can out belch just about anyone I've met

but farting is a rare commodity for me therefore I celebrate them and bring to you this story.

Celebrate today - and have yourself a merry fart.