When my first husband was recovering from his massive brain injury, the doctors wouldn't give his family an official prognosis until he hit the 2 year mark.
Apparently it takes at least 2 years for the brain to even out after a big blow like that, so it's around month 24 when the medical community would start conjecturing on whether his physical and cognitive side effects were permanent.
We threw a party for Scott's 2 year anniversary.
We rented a big cabin at his favorite gun club south of the Twin Cities and we BBQd for everyone he'd ever met. His brother, friends, hunting buddies...everyone came to celebrate the fact that had he survived the accident, he had re-learned how to walk, he was able to start working again, and he'd gotten most of the movement back on the left side of his body.
He was different in so many ways, but he wasn't in a wheelchair. He wasn't paralyzed, and he certainly wasn't dead.
Yet his personality was a caricature of his former self - exaggerated and childish, all in a gruesomely humorous way.
Pre-TBI, he was loud and cocky with a hair trigger temper.
Post-TBI, he called me at work 50 times a day, like an endless buzzing in my ear. He clung to people he knew and tried too hard to make friends with those he didn't. And his temper morphed from violent into petulant and violent.
I remember that he was adamant about manning the grill at his 2 year Celebration, but when he was inevitably distracted by the well-wishers who fawned over him, the hamburger buns were lost to the charcoal flames, and Shit. Hit. The. Fan.
He stormed through the cabin, screaming and slamming his fists on vertical surfaces, lit from within with the fiery injustice of the uneven temperature of the charcoal grill, positive that I was somehow to blame for the lost buns. He spit curses at me as his brother and friend talked him down from the ledge.
He never said thank you for my planning the massive event. Or paying for it.
I just realized that today *might* be my 2 year anniversary of my own TBI, but I can't remember for sure.
I began thinking about what my caricaturized self looks like.
Pre-TBI, I was obsessed with being perfect in every way that every person needed me to be. I was in the habit of taking care of the people in my life, from doing the ironing, cleaning and cooking for Scott and his father when his mother was at the Mayo clinic for an extended chemo treatment, to getting married when I knew it was a bad idea so that people wouldn't be disappointed by me.
Post-TBI, I'm still in the habit of assuming the mothering role, but instead of feeling good about it, I resent the hell out of the people I mother.
So while I survived 2 years ago, I'm still not really living for myself. And I have only myself to blame.
Get Boned.
Showing posts with label Head Trauma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Head Trauma. Show all posts
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Blood of the Scribe
So once, I thought I wanted to be a published fiction writer.Then I started college writing classes.
Turns out I suck at fiction and I have a knack with memoir.
Writers of memoir often confront critics who claim that their "facts" are inaccurate. Unless we're talking about evolution, it is my experience that factual events are interpreted differently by everyone who experiences them, which means there is a very fine line between fact and fiction.
Another challenge for writers of memoir is that many people consider it "boring" to discuss one's life in an insightful and retrospective manner. I can say that I've often been guilty of harboring such feelings.
Then I read something like Sickened by Julie Gregory, and I realize that many of the functions of dark fiction that I find so appealing are (sadly) just as present in the non-fiction genre: horror, murder, psychological dysfunction, inconspicuous threats, sociopathology, etc.
People often ask me what the tattoo on my forearm means, and I'm always startled to realize that I've changed in many ways that are fundamental to my own story. I haven't truly lost my love of writing, I've simply lost the ambition to follow that love into the tedious process of converting one-dimensional words into the haunting ghosts of my past.
In other words: I am fucking lazy.
All of the above is a convoluted way of saying that perhaps there is more to this story than I realized.
Turns out I suck at fiction and I have a knack with memoir.
Writers of memoir often confront critics who claim that their "facts" are inaccurate. Unless we're talking about evolution, it is my experience that factual events are interpreted differently by everyone who experiences them, which means there is a very fine line between fact and fiction.
Another challenge for writers of memoir is that many people consider it "boring" to discuss one's life in an insightful and retrospective manner. I can say that I've often been guilty of harboring such feelings.
Then I read something like Sickened by Julie Gregory, and I realize that many of the functions of dark fiction that I find so appealing are (sadly) just as present in the non-fiction genre: horror, murder, psychological dysfunction, inconspicuous threats, sociopathology, etc.
People often ask me what the tattoo on my forearm means, and I'm always startled to realize that I've changed in many ways that are fundamental to my own story. I haven't truly lost my love of writing, I've simply lost the ambition to follow that love into the tedious process of converting one-dimensional words into the haunting ghosts of my past.
In other words: I am fucking lazy.
All of the above is a convoluted way of saying that perhaps there is more to this story than I realized.
Monday, January 09, 2012
I'm also awesome at sleeping
Well.
Today was my first day at a "real" job in about 3 months. CULTURE SHOCK. By 2:00, I had a pounding headache and a very serious disdain for the fluorescent lighting.
Interestingly enough, although a bit overwhelming, it was a really fun day. I met a ton of people whose names I'll try desperately to remember tomorrow, and all of them were very nice and welcoming. After one day of training, though, it's obvious that I am completely fucking clueless about how to do my job. But my entire department is in the same boat, so we're going to learn together.
I came straight home after work to check on Scary, who is now eating enough bread for me to get her meds in her belly. She seems to be feeling a little better today. Good news for good pups.
Unfortunately, after work I had to address an issue between myself and a friend, and it was incredibly unpleasant, as such things usually are. It seems my habit of broadcasting EVERYTHING to the internet (including my preference in vibrators and the epic shits I take) has come yet again at the cost of hurting others.
Inadvertent? Yes.
Icky, guilt-induced belly feeling? Double yes.
It seems, yet again, that I am a complete failure at life.
But on the plus side, I'm still awesome at ruining everything.
Today was my first day at a "real" job in about 3 months. CULTURE SHOCK. By 2:00, I had a pounding headache and a very serious disdain for the fluorescent lighting.
Interestingly enough, although a bit overwhelming, it was a really fun day. I met a ton of people whose names I'll try desperately to remember tomorrow, and all of them were very nice and welcoming. After one day of training, though, it's obvious that I am completely fucking clueless about how to do my job. But my entire department is in the same boat, so we're going to learn together.
I came straight home after work to check on Scary, who is now eating enough bread for me to get her meds in her belly. She seems to be feeling a little better today. Good news for good pups.
Unfortunately, after work I had to address an issue between myself and a friend, and it was incredibly unpleasant, as such things usually are. It seems my habit of broadcasting EVERYTHING to the internet (including my preference in vibrators and the epic shits I take) has come yet again at the cost of hurting others.
Inadvertent? Yes.
Icky, guilt-induced belly feeling? Double yes.
It seems, yet again, that I am a complete failure at life.
But on the plus side, I'm still awesome at ruining everything.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Because the idea of being "left out" makes my skin crawl almost as much as Percocet
Speaking of which, anyone have any Percocet?
Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)
What was I saying?
Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.
I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.
There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.
Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.
2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.
It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.
So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.
The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.
I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.
So, New Years.
I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.
So, really, they were a lot like we are now.
But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.
And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.
In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.
I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.
I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.
I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.
As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.
I'd like to drink less.
I want to camp more.
Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.
I want to see my family more than I got to this year.
Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.
Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)
What was I saying?
Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.
I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.
There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.
Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.
2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.
It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.
So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.
The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.
I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.
So, New Years.
I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.
So, really, they were a lot like we are now.
But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.
And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.
In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.
I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.
I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.
I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.
As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.
I'd like to drink less.
I want to camp more.
Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.
I want to see my family more than I got to this year.
Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.
Monday, November 07, 2011
Pity Party!
Hi kids. It's me: The MIA Nutjob.
Since last we met, my life has been demolished like a really ugly skyscraper on the Vegas strip. It was exciting to watch this giant, solid structure implode and collapse, and my mind whirled with the possibilities for that vacant lot and what I might make of it.
And then I started cleaning up the debris. FUCK. The debris. It is everyfuckingwhere. And it's heavy. And it's seemingly endless, because I'll hoist a big fucking cement chunk up on my tiny little shoulders and crawl over to the dumpster with it, spend an eternity trying to raise it up high enough to tumble into the roll-off container, and then turn around to crawl back for another chunk, all the while hoping my legs won't collapse and leave me in a puddle of urine. When I get back to the clean up site, there is no visible difference in the amount of debris. The piles of broken walls and the throat-closing dust haven't shifted. Haven't shrunken. I feel like I'm shoveling and endless pile of steaming horse shit.
Granted, it was my idea to demolish that building on the strip. It is my dreams that made the mess. I chose to end my second marriage. I chose to quit my job. I chose to work in an environment that is such that I fell AGAIN and cracked my skull AGAIN and am now on two weeks bed rest. AGAIN. It was me who decided to adopt a third dog, and also me who broke down into a sobbing, screaming puddle when I realized I don't have the strength in my legs to make that situation work.
All of this was my idea.
So I guess it's time to buck the fuck up and just make it work. Keep shovelling the shit, even when I'm so exhausted that it hurts to open my eyes (thank you concussion). I will not lose my house. I will live without cable and internet. I will not eat out. I will sell every damn thing I own that is of any value. I will not sink. I will not sink. I WILL NOT SINK.
I keep trying to imagine myself as a Phoenix bird - the beast who dies in a fiery mess of debris, but then returns, stronger and more beautiful than before.
I'm trying.
Since last we met, my life has been demolished like a really ugly skyscraper on the Vegas strip. It was exciting to watch this giant, solid structure implode and collapse, and my mind whirled with the possibilities for that vacant lot and what I might make of it.
And then I started cleaning up the debris. FUCK. The debris. It is everyfuckingwhere. And it's heavy. And it's seemingly endless, because I'll hoist a big fucking cement chunk up on my tiny little shoulders and crawl over to the dumpster with it, spend an eternity trying to raise it up high enough to tumble into the roll-off container, and then turn around to crawl back for another chunk, all the while hoping my legs won't collapse and leave me in a puddle of urine. When I get back to the clean up site, there is no visible difference in the amount of debris. The piles of broken walls and the throat-closing dust haven't shifted. Haven't shrunken. I feel like I'm shoveling and endless pile of steaming horse shit.
Granted, it was my idea to demolish that building on the strip. It is my dreams that made the mess. I chose to end my second marriage. I chose to quit my job. I chose to work in an environment that is such that I fell AGAIN and cracked my skull AGAIN and am now on two weeks bed rest. AGAIN. It was me who decided to adopt a third dog, and also me who broke down into a sobbing, screaming puddle when I realized I don't have the strength in my legs to make that situation work.
All of this was my idea.
So I guess it's time to buck the fuck up and just make it work. Keep shovelling the shit, even when I'm so exhausted that it hurts to open my eyes (thank you concussion). I will not lose my house. I will live without cable and internet. I will not eat out. I will sell every damn thing I own that is of any value. I will not sink. I will not sink. I WILL NOT SINK.
I keep trying to imagine myself as a Phoenix bird - the beast who dies in a fiery mess of debris, but then returns, stronger and more beautiful than before.
I'm trying.
Saturday, September 03, 2011
Change of plans
I may have mentioned that I'm lazy.
It's not that I don't enjoy projects, work, staying busy, et al. It's just that I like doing those things because I WANT to do them rather than because I have to. I spent a lot of my life doing things I have to do, and now I enjoy doing things because they're fun.
Laundry is a bit behind, for obvious reasons.
I drove to St Paul for my children's writing class on Thursday. I sat in the parking lot studying, and by "studying," I mean "looking at picture books and reading the accompanying text book about why picture books are important." I finished brushing up on everything necessary for my class, and I still had 45 minutes to sit around.
I wondered, then, if I wanted to spend 12 hours a week thinking about, writing, and analyzing books for young children, or if I'd prefer to spend those 12 hours at home with my family, out with friends, drinking beer and working up the courage to rip out the cabinets in my bathroom.
I realized this class was going to suck.
I got in my car and drove home.
On the way, I called Gray and said, "Yeah, so I just dropped out of school."
His response? "You went back to school because you wanted to. Because it was fun for you. You were doing this for YOU. If it's no longer something you enjoy, then you don't need to be there."
EUREKA! Higher education is all about me, especially in my case, because I don't intend on using my English degree for work, nor do I plan to continue on towards a graduate degree. Gray is right: I returned to school because it was interesting to me, and because I wanted the tuition money.
I'm at the point now where I'd prefer to spend my time in other ways, and so rather than continue to rack up student loan debt, I've decided to throw in the proverbial towel. At least for now.
I partly blame my brain pain. That semi-near-death experience made me view everything in my life differently, from my relationships with Gray and friends and family, to the way I approach my life. That stupid fall down the stairs changed my life, both in good ways and in bad. And I'm starting to take to heart what my husband has been trying to teach me for years: "Do you."
He's been telling me (for as long as I know him) that I spent enough of my life taking care of other people.
He's been trying to show me how to put myself first.
He's been giving myself to me.
So, in summary, now that you've vomited all over your keyboard from the sappy shit above, I'm not going back to school this fall. Instead, I'm going to read for pleasure. I'm going to write because I have something I want to say. I'm going to make plans on Thursday nights and not worry about making excuses to my professor. I'm going to travel. In fact, I'm hoping to visit my BlogHer '10 bitches in Salt Lake City this fall.
I'm going to do me.
It's not that I don't enjoy projects, work, staying busy, et al. It's just that I like doing those things because I WANT to do them rather than because I have to. I spent a lot of my life doing things I have to do, and now I enjoy doing things because they're fun.
Laundry is a bit behind, for obvious reasons.
I drove to St Paul for my children's writing class on Thursday. I sat in the parking lot studying, and by "studying," I mean "looking at picture books and reading the accompanying text book about why picture books are important." I finished brushing up on everything necessary for my class, and I still had 45 minutes to sit around.
I wondered, then, if I wanted to spend 12 hours a week thinking about, writing, and analyzing books for young children, or if I'd prefer to spend those 12 hours at home with my family, out with friends, drinking beer and working up the courage to rip out the cabinets in my bathroom.
I realized this class was going to suck.
I got in my car and drove home.
On the way, I called Gray and said, "Yeah, so I just dropped out of school."
His response? "You went back to school because you wanted to. Because it was fun for you. You were doing this for YOU. If it's no longer something you enjoy, then you don't need to be there."
EUREKA! Higher education is all about me, especially in my case, because I don't intend on using my English degree for work, nor do I plan to continue on towards a graduate degree. Gray is right: I returned to school because it was interesting to me, and because I wanted the tuition money.
I'm at the point now where I'd prefer to spend my time in other ways, and so rather than continue to rack up student loan debt, I've decided to throw in the proverbial towel. At least for now.
I partly blame my brain pain. That semi-near-death experience made me view everything in my life differently, from my relationships with Gray and friends and family, to the way I approach my life. That stupid fall down the stairs changed my life, both in good ways and in bad. And I'm starting to take to heart what my husband has been trying to teach me for years: "Do you."
He's been telling me (for as long as I know him) that I spent enough of my life taking care of other people.
He's been trying to show me how to put myself first.
He's been giving myself to me.
So, in summary, now that you've vomited all over your keyboard from the sappy shit above, I'm not going back to school this fall. Instead, I'm going to read for pleasure. I'm going to write because I have something I want to say. I'm going to make plans on Thursday nights and not worry about making excuses to my professor. I'm going to travel. In fact, I'm hoping to visit my BlogHer '10 bitches in Salt Lake City this fall.
I'm going to do me.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
You would think I'd be used to this by now.
You GUUUUUUUUYS. I can't sleep. Guess why? It shouldn't be terribly complicated, I started digging through my archives and discovered I do this EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.
My writing class starts tomorrow.
This is a problem for two reasons, and probably a whole lot of other reasons I haven't thought of yet, but the first is that I haven't been to a class of any kind since mid-way through fall semester last year.
You know. When the shit got knocked out of me and stuff.
I am no longer used to A) being a student or B) having deadlines or C) HAVING DEADLINES. And by "deadlines," I mean "anything at all I have to do for any reason other than because I feel compelled."
Second problem? Writing classes: they can haz scarinezz. You ever taken one? They read your shit out loud, and then they tear it to fucking shreds. OUT LOUD. It's all very...well, it's awesome, actually, and super helpful, but I've been stuck in writing classes with really stupid people before, and they're kind of a buzz kill. Because they suck and writing, except they think that they're awesome at writing, so they hate my writing (which...come on, seriously?) and then they refuse to employ any of my suggestions or answer my questions.
At the end of the day, it's a tiny room full of people, sitting in a circle, showing each other their private parts and critiquing everyone elses bush trim.
OH. Thought of another one. This is a children's literature writing class.
Ya'll have read my shit before. Obviously. You're here after all, and most of you probably aren't even being held at gun point (Hi Joseph! This one's for you buddy!).
So it may be obvious to even the most dense of you, that I? DO NOT CATER TO THE RATED G CROWD.
I can't write for fucking kids, am I out of my mind? Seriously, the last assignment I had to write from a child's perspective was traumatic even for me. I have a lot of work to do on my child's voice, but the thing is that I don't ENJOY writing that shit, so finding a new creative voice seems...like a lot of fucking work.
I blame this on the fact that I started reading Salem's Lot when I was eight years old. There's no going from Stephen King back to fucking My Little Golden Books.
I write stupid stuff and mildly scary stuff and funny stuff and suuuuper disturbing stuff, and all of it is...adult rated, shall we say. Even the few things I've written (like this) about happy times in my childhood (there were actually a few), my voice is distinctly not a child's voice. Nor is it an adult speaking to a child. It's like...a really stoned guy explaining the intricate details of Bugles to the cop who just pulled him over.
OH. Thought of another one. My class is at the Midway campus, which happens to be called "Midway Campus" because of it's close proximity to the state fairgrounds, and did I mention that tomorrow? IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE MN STATE FAIR?
I've already had a traumatic first day of writing class experience. This one may be just as bad, except it's possible I might find cheese curds on the ground, and that would actually be awesome.
My writing class starts tomorrow.
This is a problem for two reasons, and probably a whole lot of other reasons I haven't thought of yet, but the first is that I haven't been to a class of any kind since mid-way through fall semester last year.
You know. When the shit got knocked out of me and stuff.
I am no longer used to A) being a student or B) having deadlines or C) HAVING DEADLINES. And by "deadlines," I mean "anything at all I have to do for any reason other than because I feel compelled."
Second problem? Writing classes: they can haz scarinezz. You ever taken one? They read your shit out loud, and then they tear it to fucking shreds. OUT LOUD. It's all very...well, it's awesome, actually, and super helpful, but I've been stuck in writing classes with really stupid people before, and they're kind of a buzz kill. Because they suck and writing, except they think that they're awesome at writing, so they hate my writing (which...come on, seriously?) and then they refuse to employ any of my suggestions or answer my questions.
At the end of the day, it's a tiny room full of people, sitting in a circle, showing each other their private parts and critiquing everyone elses bush trim.
OH. Thought of another one. This is a children's literature writing class.
Ya'll have read my shit before. Obviously. You're here after all, and most of you probably aren't even being held at gun point (Hi Joseph! This one's for you buddy!).
So it may be obvious to even the most dense of you, that I? DO NOT CATER TO THE RATED G CROWD.
I can't write for fucking kids, am I out of my mind? Seriously, the last assignment I had to write from a child's perspective was traumatic even for me. I have a lot of work to do on my child's voice, but the thing is that I don't ENJOY writing that shit, so finding a new creative voice seems...like a lot of fucking work.
I blame this on the fact that I started reading Salem's Lot when I was eight years old. There's no going from Stephen King back to fucking My Little Golden Books.
I write stupid stuff and mildly scary stuff and funny stuff and suuuuper disturbing stuff, and all of it is...adult rated, shall we say. Even the few things I've written (like this) about happy times in my childhood (there were actually a few), my voice is distinctly not a child's voice. Nor is it an adult speaking to a child. It's like...a really stoned guy explaining the intricate details of Bugles to the cop who just pulled him over.
OH. Thought of another one. My class is at the Midway campus, which happens to be called "Midway Campus" because of it's close proximity to the state fairgrounds, and did I mention that tomorrow? IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE MN STATE FAIR?
I've already had a traumatic first day of writing class experience. This one may be just as bad, except it's possible I might find cheese curds on the ground, and that would actually be awesome.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Time to panic about school
I woke up this morning and realized HOLY SHIT I START SCHOOL IN LIKE...OMG I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHEN I START SCHOOL.
I'm notorious for pretending not to remember just long enough that I have exactly zero days left to buy my books and, usually, all kinds of plans I have to cancel because CHRIST. SCHOOOOOOL.
I am way out of practice. Last fall, I was registered for a humanities class and a literature class (I think...) and I made it half way through he semester before breaking open my skull and spending a few unconscious weeks, after which I was verboten by my neurologists to read or write or even freaking watch TV. I had to drop the classes.
Then spring semester, it was highly recommended I not return yet to classes because I was still in occupational therapy and just returning to work part time. I spent most days trying to stay awake and avoid passing out from the strain of sitting upright for a few hours.
Summer semester? I just didn't fucking feel like going to school.
So here we are, back at the beginning of fall, and I have no more excuses, especially as far as the student loan companies are concerned, so it's either continue working towards my semi-pointless degree in English...or start paying off my student loans.
Which...did ya'll know if you spend eleventy million years in school because you can't decide what to do and you have to work full time (sometimes more) that by the end of it, if you stacked up your loans like a block tower, you'd need the biggest fucking Godzilla baby in the world to begin knocking it over?
So yeah. Schooooool.
I'm taking children's literature and writing children's literature, so they should go nicely together, but it did occur to me I'll have to seriously cut back on my use of the word Fuck.
I'll also have to begin driving to St Paul every week, which is by far the least fun part of my upper-division classes because the coursework at this point is all pretty entertaining and challenging, but the driving? LORD, the driving. It's so faaaaar. And the classes are three-and-a-half hours long. By the time I get home from St. Paul on class nights, it's officially waaay past my little old lady bedtime.
On the upside, expect many posts about procrastination in the near future.
I'm notorious for pretending not to remember just long enough that I have exactly zero days left to buy my books and, usually, all kinds of plans I have to cancel because CHRIST. SCHOOOOOOL.
I am way out of practice. Last fall, I was registered for a humanities class and a literature class (I think...) and I made it half way through he semester before breaking open my skull and spending a few unconscious weeks, after which I was verboten by my neurologists to read or write or even freaking watch TV. I had to drop the classes.
Then spring semester, it was highly recommended I not return yet to classes because I was still in occupational therapy and just returning to work part time. I spent most days trying to stay awake and avoid passing out from the strain of sitting upright for a few hours.
Summer semester? I just didn't fucking feel like going to school.
So here we are, back at the beginning of fall, and I have no more excuses, especially as far as the student loan companies are concerned, so it's either continue working towards my semi-pointless degree in English...or start paying off my student loans.
Which...did ya'll know if you spend eleventy million years in school because you can't decide what to do and you have to work full time (sometimes more) that by the end of it, if you stacked up your loans like a block tower, you'd need the biggest fucking Godzilla baby in the world to begin knocking it over?
So yeah. Schooooool.
I'm taking children's literature and writing children's literature, so they should go nicely together, but it did occur to me I'll have to seriously cut back on my use of the word Fuck.
I'll also have to begin driving to St Paul every week, which is by far the least fun part of my upper-division classes because the coursework at this point is all pretty entertaining and challenging, but the driving? LORD, the driving. It's so faaaaar. And the classes are three-and-a-half hours long. By the time I get home from St. Paul on class nights, it's officially waaay past my little old lady bedtime.
On the upside, expect many posts about procrastination in the near future.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Time. Flying. And also not. I don't know, I'm fucking JETLAGGED. Cut me some, okay?
Remember that time I said that life is weird? TOTALLY LEGIT, ya'll.
So first of all, I voluntarily hung out at the airport on Monday from like 9:15 a.m. until my flight boarded at 3 p.m. Mostly because that's when Gray could take me and I'm too cheap to pay for long-term parking. But also because airport bars are like the nirvana of the traveling man.
Early morning booze is totally acceptable.
So I caught a buzz by 11 and then I took a nap. Loudly and with loudlyness. Except I was wearing headphones and listening to Mastodon. Because yes, sleeping is better if you're slightly paranoid.
And also I didn't want to know if I A) farted or B) snored.
Another reason airports rock: anonymity is almost guaranteed, if you ignore the guy who pretends to feel your boobs for explosives.
Yeah, in your pants, Mr. TSA.
Anyway, so on the flight I sat directly behind a guy I'd been eyeing all morning in between sleeping it off. So at first I was like BUMMER but then I realized I was sandwiched behind Jock Man and Super...Something Man, and both were cute. And, I was reasonably sure, of drool-legal age.
HI HENRY! HI BLAKE! Although I'm pretty sure you burned my business cards during a seance to rid your soul of toxic contact.
So we all totally napped for takeoff like every sane person does and then we realized they were serving food.
DID YOU HEAR ME? EDIBLE STUFFS ON AN AIRPLANE. I think Blake said he was having a flashback to the 90s or something. So true.
So then I decided to order a cocktail and Henry agreed, so then I knew for sure he was legal, except we didn't get carded, so apparently airplane rules are different that Safely On The Ground Rules.
Then we ate the totally free food and Henry and I got to chatting, then I started interrupting Blake while he was totally studying some very intricate drawings of the human anatomy (Jack the Ripper, for sure) so I basically inserted myself into his head, too, then before we landed, we were all laughing (I with glee, them with uncomfortable fear) and then the end.
It was the best plane ride in memory.
***
On another note, here's a pic of me at my dad's Mac. And, can I say, WHY THE FUCK DON'T THE BROWSER WINDOWS COVER THE WHOLE SCREEN? I cannot stand to see desktop behind it, my mind is literally twitching right now.
And here's me at my dad's same Mac in 2007.
Holy shit, can you say DIVORCE PLUS WEDDING PLUS PLUS DOGS PLUS TWO LAYOFFS PLUS MORTGAGE PLUS BRAIN INJURY = GRUMPY OLD FACE?
Anyone know how to get 24 back? I'd love to know.
***
About one day to BlogHer and I'm still not ready for the sea of vaginas, but I'm trying.
Good thing I can't smell.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Yin and yang and ooh, pretty, shiny!
So I kind of forgot that we're trying to get pregnant because I'm all distracted by shiny things, like a raccoon.
Except "shiny things" are bi-sexual black boys and Craigslist and giant, inflatable elephants. And stuff.
This is a perfect example of my self-diagnosed ADD, really, because one minute I'm obsessed - OBFUCKINGSESSED - with cervical mucus and ovulation windows and birthing plans...but then I get my period and so I have a cocktail and that reminds me I need to groom Scary's fur which reminds me I'm growing a mullet which reminds me I need to transplant my vegetable seedlings so they can grow which reminds me I need to call the hot weed guy to kill our dandelions which reminds me of a house cat I saw that looks like a cross between a lion and a bush baby which reminds me to trim my cooter hair which reminds me I haven't masturbated in a week which reminds me my vibrator needs batteries which reminds me I need to fix the power to the air conditioner which reminds me we have company coming tomorrow which results in a frantic, last-minute search for beds which actually FIT into our tiny, vintage home, which reminds me we need to get quotes for replacement windows, which reminds me I need a second job because WE ARE BUYING THIRTY REPLACEMENT WINDOWS which reminds me I forgot to google my next baby window.
Oh yeah, we're trying to get pregnant.
Gray is ADD in an entirely different way. Like rent-a-jack-hammer-and-bust-up-the-concrete-in-one-of-the-two-former-clothes-line-post-holes-then-return-the-jack-hammer-because-he-forgot-the-second-clothes-line-post-hole-full-of-concrete. That kind of way.
He also didn't notice the giant purple and yellow dinosaur sand box in our yard (despite several trips from the garage to the house and back) until I pointed it out to him.
It's like I'm a meth head and he's a burnout. Which might lead to some very incompatible sex. Which reminds me, we're trying to get pregnant.
I wonder if he noticed?
PS - It really does look like a tiger/bush baby hybrid!
Except "shiny things" are bi-sexual black boys and Craigslist and giant, inflatable elephants. And stuff.
This is a perfect example of my self-diagnosed ADD, really, because one minute I'm obsessed - OBFUCKINGSESSED - with cervical mucus and ovulation windows and birthing plans...but then I get my period and so I have a cocktail and that reminds me I need to groom Scary's fur which reminds me I'm growing a mullet which reminds me I need to transplant my vegetable seedlings so they can grow which reminds me I need to call the hot weed guy to kill our dandelions which reminds me of a house cat I saw that looks like a cross between a lion and a bush baby which reminds me to trim my cooter hair which reminds me I haven't masturbated in a week which reminds me my vibrator needs batteries which reminds me I need to fix the power to the air conditioner which reminds me we have company coming tomorrow which results in a frantic, last-minute search for beds which actually FIT into our tiny, vintage home, which reminds me we need to get quotes for replacement windows, which reminds me I need a second job because WE ARE BUYING THIRTY REPLACEMENT WINDOWS which reminds me I forgot to google my next baby window.
Oh yeah, we're trying to get pregnant.
Gray is ADD in an entirely different way. Like rent-a-jack-hammer-and-bust-up-the-concrete-in-one-of-the-two-former-clothes-line-post-holes-then-return-the-jack-hammer-because-he-forgot-the-second-clothes-line-post-hole-full-of-concrete. That kind of way.
He also didn't notice the giant purple and yellow dinosaur sand box in our yard (despite several trips from the garage to the house and back) until I pointed it out to him.
It's like I'm a meth head and he's a burnout. Which might lead to some very incompatible sex. Which reminds me, we're trying to get pregnant.
I wonder if he noticed?
PS - It really does look like a tiger/bush baby hybrid!
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Tuesday, April 26, 2011
We're considering installing a chair lift
Well, we got the green light from our OBGYN to Make! Babies! Promptly!
Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.
Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.
See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.
It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.
In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.
Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.
Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.
Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.
He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.
So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.
When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."
There is no mistaking me for "normal."
I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.
I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".
But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.
So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.
I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.
Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.
Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.
See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.
It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.
In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.
Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.
Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.
Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.
He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.
So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.
When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."
There is no mistaking me for "normal."
I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.
I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".
But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.
So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.
I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
I'm also scheduled for a fasting cholesterol test. I cannot possibly be old enough for that.
Tomorrow is the Big Day.
Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.
Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.
WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.
I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.
Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.
I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.
Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.
We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.
I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.
I think I am.
And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!
I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.
Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.
I'll just have bigger tits.
Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.
Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.
WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.
I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.
Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.
I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.
Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.
We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.
I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.
I think I am.
And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!
I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.
Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.
I'll just have bigger tits.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Birth Announcement. Kind of.
Introducing Roger “Matilda” Woodyson
Born 5:45 p.m. on February 23rd, 2011
Delivered in the company of two men and one very buff woman.
As you can see from the photos, this baby was breech.
1,000,000 lbs 2 oz,
8' 25” long,
Mother and baby are doing just fine. Send nipple cream.
Cannot get the motherfucking pictures to ROTATE. Broke my tailbone just trying to make that happen.
Anyway, this beautiful baby is the table I bought from Meighan back in September. My intention was to refinish it and use it as a stunningly rustic dining room table because it's got that "harvest table" look without the multi-hundreds of dollars price tag. This thing is HEW-MUNG-GO and can easily seat ten dinner guests, which was kind of the reason I fell in love with the dining room at our new place: It's big enough to serve people NOT on their laps.
Unfortunately because of my brain pain, I didn't get a chance to start on this project before Jesus smote us with the coldest fucking weather in the history of Biblical plagues, so Gray purchased a couple of heating towers so that I could work on the table in the garage and not lose my nipples to frostbite.
Also unfortunate is our inherited, crazy-ass electrical wiring in the garage because when Gray plugged in the heaters, the circuit blew and we've been unable to get the power back on. No lights, no garage doors, no heater = effectively NO GARAGE.
But folks: I am TIRED of eating dinner on the couch and I am TIRED of not inviting dinner guests because I'm embarrassed to feed them on the blue folding card table that I stole from someones garbage in south Minneapolis (sorry Jeanne)((that's the name written on it, anyway)) and I decided the only way to Make! Table! Happen! was to plan a big dinner party (i.e. implement a deadline) so last night, Gray got his minions to move the damn table into our front porch.
Now I can sand to my little heart's content and I can hem and haw (because the past five months of doing so hasn't yielded a solution) regarding whether I should stain the table, oil the table, paint the table, paint and then distress the paint on the table, or just poly the fuck out of it and leave the weathered finish (which is what I'm leaning towards because of the overall style I'm going for)((rusty-vintage-chic)).
I am so beyond excited that this table thing is finally happening because now I am motivated to pick up some paint for the living and dining rooms (DONE!) and start recovering chair cushions (DONE!) and HOT DAMN my dining room is going to be pretty when I'm with the wall of mirrors, which has to be soon, because I've got hungry guests descending in a month.
It's going to be perfect. Just as I imagined it all these months.
Only...my brawny she-friend Red brought up a good point: If I'm going to dance on that table, I'm going to need a different chandelier. The existing, dangly thing is another head injury waiting to happen.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
More of me. Just what the world fucking needs, eh?
So I'm obsessed with making babies.
This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.
Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.
So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.
Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.
We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.
Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.
Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.
I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.
My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!
My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.
I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).
Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.
You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.
I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?
And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.
And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.
This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.
Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.
So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.
Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.
We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.
Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.
Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.
I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.
My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!
My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.
I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).
Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.
You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.
I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?
And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.
And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Color Purple. It Sucks.
You have to be fucking kidding me, Universe.
It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.
Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.
Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."
Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.
And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.
WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.
And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.
Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.
It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.
Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.
Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."
Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.
And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.
WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.
And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.
Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
It's About Goddamn Time
Where the hell have I been, huh (besides hiding under the covers sucking my thumb and risking life and limb via dangerous new maneuvers with my vibrator((s)))?
It's been quite the week, ya'll.
First, I discovered that I was massively depressed.
Then, I decided to con my loving husband into letting me adopt another dog.
Finally, I started my period.
That's quite a combo, eh? Crazy fucking depressed PLUS crazy fucking menstrual? It's been a while since the world has seen a mental blip of this magnitude, I can assure you.
Fortunately, the period thing is actually good news because it's the first I've had the pleasure of plugging up since my accident three months ago, so at least I'm assured that not only am I still capable of fostering a disgusting and slimy chamber in which my future span may suck my blood and thrive, but my cycle is exactly the same as it has always been for my entire life since that day in the 6th grade when I soiled those horrendous yellow and white-striped, knee-length shorts and had to walk go home in tears.
And then watch as my mother demonstrated how to insert an O.B. (APPLICATOR FREE) tampon into her OWN body, which was both disturbing and confusing since after that lesson, I was forbidden from using tampons of any magnitude until after marriage and handed a maxi pad the size of Idaho.
Wow, that brought back some feelings.
Anyway, we have a new dog. Her name is SCARY!!! And we didn't even come up with that name ourselves, however Gray is responsible for refusing to change the name from "Scary" to something more fitting for...well...okay, fucking FINE. She's scary looking, okay?
You would be, too, if you had to live with us.
It's been quite the week, ya'll.
First, I discovered that I was massively depressed.
Then, I decided to con my loving husband into letting me adopt another dog.
Finally, I started my period.
That's quite a combo, eh? Crazy fucking depressed PLUS crazy fucking menstrual? It's been a while since the world has seen a mental blip of this magnitude, I can assure you.
Fortunately, the period thing is actually good news because it's the first I've had the pleasure of plugging up since my accident three months ago, so at least I'm assured that not only am I still capable of fostering a disgusting and slimy chamber in which my future span may suck my blood and thrive, but my cycle is exactly the same as it has always been for my entire life since that day in the 6th grade when I soiled those horrendous yellow and white-striped, knee-length shorts and had to walk go home in tears.
And then watch as my mother demonstrated how to insert an O.B. (APPLICATOR FREE) tampon into her OWN body, which was both disturbing and confusing since after that lesson, I was forbidden from using tampons of any magnitude until after marriage and handed a maxi pad the size of Idaho.
Wow, that brought back some feelings.
Anyway, we have a new dog. Her name is SCARY!!! And we didn't even come up with that name ourselves, however Gray is responsible for refusing to change the name from "Scary" to something more fitting for...well...okay, fucking FINE. She's scary looking, okay?
You would be, too, if you had to live with us.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Dark Dark
I've been feeling unsettled lately and I only just realized that it's because I'm living my private version of an A.A. meeting, only it's for S.A.D.
Hi. My name is Cat, and I'm depressed as hell. Nice to meet you. Now leave me the fuck alone.
Every year I'm surprised when I start to feel this way. I must block the memory out or something, because. I just went back to last January's posts and found that I write about this very same problem every single year in mid-January. The Dark Dark.
I am nothing, it seems, if not reliably depressed.
I find myself unable to become motivated to do anything other than lay in bed watch television and eat boxes of candy. The mere idea of brushing my teeth is physically painful. THE EXERTION WILL KILL ME. I gain weight. Lots of weight. Several-sizes-fatter-style weight. Most of the time I have pretty good self-control when it comes to food, but not in January. Not in winter. Not in hell.
I get restless. Bored. I want a project but I don't want to actually DO anything, so I become disenchanted by the lack of project completion. Then I eat some more because, there. That's something, at least. At least I can say I finished that box of Hot Tamales, and now that's finished, I need a nap.
I back away from fun. Going out on Saturday? No cover charge? Awesome band? Mmmm no thanks, I have a hot date with my DVR and my sweatpants. And I intend to avoid showering from Friday morning until Monday morning. I simply cannot make it out on Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Wednesday. I'm not interested in your motherfucking Pampered Chef party, although if you decide to throw a cocaine party...keep me on your short list for that.
The restless feeling turns into frantic purpose-hunting. I'm going to adopt another dog! I'm going to find a writing gig! I'm going to sell my liver! Don't worry, I'm keeping the good half. I'm going to organize my file system. Someday. When I feel like it. After my nap. I'm going to take a big bag of clothing to Goodwill and not even go inside to shop. I'm going to make babies! I'm going to quit drinking caffeine! I'm going to volunteer for the humane society! I'm going to donate blood! I'm going to wax my anus!
None of those things get accomplished, or if they do, the listless, pointless feeling persists. I give up. I'm tired.
I get weepy.
I get cranky.
My awesome husband, beautiful home, silly dog, fun job, good friends, reliable vehicle...none of them are enough to make the inside of my brain smile, though I keep my face smiling. It's a habit.
I know I have it good. Awesome even. But it doesn't matter.
It's difficult to describe with words, but I've tried here.
I feel this way, and it's the same every winter, and yet every winter I'm surprised when the feeling returns. Every year it takes several weeks for me to realize what is happening to me. To recognize the symptoms. To remember the bad feeling, what causes it, and that it GOES AWAY.
Stupid fucking messed up brain chemistry. Thanks, Jesus.
Is it worse this particular year because of my brain injury? Hard to say, really. There probably isn't a definitive answer to that question, but I guess the damage to my head certainly didn't HELP the situation. I've had these bad feelings for as long as I can remember, for my entire life.
I wish like hell I had known to seek help when I was ten, eleven, sixteen, twenty-one. Because now I'm medicated and it isn't as bad. I don't spend hours visualizing ways to kill myself without it hurting too much. I don't, as I used to do as a teen, sit in my room disassembling disposable razors to release the blades and use them on my shoulders, breasts and outer wrists. I don't keep them stored in empty Altoids tins along with band aids, rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton balls.
I no longer dump out entire bottles of Tylenol and count the pills, pondering if there are enough. Enough that I won't wake up.
Or the antihistamines. I no longer take handfuls of those little pink and white pills so that the Dark Dark is relegated to the outer corners of my vision.
It's better now, but it isn't gone, and I doubt very much that it ever will be, regardless of where in the country I reside. I have an acquaintance who suffers from the inverse of my seasonal affective disorder. She lives in Arizona and feels the Dark Dark during the summer months. She seeks therapy. In her home, she has a "cool room" that is painted a soft blue with blackout shades, humidifiers and ice cubes.
I guess what I'm saying is that if you know what I'm describing, do something about it. Therapy can help. Medication might help. Just acknowledging it DOES HELP. And knowing you're not the only one. That's something, too.
Also, if I show up here with an anaconda around my neck and fourteen unicorns in my living room...you'll understand.
Hi. My name is Cat, and I'm depressed as hell. Nice to meet you. Now leave me the fuck alone.
Every year I'm surprised when I start to feel this way. I must block the memory out or something, because. I just went back to last January's posts and found that I write about this very same problem every single year in mid-January. The Dark Dark.
I am nothing, it seems, if not reliably depressed.
I find myself unable to become motivated to do anything other than lay in bed watch television and eat boxes of candy. The mere idea of brushing my teeth is physically painful. THE EXERTION WILL KILL ME. I gain weight. Lots of weight. Several-sizes-fatter-style weight. Most of the time I have pretty good self-control when it comes to food, but not in January. Not in winter. Not in hell.
I get restless. Bored. I want a project but I don't want to actually DO anything, so I become disenchanted by the lack of project completion. Then I eat some more because, there. That's something, at least. At least I can say I finished that box of Hot Tamales, and now that's finished, I need a nap.
I back away from fun. Going out on Saturday? No cover charge? Awesome band? Mmmm no thanks, I have a hot date with my DVR and my sweatpants. And I intend to avoid showering from Friday morning until Monday morning. I simply cannot make it out on Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Wednesday. I'm not interested in your motherfucking Pampered Chef party, although if you decide to throw a cocaine party...keep me on your short list for that.
The restless feeling turns into frantic purpose-hunting. I'm going to adopt another dog! I'm going to find a writing gig! I'm going to sell my liver! Don't worry, I'm keeping the good half. I'm going to organize my file system. Someday. When I feel like it. After my nap. I'm going to take a big bag of clothing to Goodwill and not even go inside to shop. I'm going to make babies! I'm going to quit drinking caffeine! I'm going to volunteer for the humane society! I'm going to donate blood! I'm going to wax my anus!
None of those things get accomplished, or if they do, the listless, pointless feeling persists. I give up. I'm tired.
I get weepy.
I get cranky.
My awesome husband, beautiful home, silly dog, fun job, good friends, reliable vehicle...none of them are enough to make the inside of my brain smile, though I keep my face smiling. It's a habit.
I know I have it good. Awesome even. But it doesn't matter.
It's difficult to describe with words, but I've tried here.
I feel this way, and it's the same every winter, and yet every winter I'm surprised when the feeling returns. Every year it takes several weeks for me to realize what is happening to me. To recognize the symptoms. To remember the bad feeling, what causes it, and that it GOES AWAY.
Stupid fucking messed up brain chemistry. Thanks, Jesus.
Is it worse this particular year because of my brain injury? Hard to say, really. There probably isn't a definitive answer to that question, but I guess the damage to my head certainly didn't HELP the situation. I've had these bad feelings for as long as I can remember, for my entire life.
I wish like hell I had known to seek help when I was ten, eleven, sixteen, twenty-one. Because now I'm medicated and it isn't as bad. I don't spend hours visualizing ways to kill myself without it hurting too much. I don't, as I used to do as a teen, sit in my room disassembling disposable razors to release the blades and use them on my shoulders, breasts and outer wrists. I don't keep them stored in empty Altoids tins along with band aids, rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton balls.
I no longer dump out entire bottles of Tylenol and count the pills, pondering if there are enough. Enough that I won't wake up.
Or the antihistamines. I no longer take handfuls of those little pink and white pills so that the Dark Dark is relegated to the outer corners of my vision.
It's better now, but it isn't gone, and I doubt very much that it ever will be, regardless of where in the country I reside. I have an acquaintance who suffers from the inverse of my seasonal affective disorder. She lives in Arizona and feels the Dark Dark during the summer months. She seeks therapy. In her home, she has a "cool room" that is painted a soft blue with blackout shades, humidifiers and ice cubes.
I guess what I'm saying is that if you know what I'm describing, do something about it. Therapy can help. Medication might help. Just acknowledging it DOES HELP. And knowing you're not the only one. That's something, too.
Also, if I show up here with an anaconda around my neck and fourteen unicorns in my living room...you'll understand.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Pathetic Sibling Rivals
I'm totally pissed off at my little sister because she had the nerve to go to the hospital. AGAIN.
That bitch.
I say "again" because she's had several trips to urgent care and the emergency room this year, all relating to secret, non-discussable and only semi-entertaining ailments. It's not that I want my sister to be in pain or anything, it's just that she's TOTALLY STEALING MY THUNDER.
Now that I'm no longer the center of attention for absolutely everyone and the fawning sentiments from friends and family have abated, I had decided to reclaim my rightful place on the Throne of Everything by reenacting my injury. TONIGHT.
I conned all the work girls into another Happy Hour and I planned to accidentally slip and fall down my basement stairs again, effectively re-cracking my skull and, once again, receiving flowers, get-well cards, homemade chicken soup, visits from my long-distance relatives, and (OF FUCKING COURSE) a refill of my oxy.
Tonight was the first Happy Hour since my injury, which was sustained in October during a Happy Hour at my house. Tonight was the chance for me to declare to the entire world that I am the Princess of Clutz! The Sheba of Schlep! The Bandit of Brain Pain!
And now my little sister has gone and fucking ruined it all.
Do you think I can just scratch off my name and re-use a get well card?
*Okay, so obviously I'm super worried about her. Don't judge, just laugh. Also, I'm the D.D. tonight because I STILL. CAN'T. IMBIBE. It's like purgatory, but waaay fucking colder.
That bitch.
I say "again" because she's had several trips to urgent care and the emergency room this year, all relating to secret, non-discussable and only semi-entertaining ailments. It's not that I want my sister to be in pain or anything, it's just that she's TOTALLY STEALING MY THUNDER.
Now that I'm no longer the center of attention for absolutely everyone and the fawning sentiments from friends and family have abated, I had decided to reclaim my rightful place on the Throne of Everything by reenacting my injury. TONIGHT.
I conned all the work girls into another Happy Hour and I planned to accidentally slip and fall down my basement stairs again, effectively re-cracking my skull and, once again, receiving flowers, get-well cards, homemade chicken soup, visits from my long-distance relatives, and (OF FUCKING COURSE) a refill of my oxy.
Tonight was the first Happy Hour since my injury, which was sustained in October during a Happy Hour at my house. Tonight was the chance for me to declare to the entire world that I am the Princess of Clutz! The Sheba of Schlep! The Bandit of Brain Pain!
And now my little sister has gone and fucking ruined it all.
Do you think I can just scratch off my name and re-use a get well card?
*Okay, so obviously I'm super worried about her. Don't judge, just laugh. Also, I'm the D.D. tonight because I STILL. CAN'T. IMBIBE. It's like purgatory, but waaay fucking colder.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
The Only Downside: Having to Watch Jackyl Play ::Updated::
Gray and I.
We are allofasudden totally hooked on some television that never piqued our interest previously. Unfortunately, the new shows don't say many good things about either us as a mentally stable couple or as intellectually ripened individuals. Don't get me wrong...I realize it's too late for ME to be sane. It's just that I was clinging to the hope that Gray would pass some genetic stability on to whatever future children (or demons) we may produce.
I'm afraid that is no longer a viable hope.
First came Full Throttle Saloon. Thanks a lot, Dad, for getting us hooked on this reality show about life behind the scenes at a Sturgis bar. Tits and ass and generous helpings of them both. Dred locks. Mullets. Midgets. A terribly disgusting fajita "chef". Hookers and pole dancers and painted ladies and mediocre rock stars and beer bellies. CHICK beer bellies.
Full Throttle Saloon is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Unless you count the boxes of Dots I've consumed while watching it.
The other obsession started some time ago for me, but last night I forced it upon my ailing husband (he has the flu and you would think he has stage four penis cancer with the way he's moaning and sweating), who was promptly sucked in as well, a fact I determined after he demanded more than once that I rewind so that he could re-watch funny moments or re-assess what the characters had said.
The Millionaire Matchmaker features one of the world's awesomest (she yells at people, has giant breasts, and swears at rich bitches) Jewish relationship gurus setting up helpless, pathetic, yet financially successfully men and women with a bevvy of potential matches.
There is nothing more fascinating than watching fully-grown rich motherfuckers hem and haw about which supermodel is most worthy of their condescension. And money. In the episode we watched last night, a plus-sized millionairess (with the biggest fucking gums I have ever seen) decided it would be fun to impress her potential suitors by drinking wine from a straw and discussing her 100% PINK apartment and herobsession with Hello Kitty.
These shows. They are what is getting my seasonally-depressed and brain-damaged ass through the season of fire and brimstone (also known as the Minnesota winter) without sticking my head in the fish bowl.
Well, these shows and the thought of drowning in goldfish feces.
:: Some of my more brilliant readers have requested info on when these shows air and on which television station. FTS is on TruTV on Wednesday nights and Milly-Match is on Bravo all the damn time. I just set my DVR and the episodes appear as if from nowhere. Patti is a magical Jew. ::
We are allofasudden totally hooked on some television that never piqued our interest previously. Unfortunately, the new shows don't say many good things about either us as a mentally stable couple or as intellectually ripened individuals. Don't get me wrong...I realize it's too late for ME to be sane. It's just that I was clinging to the hope that Gray would pass some genetic stability on to whatever future children (or demons) we may produce.
I'm afraid that is no longer a viable hope.
First came Full Throttle Saloon. Thanks a lot, Dad, for getting us hooked on this reality show about life behind the scenes at a Sturgis bar. Tits and ass and generous helpings of them both. Dred locks. Mullets. Midgets. A terribly disgusting fajita "chef". Hookers and pole dancers and painted ladies and mediocre rock stars and beer bellies. CHICK beer bellies.
Full Throttle Saloon is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Unless you count the boxes of Dots I've consumed while watching it.
The other obsession started some time ago for me, but last night I forced it upon my ailing husband (he has the flu and you would think he has stage four penis cancer with the way he's moaning and sweating), who was promptly sucked in as well, a fact I determined after he demanded more than once that I rewind so that he could re-watch funny moments or re-assess what the characters had said.
The Millionaire Matchmaker features one of the world's awesomest (she yells at people, has giant breasts, and swears at rich bitches) Jewish relationship gurus setting up helpless, pathetic, yet financially successfully men and women with a bevvy of potential matches.
There is nothing more fascinating than watching fully-grown rich motherfuckers hem and haw about which supermodel is most worthy of their condescension. And money. In the episode we watched last night, a plus-sized millionairess (with the biggest fucking gums I have ever seen) decided it would be fun to impress her potential suitors by drinking wine from a straw and discussing her 100% PINK apartment and herobsession with Hello Kitty.
These shows. They are what is getting my seasonally-depressed and brain-damaged ass through the season of fire and brimstone (also known as the Minnesota winter) without sticking my head in the fish bowl.
Well, these shows and the thought of drowning in goldfish feces.
:: Some of my more brilliant readers have requested info on when these shows air and on which television station. FTS is on TruTV on Wednesday nights and Milly-Match is on Bravo all the damn time. I just set my DVR and the episodes appear as if from nowhere. Patti is a magical Jew. ::
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