Ease Into The Cat Shit

"Ease into the cat shit," is what my son tells me this morning when I give him my intentions to write about last night's mishap. So that's what I'm going to do - I'm going to ease into the cat shit.

I didn't wake up yesterday with the thought that at some point I'd be cleaning cat shit off a white comforter. That's just how my how blessed I am. Envious yet? 

Having cats has been a joy; often offering more relief than my husband and kid. Sure, I have to scoop shit from a plastic box and occasionally clean the contents of their little kitty tummies from off the floor, but they never leave their dirty fucking socks anywhere or give me shit about taking the trash out - because opposable thumbs. 

Neither of them has ever muttered shit under their breath thinking I couldn't hear them and if they smell like shit, it's because they lick their assholes; a forgivable offense - because of opposable thumbs, dammit! Cats are assholes, this is fact. Mine just provide more relief than agitation. 

Yesterday was a mindfuck. 

Let's "Bob Ross" a painting of yesterday's events together. Not the kind with happy little trees, but the kind where I drag a comforter covered in cat shit out into the living room like Spud from Trainspotting in the scene where he's shit the bed. 

Picture it: I'm chillin' on the sofa, the husband is sitting on the fucking coffee table [again] playing video games, and the son is on the loveseat with headphones on - tuning us out as usual. Each of us, respectively ignoring behavior in the other two. It's brilliant! 

I look at my darling child and in a loving manner say, "I said take a damn shower." He, with complete adoration and respect, rolls his eyes. He gets up 7 minutes later with a real sense of urgency, heading into his bedroom to gather belongings or talk shit under breath. It's one of those two things. 

A few moments later he ambles back into the living room complaining about something. I'm not really listening. If something isn't bleeding is it really even relevant? Wait, did he just say something about my cats? He has my attention. 

The husband is still playing, hasn't moved, doesn't seem to give two shits about shit. This is only funny now as I write this, given the nature of the topic. 

The kid tells me that there is brown stuff on his comforter that wasn't there when we changed his sheets a while ago. He says that the cat took a shit and wiped its ass along the length of his comforter. Naturally, I think my son's a pussy. I'm convinced it's a hairball and my kid is overreacting. Fucking drama queen. Now I have to go inspect. 

Well, it's cat shit. 

I've determined it's cat shit. How you may ask? The same way my kid figured it out. Touch. That's right, we both touched - with our hands - cat shit. Now I have to apologize for calling my kid a pussy because that shit happened too. 

I drop the comforter in front of The Lobster and ask for a little help here while I go and put fresh blankets on my kid's bed. My son, already in the shower, can hear me out in the hallway, confirming the legitimacy of the cat shit. He's laughing. It's authentic cat shit. 

The Lobster hasn't moved and what's worse is he's looked at me as though I have no right to ask for his help. I will not forget this moment. It's immortalized in my word. I snatch the comforter from him. "I don't need your help. By the look you just shot me, it's clear that you mean to say I have no right to ask," I jab. He continues to play. Men reading this: don't let this be you. 

From the shower: "Am I still a pussy?"

Me: "No, kid. Sorry. My bad." 

We'll leave The Lobster out of the rest of this story because when they find his remains, this blog could prove to be problematic. We will discuss some more from the kid though. 

The young one and I spent some time chatting this morning. In and of itself, a rare occurrence. Journalistically, I'm compelled to probe or investigate to ensure our accounts of events lineup with one another. In so doing, I'm often delighted with the revelation of new material. 

Curran told me that when his discovery was first made, he'd thought it was perhaps sand or even mud from his shoes. This tickled me. We'd been inside all day, when would we have had the opportunity to go to the beach and track sand or even mud home? I pictured him sticking his finger into the hairy brown mess on his comforter and raising it to his nose for closer inspection; which incidentally is exactly how that shit went down. 

I'd like to mention how satisfied it makes me each time I type "shit" throughout this blog in any context other than that of bodily waste. It's so fucking perfect! Last night, it was NOT fucking perfect. Nothing was fucking perfect.

Let's recap, shall we?

Last night I did the following: 

Called my kid a pussy - to his face

Asked for the assist in a situation and was SHUT DOWN

Touched cat shit with my bare hands 

Cleaned up after an incontinent cat 

Made angry dinner

Did angry laundry

Took out angry garbage [in the motherfucking rain] 

Cleaned up angry dinner dishes

and scooped the fucking cat box to prevent another disaster

All these things I did alone, except for the touching of the cat shit. Thanks for taking one for the team, kid. These acts all took place in the span of two shitty [smiling again cuz I used "shitty"] hours. I may not be able to reach stuff on the top shelf in the kitchen or open jars with lids that are fastened too tightly, but I can think of a few things that I can do just fine on my own for a couple of weeks. 

Men: Don't let this happen to you...

What the fuck happened to Delia's?

Some of you may remember this trendy little catalog that came out every few months back in the '90s. I loved turning the pages of that catalog and imagining all the outfits I'd buy if I had my own money. I imagined how adorable things would look on me if only I had a different shape - a shape more like the girls' depicted in the magazine. I loved and loathed that catalog. It was Delia's. It influenced my teenage sphere. 

Back then, everything was floral or had a rainbow pinstripe down the side of it. Bright colors screamed I'm adorable, you should pay attention! Never was there lack for platform sneakers and fuzzy backpacks were the rage. I'm half surprised that shipments weren't sent out with courtesy Ring-Pop or candy necklaces. Maybe they were? I just don't recall because I ate mine with such enthusiasm; not realizing they were meant to be an accessory, not an appetizer. 

I always wanted to be a Delia's girl. The only thing standing in my way was this meddlesome excess 40lbs and shitty disposition. If I could drop some weight and maybe smile a little, I might have a shot. So, you know, basically be someone else. 

I don't know what got me thinking of this shit-tastic catalog again recently. Maybe I was lamenting the loss of my youth and how I squandered it hiding from imaginary boogiemen when the real destroyer of hopes and dreams was always me. [That's not too heavy for a blog is it?] 

Perhaps I was melancholy about the state of my skin-suit. However diligently I workout, eat well and stay focused on my mental health, my body tells the story of a woman tied to the back of a pick-up truck and drug a hundred miles across rough terrain. Clearly, rainbow pinstripe pants and a furry backpack will ease this malaise. 

For shits and giggles, I went to what I thought was Delia's website. Why not make matters worse by revisiting my youth and all the clothing that still isn't appropriate for me? This time by both age appropriateness as well as size constraints. It's bad enough that I wear Adidas track pants and off-the-shoulder sweatshirts [that's not a typo] like a forlorn Spice Girl, now I'm lurking through a publication that targets 20-something women like I have a snowball's chance in hell. I've become the desperate, recently divorced woman at the hors-d'oeuvres table with just one more question for the guy that would clearly prefer to be literally anywhere else.

Well, kids, turns out Delia died and took with her all her trendy outfits and accessories. Figuratively died, not literal. As it turns out, the company went bankrupt back in, oh - I don't give a fuck when - read about it yourself.  

https://www.businessinsider.com/delias-relaunches-amid-90s-fashion-craze-2018-11

What I did find most interesting was that some other jackwads' bought the company up and are re-branding the bitch. It's so great! I can continue to torture myself with unattainable ideals and unrealistic expectations. Why can't I wear a size 0, have multicolored hair, pouty lips and own something called a Glam Goddes Chain Skirt? That's right because I'm 39 and eat butter for dessert and have no fucking intention of changing that shit-ass behavior. 

The new Delia's is something called Dolls Kill. Let me tell you, it's some fucked up shit. This is supposed to be a remake of the innocent '90s fashion trend that was all hair braids and lip gloss. This tangled mess is Hot Topic [but, like '90s goth Hot Topic] meets every little girl with Daddy issues and a smattering of I did too much Molly at the rave. 

You can shop by Doll, if you're too lazy to contrive an outfit on your own, [I rather like this option] or you can pick out your individual elements. I'm a fan of the Knuck If Ya Buck Fringe Set and Clear The Way Vinyl Set. I've already placed my order; don't want them to run out of my size. I'm sure after this blog an influx of 40 yr old women will be nailed to their computers frantically placing orders for vinyl pants and mesh tops with nipple pasties. 

Well, at least you all know what I want for Christmas.  

Bet the house

This past weekend I took a little trip to Vegas. Now, Vegas is difficult navigation for the conscientious drinker, but for the sober idiot like myself, it's an obstacle course complete with urine landmines and overpriced memorabilia. For just $700, you too can go home with a shitty sweatshirt and a plastic cup from your favorite casino; both of which will smell like an ashtray if you stay in one place for longer than 4 mins. 

Why might I go to Sin City if I don't drink, don't do drugs, and have no intention of selling my ass to the first dude not wearing neon green sneakers with electric blue denim jeans, a baseball cap, and a thick accent, you ask? Well, I went to see Van Morrison play what I thought might be his last show before he kicks the bucket. I think he may make it to 2020. Though I went to Vegas, I don’t bet like I’m in Vegas; I wouldn’t put money on it. Don't bet against the house. 

Aside from having an impressive set of jowls, Van has pipes. The man can still belt it out.  His sound is classic, even if his look is not. I swear to God, it looked as though his suit had been made straight from the drapery at the Caeser's Casino where he was playing. 

He does this odd contortionist thing with his tongue while he sings. It's strangely hypnotizing. I caught myself mimicking his movements with my own tongue. We tongued. There, in the darkened music hall, I think it's fair to say that Van and I effectively "made-out." Typing this now, my vagina just dried up. Like a vast desert of scorched earth. Chapped. All I can think about is that old man's writhing tongue, that terrible suit, and those jowls. 

I'll move on to more light-hearted topics. 

Our adventures began with a car ride. A very long car ride. 

I rode to Vegas with two girlfriends of mine. Along the way, we talked about Megadeath, muscle cars, and masturbation. Typical chick stuff. We stopped once to pee and refuel. I love these bitches. 

We rolled into Vegas around 2:30pm and checked into The Venitian. After some considerable people watching down in the casino and judgment passing on my part, we went up to our room. For the first time in my 39 years on this planet, I squeed with delight. I, legit, had a Pretty Woman moment. Remember muscle cars and masturbation? Toss it. You might as well dress me up in satin and chiffon and ask if I want to play dolls. It took every ounce of dignity I had to not jump on the bed like a 12-year-old at a slumber party. I did stand on the couch and half-bounce. I'm not that mature. 

I always check out the tub. It's kind of my thing. Bathrooms are important. If I'm not sleeping, eating, or cooking, chances are I'm shitting or showering. I've always had a thing for tubs. I think they're sexy and this one did not disappoint.

This is my best Pretty Woman impersonation in case you're curious. 

After a while, we decided to go downstairs and grab some food. We hit some Italian spot called Canaletto. Our waiter was friendly and earned extra credit points for dropping some Digital Underground lyrics on us right off the bat. Any time you come at me with "Stop what you're doing, cuz I'm about to ruin the image and the style..." you have won a friend. Not an 'I'll get into a bar fight with you' friend, but a friend none the less. 

The Lobster (my husband, in case you were unaware) came to see me the second night of my stay in Vegas. 

He picked me up at my hotel. I dangled my long hair from the hotel tower for him to climb up. Real fairy-tale shit. Just fucking with you. From out front and we drove over to Harrah's. 

We spent the evening walking up and down the strip. So many sights. So many obstacles. 

As a sober person, you are acutely aware of your surroundings. I'd prefer to have been intoxicated on a couple of occasions. For instance; the time I walked through the puddle of fresh urine. 

I've never maintained that I'm exceptionally bright. I spent the ENTIRE evening declining business cards from nice men (and some women) on corners. Each time, I would smile and say "No thank you, have a nice night." It took me all goddamn night to understand that they were peddling ass. Each time, I smiled and said "No thanks, have a nice night," like I had been offered a coupon for a free frozen yogurt from the local shop that was ok, but not my favorite. Vegas is funny. I wondered why they all seemed perplexed. 

So many sights, smells, tits, and urine. One thing I knew for sure, it was Lobster's birthday and hotel sex is reliably the best. It was time to get off the streets and back to our hotel so I could present my gift. Harrah's may not be up to par with The Venitian, but it served our purposes just fine. Thanks for memories, Vegas! 

Killing me with Coffee

One of the first bloggers that I became acquainted with was Kieran. He is direct and doesn't talk health tips or vacation spots. In fact, he'll tell you which spots are the equivalent of Hell on Earth. He rants about shit in a way I find refreshing. 

I've admired this bullshit blogger for quite some time and I'm honored to share an angry rant of his. He's met Lewis Black too, so he's much cooler than any of us! Take a gander at his latest, I've included a link to his blog site below.

Happy reading, assholes! 

It was a rough night.

The Bear  bought Dairy Queen; we ate it before bed.  All those diary-like substances grew a huge painful gas bubble in my guts. The sugar made my heart pound.  I was just watching the clock.

She had a cough.  Every time I started to drift, the Bear went off like a 1972 Pontiac with a cracked block -- cough, hack, spit, repeat.

Without sleep; time to get ready.

I put on the coffee maker.  Went to brush my teeth and pee.  I returned to find hot water all over the counter.

God damn coffee maker, if you don't put the fucking pot exactly in place it floods.

Nothing in my cup. Fuck.

I soak up the shit and set up the coffee maker again.  There's no drip sound. Brown water starts "leaking" out of the bottom.

"Jesus fucking Christ, this god damn, mother fucking, worthless piece of crap".   I pick up both sides of the maker to move it. Burns my hands. Shit.

I keep moving it so I can sop up its shitty runoff. Every time I pick it up, I feel the burn. Every time I put it down, a new puddle of hot brown water appears. Fuck!

"I just want a fucking cup of coffee." I'm pleading to the god damn thing, like it's Saint Peter and the gates are closing fast.

I set it up for the third time.  I'm graduating from pleading to tears, but I remember -- there's no crying in coffee-making.

Sure, repeating the same process and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.  But I've worked in software for a long time.  If something's broke -- see if you can repeat it.

Each repeat brings a new wave of rants and swears over this mutha-fucking, piece of shit.

The screaming wakens the Bear.  "Want me to fix it?" she asked.

"No! Now is not a good time to come in here!" I warned. I just wanted to "smash" everything in that fucking kitchen.  The last time I felt this destructive, I was wearing pads and had a fucking helmet on my head.

She pushes past me.

Nobody is ever afraid of me.  I just started lifting weights again.  Can't she see the size of my new arms? Mother-Fucker!

What is the fucking point of being the size of a black bear if you can't make women, children, and pets flee when you are in "hulk" mode?

She reaches into the dishwasher.  "You are missing a part." She pulls out the "basket".

How the fuck am I supposed to know that she would put the basket in the washer? You are filling it with boiling water, nothing is going to live in that pot. Cleaning it is fucking stupid.

Now the coffee maker works.

And I start thinking... this is a fucking plot.  This is the same woman who has watched Investigation Discovery for 20 years and talks about the perfect way to murder her husband (that would be me, in case you are confused).

Maybe she doesn't need a knife or a gun.  She just needs to push my ego enough to make my heart or head explode. She's killing me with coffee.

Yeah, god-damn-it.  Why else the ice cream?  She knows that shit ruins my sleep.

Why the basket in the dishwasher? She knows I would never look there.

I'm sure the cough was just a bonus, a happy accident to build up the pressure.

Why else would she risk my rage and walk past me to the kitchen?  Every little step to push the blood pressure a few points higher.  It was the perfect plan.

Everybody knows that someday the beer, the wings, and the anger will get me.  She could leave the body right in the kitchen.  Wait hours before she even calls an ambulance -- just to make sure there's no chance of rescue.  The cops wouldn't even question her...

I was on the 4th cup of coffee, had 30 minutes to breathe, and driving 20 miles away.  I slowly realized -- maybe the "killing me with coffee" idea is bullshit...

A few more minutes, a few more miles... Yeah, definitely bullshit.

This year we celebrate 32 years of marriage.  32 years of bliss, baby. On our anniversary, I will be the first one to wake up -- just to make the coffee.

For more of Kieran:

https://kieranbullshit.com/

Mind Over Matter

“Friends are as companions on a journey, who ought to aid each other to persevere in the road to a happier life.” ~Pythagoras

I have found friendship in this remarkable woman. I think, by reading her story, you too will be compelled by her. 

I give to you, Stumped Mom.

A note to readers: This post deals with opioid use, chemical dependency, depression, and suicidal thoughts.

“Mind over Matter,” those were the actual words spoken to me in my doctor’s office two weeks ago, as I limped out of the room, in so much pain that my 5’10” frame was listing to one side. Nevermind that my physical therapist, whom I saw later that day, thought that advice was negligent at best. In his opinion, I have been exhibiting the symptoms and patterns of a severe disk herniation or rupture and I need to proceed with extreme caution in all of my activities. Unfortunately this casual disregard for my pain even the worst thing that has been done to me in my long two-part journey in back pain.

In order to understand our present, we must first understand our past. This story, dear reader, is a story of two eras; the era before opioid epidemic awareness and the era after. Four years ago at the mature age of some twenty plus thirteen or so years, give or take, I hurt my back.  At the time of my injury, I was literally in the best shape of my life, I was learning Olympic lifting in my dojo with friends, doing intense crossfit workouts and training hard in a mixed martial art. I was keeping up with some of the men my size in my martial art. Some-time in the summer of 2014, my back started to hurt. I added new stretches to my routine and kept on going. In October of that year I fell down some stairs while I was carrying my two year old. My back and hip took the brunt of the fall.

I have seen and experienced conventional western medicine at its worst and least effective. So when the pain started, I saw the chiropractor that put me back together after my baby, and got myself a tens unit. When that didn’t work, I went to my primary care doctor, she ordered x-rays and found evidence of mid-spine arthritis and prescribed physical therapy. I decided, just to be on the safe, thorough and healthy side, to see a naturopath; under her instruction, I got myself onto a super restrictive and expensive anti-inflammatory diet. I put my martial arts training on a pause so that I could recover.

Things got worse and soon I was barely able to walk, sitting down and standing up caused blinding pain, shooting down my right leg, and then one day when I was driving home from work I felt my foot go heavy and numb. So, I called the doctor again. This time, she got out her Rx pad and ordered a round of oral corto-steroids, Tramadol and Gabapentin, and some Vicodin for bedtime for good measure.

I was meant to continue physical therapy.  Some of my memories from this period are patchy because pain does a funny thing where if it’s severe enough the brain tries not to remember for long periods of time. What I do remember is that I was prescribed copious amounts of painkillers for months on end, while doctors thumbed around with injections and therapies. All the while, I continued working and mothering and wifing through the whole thing. I was frequently given prescriptions for Tramadol, Percocet, and Vicodin, even when I was nowhere near running out of medication and displayed a reluctance to take them.

Eventually, a proper MRI was ordered and based on the reading, I was recommended as a good candidate for micro-laminectomy. In layman's terms, the bottom disk in my spine was jacked up and it was pressing on the nerve roots that branch off of the spine and control the right quarter of my body. My physical therapy team expressed guilt and remorse, they told me that the kind of herniation I had was only aggravated by the exercises that they were prescribing

My surgery was an unqualified success. I woke up and the pain was almost instantly better. I recovered faster than expected and quickly got off the pain medication. Gradually, I worked my way back into my martial arts training regimen. I had leftover medication and slowly used it for flare-ups, over the course of my recovery. I never developed a chemical dependency or addiction, I credit this, not to my medical team who prescribed with cavalier casualness, but to a good support network, and an apparent individual lack of predisposition toward addiction or chemical dependency. I maintained, prior to my injury during and after the opinion that chemical addiction is to our generation what cancer was to our grandparents; a killer that medicine doesn’t really understand that is made more lethal through stigma.

If this were a Hollywood film we would move through the last four years of my life with a montage of opioid crisis headlines, as well as medical literature snippets reporting that painkillers make back pain worse in the long run, that most back surgeries are unnecessary. These news stories would be interspersed with inspirational clips of me getting my strength back, slowly returning to the dojo and the gym and putting my life together after a divorce. Our montage closes in December of 2018 with me feeling a twinge in my lower back as I pry the old office microwave out of the trunk of my passenger car, in the parking lot of a local, appliance recycling center.

I strained my back on a Sunday and I rested that day and on Monday. On Tuesday, the twinge got worse after I tried to exercise. I went to see my Chiropractor. After a week, the pain kept getting worse and the Chiropractor said he could feel my disk bulging and he wanted me to see my primary doctor. This time, I didn’t mess around. When the pain continued to increase, I called and asked to see my regular doctor but because I got hurt at work, my HMO insisted I be seen through their occupational health team. So shattered was my trust from my previous experiences and so scared was I that they wouldn’t let me see a doctor that knows me, I cried in the waiting room. The occupational health team has yet to prove my fears unjustified.

I have seen two doctors with this occupational health group, the one who told me, “Mind over matter,” is actually the better one. She at the very least addressed pain management in some form. The other doctor, I saw through this department, told me that it wasn’t possible for physical therapy to make back pain worse and he didn’t even talk to me about how to manage my pain in any way whatsoever, he also refused to order the MRI, that was supposed to be part of my treatment plan per the first doctor I saw. He referred me to a spine care nurse who talked to me on the phone ordered the MRI (after cursing him under her breath) and sent me the link to  gaslighting production [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtdIVk1TaxY&feature=youtu.be]  that told me what I was experiencing was perfectly normal and all I really needed to do was get the right exercises, start walking and maintain a positive attitude. The video seemed to assume that I was older and less active than I am. Anyway, Fuck that mansplaining doctor and his spine care team, that has never seen me in person, I hope he gets nasty, recurrent hemorrhoids.

Meanwhile, my pain has progressed in much the same fashion that it did in 2014-2015, the only difference being that this time it's on the opposite side of my body. I started to get better after the first few physical therapy visits, and the introduction of the nerve medicine Gabapentin. I was walking well, able to make slight bends and I was optimistic for a full three days! Then, a week ago my pain got worse, so bad that the things that previously brought relief, walking and standing, increased my pain. During the weekends, I had been treating pain with edible medical cannabis (legal on the entire west coast of the United States) but my usual dose didn’t touch the pain; rather it made me paranoid that it would never stop. I tried resting and I tried walking through the pain and I ended up trudging a half a mile through tears in freezing wind.  Right now my pain plan consists of Gabapentin, Tylenol and what I will call a small stipend of Vicodin. I was given 30 pain pills on my initial visit and I wasn’t prescribed more until I came into the office 25 days later, with my pain so bad that my blood pressure was near crisis level (190/100).

All of the literature and advice for back-pain sufferers seems to assume that the audience is an aging population with inactive lifestyles and bad habits. I won’t say that I’m a model of health but I’m a hell of a lot younger than the typical pain patient, my symptoms are severe and I have an actual history of being cured by actual surgery. None of this seems to matter to the doctors, they keep treating me like I couldn’t possibly be as hurt as I think I am and sending me home with platitudes instead of help. My physical therapy team is stymied, everything they have tried has either failed or made me worse. Right now I am cutting pain meds in half and rationing them for the worst times. As my pain has spiraled out of control and my activity had ground to a halt my mental state has deteriorated. I have long relied on exercise and martial arts to manage periodic depression. I have started having suicidal thoughts, I am terrified of the pain continuing to worsen, and the doctors continuing to refuse to offer any sort of adequate form of treatment.

So what am I asking for? I dare not ask for pain medication for fear of being cut off completely. I have no illusions about the dangers of opioids and I am absolutely sickened by the way that our medical system fails its drug addiction patients. All I want is timely, compassionate and effective treatment. I am hopeful this will come with the MRI results later this week.

My experience indicates big problems with our medical establishment treated pain before they were forced to acknowledge the opioid crisis and how they are treating it now. How is it that doctors can prescribe a drug that they know causes dependency and give the patients nothing but a stern warning not to abuse it? Why don’t they talk with patients about the warning signs of addiction and talk to them about who to call if they start to notice them? Why don’t doctors work with them on a plan to get off the medication that looks at the whole patient?  I have my theories about the reasons why this isn’t happening and they have nothing to do with patient or public health outcomes.

In my perfect world patients like me who are in pain and patients who develop dependence or addiction would be treated with equal respect and dignity. As it stands now, neither group is getting what they need. Pain patients are being given “stiff upper lip” pep talks and slow rolling diagnosis while addicts are being treated like criminals and degenerates. I have experienced the treatment of severe and chronic pain, both pre-and post opioid crisis awareness and my conclusion both approaches suck and so does the American medical system.

Finally, please, unless you have experienced an actual L5 disk rupture that required surgery before the age of 40 do not leave pain treatment advice in the comments.

For a list of ways to contact and read more of Stumped Mom's work:

https://stumpedmom.com/
https://twitter.com/StumpedMom

You've Got To Be Kidding Me

From the moment we're born we begin dying. I don't really care how that happens. Whether you were birthed in the backseat of a taxicab in New York, you dropped out your momma's uterus in a kiddie pool with a midwife, or whether she pushed you out with a crew of doctors and nurses present in a hospital. Welcome to the world, you're dying. 

I can't speak for anyone else, as much as I want to or try to, so I'll limit this to personal experience. I don't make good decisions. I make shitty choices. I'll make more in the future. There are things that I work on to help offset the consequences from these choices. There are even things that I do in an attempt to re-wire the circuitry in my brain; a preemptive strike on destructive behavior. 

Most of my shit centers around addiction: alcohol, food, drama, self-pity, people pleasing, and poor self-esteem; I am addicted to being the center of attention and being in chaos. I'm kind of a piece of shit for it. I also do a fuck ton of work to make myself less of a drain on society. Being human is hard. Working on becoming a better human is admirable, especially when you know what you're already up against.

I also lack impulse control. I'm all about instant gratification. I don't want that 5-minute rice in the prescribed 5 minutes, I want it 3 because I have other shit to do. Delayed gratification? What's that? The only type of delay I'm into is one where a dreaded appointment is pushed back or canceled altogether for reasons beyond my control. I love it when I'm not to blame. It's not my fault, it's yours. 

For the most part, I want people to like me. Mostly. That is, of course, unless you're trying to push a pyramid scheme of shitty health supplements on me. Health supplements that, as you tout, will help prolong my life. 

I became acquainted with a little dude I met at a local park not long ago. I was handing food out to the homeless community there, he offered to help my son and me. I was thankful for the help. After spending a couple of hours together, it didn't seem odd to become social media buddies. As it turns out, we were members of the same gym. I think we still are members of the same gym, we just don't fucking speak to one another anymore. 

Creepy McCreepster would corner me every chance he got to enthusiastically pummel me with information about his available products. There was a social awkwardness about him that put my own to shame. I felt sorry for the kid, I bought some shit from him to help get his little business going. Playing it safe I bought collagen tablets because who doesn't want firmer skin? A firm ass and glowing skin; that was the goal. Unfortunately, I don't do pills well. They sat in the cupboard, my ass stayed droopy. 

Relentlessly I received message after message telling me how these products would "change my life." No, dude, you leaving me the fuck alone will change my life right now. When I wouldn't buy more, it became, "Who do you know that I can help?" Fuck off! More like "Who can I harass?" If not being cornered at the gym, I was being inundated with messages on social media. I've had actual stalkers who irritated me less. 

Finally, I decided to tell him to go pound sand. Some of the sales tactics were fucking ridiculous. Laughable even. I remember, at one point he compared my life performance to an underachieving child. He asked, "How would you feel if your child were getting D's and C's in school? Their reasoning, was that they were passing and they were content with that?" Little buddy, did you just assume it was okay to tell me that I am skating by in life just doing the bare minimum? Now we have beef. 

I told him his pitchy bullshit made me uncomfortable. Could we just be friends? To my utter shock, the answer was a hard no. Fine, go fuck yourself, toadstool. I hope your herbal cleanse and Spark energy enhancer keep you company in the long hours of solitude and inevitable financial hardship ahead of you. Failure is imminent. Also, whoever trained you did a shitty ass job, I'd ask for my money back if I were you. 

I take care of myself physically, I don't need to go balls-out with a bunch of synthetic bullshit created in labs and peddled by people with insecurity issues more daunting than the ones I'm packing. And what the fuck for? Honestly? Live longer? For what? It would be different if we all lived in a goddamn Utopia, let's get fucking real though. When was the last time you turned on the television and all the stories were heartwarming? How about even half of them? A third? Right, so how about you take your creatine powder and amino acid supplements and shove 'em straight up your performance elite ass?! Pass me the butter, which I like to call happiness. 

We're all dying here. None of us are going to get out of this with a 'get of jail free' pass. Why not try being less of a piece of shit? We've all heard of carbon footprints. How about the impact we have on others? We ought to have designated people to police douche canoes. Is there a way to form a committee of chosen individuals that one can contact to intervene in situations when someone has proven themselves a certified asshat? What might some possible penalties be for infractions? 

This blog has gone on longer than I originally intended; much longer than my usual 30 minutes or less and satisfaction isn't promised. Wherever you are, little buddy, [probably cracked out on Spark energy supplements] I hope you find your way in the shitty pyramid of health supplements and that you never EVER contact me again. 

Deranged Shorts by Anxiety Girl

Daymares As Told by Anxiety Girl: Deranged Shorts

I have an overactive imagination and a tendency to pole-vault to the worst possible outcome in any given situation. I manufacture social paranoia on a cellular level. I secrete awkwardness like a perfume. Here’s what happens in my head and what transpires in the real world. Here’s me trying to reconcile the two. These are just a few examples, so enjoy this. It’s taken me many years, but I can laugh at this shit now.

I don’t wear heels very often even though I love the way they make me feel. They elongate my otherwise stubby legs and change the way I walk. They add a certain sway to my gait when worn. I also know they’re doing wonders for my calves and my ass when I wear them. I used to vacuum the living room in them. That’s not a joke. A friend of mine told me once what a great way to practice walking in them it was. I just figured it was working my ass and legs. It was also the safest way for me to wear heels. I’m not very graceful. In fact, if you’re special, you get to call me Grace. If you’re not, I’ll punch you. I’ll probably break a thumb in the process. 

And so begins our worst-case scenario daymares.

I don’t wear heels because I live on the 2^nd floor. At some point, I’m going to have to go downstairs. Lest I carry my heels in hand and put them back on at the bottom, my ass is going to have to trudge down those stairs one at a time. Precariously. Sure, there is a handrail, but it would be my luck that the fucking thing comes loose, and I topple over the side and end up in the bushes with my dress around my shoulders. Not so sexy anymore, huh?

There is always the chance that the railing stays firmly in place and I trip over my own feet. Maybe my own weight buckles the heel, I break my ankle, and I fall down the flight of stairs, drawing the attention of all the neighbors. Being embarrassed (as I would be), I would attempt to pop up and brush it off at the bottom as though nothing had happened. Only then would it become apparent that my ankle was broken. I’d fall forward and faceplant, breaking my two front teeth on the pavement. Teeth that I had only recently paid to have crowns placed on. Humiliation and 2k down the drain; sounds about right.

The reality is, I probably make it down the stairs with only a mild anxiety attack. I’ve only fallen once. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I was embarrassed. Yes, I lied about the injury. There was a scar for a while on the bridge of my foot. I told people it was a sex injury. Never straddle someone while barefoot on carpeted flooring. Rugburn is real and it’s happened before so I knew it would work.

Aggressive driving is problem for me. Don’t fucking cut me off. Don’t be an asshole. We’re all trying to get someplace. Why do you think you’re so goddamn special? Entitlement is a motherfucker and I really hate people who think or act as though their plans are more meaningful than my life. That doesn’t make it justifiable for me to speed up and make certain you know that I think you’re a douchebag.

In a perfect world, I’d be able to flash my lights at you and you’d pull over and I’d challenge you to a dance-off or some shit. Maybe I’d immediately be granted 1 free throat punch. That would be ideal. 

I don’t get off on hurting people, but I really think it would teach cunts a lesson about reckless driving. How many times do you have to get throat punched before you learn to merge onto your desired freeway entrance before it becomes a danger for other motorists? Those last-minute 15/78 splitters in the morning really make me want to throw flaming bags of shit. Human shit is fine, I don’t give a fuck!

Here’s what happens in my head though: I’m super confident that said twatwaffle will see I’m serious about my conviction and will back down. TW does no such thing and speeds up even more to make the freeway exit but at the last second slams on their breaks terrified that they’re going to tap the person in front of them. I end up rear-ending the jackass that refused to merge properly and in turn, I am rear-ended. My car spins out and I total my car. 

Dicknose doesn’t have insurance and I’m now out a car. I’ll end up taking the bus because my insurance won’t cover a rental. I’ll probably get mugged on the bus or be witness to some crime while taking public transportation. It’s not that I have anything against public transportation, it’s just how things play out in my head. Meanwhile, that prick is still doing the same shit the very next week.

Cannonballs in the pool: I don’t do them if it’s not deeper than 6 ft. Why? Because I’m 5’7” and even if I tuck my knees, I’m afraid that I’ll injure myself. What happens if I break my legs? Call the paramedics? Cool. They show up, assess the situation and haul me off to the hospital. 

Have you ever tried to get out of a wet bathing suit? Less than attractive. Oh, they cut it off me? Even better, then all my lady parts are all shriveled up like the California Raisins. Ever see a 39-yr. old woman, who breastfed, soaking wet with bathing suit titties? It ain’t pretty. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be the one to take my own suit off and preferably without any mirrors around; I’d like to be able to eat dinner later. 

I think finding a sympathy card for the paramedics who had to undress me would be difficult. Does Hallmark make one that says: Sorry you saw me naked?

There are plenty more Anxiety Girl scenarios. I’ll write more when co-workers aren’t looking for me to do what they pay me for. I have some other shit I’m working on currently also. Being sick really sucked. I’m getting back in the swing of things. Thanks for sticking around.

Oh, no he didn't!

For the last month and a half, I’ve been sick. Not the norm for me type sick; the mentally unstable, liable to snap at any moment sick. I’m talking tissue and copious amounts of over-the-counter medications improperly administered. Truth be told, I’m still on the mend. It’s all good. I have enough antibiotics coursing through my body right now that I’m indiscriminately killing all the flora and fauna in my system. I am literally where things come to die.

After living in pajamas and being nearly surgically attached to my sofa for four days I decided enough was enough; I was going to improperly take more medication. Medication that didn’t even belong to me.

I hate going to the doctor and after being misdiagnosed and spending $146 at Kaiser the last time, I decided they fucking suck and don’t deserve to be honored with my presence or my hard-earned cash. Suck a dick! Luckily my husband stashed some antibiotics from his last go ‘round with a nasty orbital abscess, so it looked like I was gonna kick this sickness in the taint without having to step foot in the germ breeding ground that is the waiting room of my doctor’s office.

After a couple days of being on horse pills, I was starting to feel better. In fact, I was feeling human enough that I decided to go get my nails done. Before you get all self-righteous about how I’m now putting others in jeopardy, just shut the hell up. I wasn’t contagious anymore. I’m a better human being than to risk possibly infecting others with an unknown virus. I don’t do anything half-assed. I make sure I’m all in. I’ll lick your phone receiver and sneeze in your eyes to make certain that the job is done correctly. Oh, and fuck you very much.

Back to my nails, because this is where it gets glorious.

I’m sitting in the chair while Daisy [Daisy is a Vietnamese name??] is doing my nails. We’re having a broken conversation about the Apple Watch and whether I think it would benefit her husband who apparently has clogged arteries. She seems to want to monitor his heart rate and thinks the watch will help with his overall health. At least, that’s what I’m able to gather. I don’t have the heart [no pun intended…really] to tell her that if his heart rate is 184 while walking there isn’t much the watch is going to do to fix that shit. Maybe he should work on diet and exercise. Communication is difficult though – language barriers being what they are. I feel for her. I smile and nod and tell her I love my watch. I hate this fucking thing. It’s always yelling at me to stand up and breathe. Fuck off, I do what I want.

At one point in the conversation though I notice that she’s broken off and is staring at the manager [male] who sits up front watching his iPad. Her jaw has dropped, and she looks pissed! She gets up, walks over to him and quietly scorns him in Vietnamese. Shortly after, Michael [manager] gets up with his iPad and walks to the back of the salon, out of sight and doesn’t return. Now, there is no one covering the counter to handle walk-in clients or answer the phone. Daisy is pissed and she’s quietly talking to the other girls in the salon.

I, of course, can’t make out what they’re saying but I don’t really need to. One needn’t speak Vietnamese to understand that Daisy removed the manager because he was watching something inappropriate on his little iPad. She’s now walking around the salon whispering to other women, rolling her eyes, and making hushed moaning sounds. Then, with a disgusted look on her face, she points to the back of the salon like she’s ordering a dog to its “place” and makes more moaning sounds. It’s like a mini porno in the nail salon. 6 Vietnamese women are snickering while my nail chick is moaning and I’m watching the whole thing unfold in awe. This is fucking fantastic.

Daisy finally calms down and seats herself across from me. She picks right back up talking about the Apple Watch and where to get it – asking about price and telling me about the other watches she’s gotten her husband in the past. She tells me about what a great man he is and the phone he purchased her for her birthday. Daisy, can I just say: I don’t give a flying fuck about your phone. Can we talk about the manager watching porn during business hours and on-site?? That is amazingly bold! Do you think he has a sex addiction? Doesn’t his wife work here too? Where is she and do you think she knows? Oh my God, she’s gonna tear him a new asshole, isn’t she?

I am never getting my nails done elsewhere and from now, going out of my way to make uncomfortable eye contact with Michael every opportunity I get. Best reintroduction to society ever! Thanks, local nail salon – 5 stars!

And Some Other Shit You'll Never Hear Me Utter

 And Some Other Shit You’ll Never Hear Me Utter

If you’ve spent any time reading even a couple of my previous rants, you’ll understand that I am a blunt force trauma. I am the drunk clown at the birthday party or the sauced-up uncle at Christmas with one too many opinions about minorities who’d do better to keep his mouth shut in the presently mixed company he’s entertaining.

I don’t have anything timely or of grand importance to write about; nothing about the 116^th Congress, Pelosi, or anything along spiritual lines. Instead, I bring you more bullshit, because ultimately, that’s what I do best. I offer you some shit you’d never in a million years hear me say; unless I fall off the wagon, that is. Then, all bets are off and welcome to the shit show.

Looking forward to it!

The only time I’ve said this and truly meant it is when I told my now ex-husband that I’d see him in court. I use this sparingly with people and rarely with much enthusiasm or honesty. I can honestly say that I look forward to going home and putting on my pajamas, the rest of the day is just filler. Oh, friends and weekend fun? Yeah, no thanks. That’s why God invented Netflix and other streaming services.

Everyone deserves a second chance

Wrong. I believe people are inherently good at heart, that much is true. There are some people that I feel are beyond redemption though. I get it, I’m not Judge and jury and who am I to declare someone beyond redemption? You draw a big line in the motherfucking sand when you commit heinous crimes though; the nature of which I don’t even want to get into here. When you hurt the young, elderly, or animals in any way – you are beyond redemption in my book. It’s just a matter of how to deal with you. I assure you I judge more harshly than you would think.

No thanks, I’m vegan

I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with being vegan. I, in fact, tried it for a year. It’s a year of my life that I’ll never get back. I’m not really complaining because let’s face it, my life kinda sucks as it is. Real food would have made that year much less crippling though. For a straight year I felt like shit and wanted to cry every time I went out to lunch or dinner and one of my friends would order something with eggs, meat, cheese, cream, or butter [I just had an orgasm]. I even abstained from eating candy with gelatin. Are you fucking kidding me?! https://www.peta.org/about-peta/faq/what-is-gelatin-made-of/

Way to kill the joy in all things food, vegans. Go fuck yourselves!

I’m a tea person

Coffee is what stops me from punching walls or your face. I stopped drinking 5 years ago. I replaced that alcohol with food. Then the food was becoming an issue, so I had to deal with that. Candy became a quick replacement for alcohol sugars and icky feelings I had to deal with. Soon I had to wean myself off that too. Do you realize how much treatment I am undergoing right now? It’s best not to fuck with me, really. My sanity is delicate. Tea is not strong enough to tackle the bullshit that I have moshing around in my brain; I need coffee to go in there and tear shit up. That first sip of coffee calms me the fuck down. Interrupt me and it’s at your own peril – I guarantee you that much. I don’t even drink the shit when I’m sick. Suggest it and I will laugh at you. I put tea bags in my coffee cup. Take your throat coat and fuck off. Come back when you have a real cup of coffee.

I thought I had more to say but I guess I just don’t care enough. Until next time; I’m really looking forward to it!