Today's Episode Of: Hey, How's Your Life?

On today's episode of Hey, How's Your Life, our protagonist receives a letter of vehement antipathy from her son. We'll examine the degradation of her mental competencies to the extent that she's been reduced to playing with building blocks and eats paste in the corner. Come join us on today's adventure! 

It was a steep decline. I wasn't at the top of my game to start with. That's truth. I've dealt with some bullshit depression for that last week or two. I may have lost track of time somewhere between "I'm not good enough" and "You don't appreciate me anyway."  Maybe I took a wrong turn at, "I'll just live in my pajamas." 

That day was an absolute clus-ter-fuck! It came fully loaded with half-truths, self-pity, passive-aggression, and martyrdom. All that was missing was some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. What's a party without the proper favors though? What kind of hostess would I be? So, I brought that too. Later. 

Once I had properly fucked everything right in its keister, I was alone with my shitty coping mechanisms. I turned on the television and began eating my feelings. I decided that I was going to write a letter of entitlement to my partner, ushering in the Catholic guilt portion of our episode. 

For this, I would need paper. I hadn't yet been reduced to building blocks and refrigerator magnets as forms of communication. We'll get there. 

Typical homes have post-it notes or paper on hand; something of that nature. Some means of communicating with other members of the household. Some archaic way of jotting down ideas. Primitive grocery list construction. Not ours. There was no paper to be found. I like to think that I'm environmentally friendly. Really, I'm fucking lazy and prefer the convenience of modern tech. I'm error prone. Last time I checked, spiral bound notebooks don't spellcheck. 

All of this to say I wound up in my kid's bedroom. 

My son was with his Dad (Satan) on this particular evening. With a handful of trail mix in one hand, I picked up a loose piece of paper that I had found on his dresser with the other. It was blank. I turned it over to ensure that I wasn't going to be sabotaging one of his assignments by writing one of my "you done me wrong" notes to The Lobster on it. To my surprise, there was something inscribed on the other side. Initially, I was impressed by the penmanship. That shit quickly wore off as I read what the fuck was on there. 

Some of you have probably received hate mail from your kid. I had not until that night. It was enlightening and complete and total bullshit. 

So, my kid thinks I'm untrustworthy and that I "treat him like an asshole every chance I get." Little buddy, you have not begun to see "asshole treatment." What a vulgar little fucker. He was super hostile. Wonder where he gets that shit? 

I can make light of the situation and crack jokes, but the truth is, it fucking crushed me. How do parents deal with feelings of rejection from their children? I totally thought we were buds. I thought there was mutual respect for one another. I understand that it's within the bounds of "normal childhood" behavior, but it stings nonetheless. Can I fold this letter into a little hat for my pity party? Do I have an appropriate dress to wear? I guess this means I need to crawl out of these crusty pajamas I'm wearing. The ones that are stained with chicken tortilla soup and snot. 

I tailspin into a full-blown depression and decide that I'm a shit wife, a terrible mother and that the only people that really love me are my two cats. The only reason they care for me is that I feed them treats & scoop their shit each day. They're somewhat obligated. If someone wiped my ass on the daily, I'd be indebted also. I may even develop amorous feelings. I mean, you are cleaning my asshole. 

Now I'm faced with a dilemma. I can't tell the demon that I found his letter and let's talk about it. He'll accuse me of invading his privacy. I'm back to being untrustworthy and a terrible parent. I also now have to look at him and know how he feels about me. Is feeding him extra vegetables (all the ones he hates) at every meal from now until the end of time a terrible thing? Do I go to parent jail? What's it like there? Are there any survivors to tell the tale? 

We have magnetic words for the refrigerator. Not the ghetto plastic individual colorful letters - the ones for babies. Whole words. Can I write out phrases like "No, you're untrustworthy"? Would that be a no-no? I'll keep you posted on our progress. Maybe you'll see us on an episode of Judge Judy: Emancipation of the Angriest 11 yr old. 

If you're curious about all the other shit I was whining about, just keep reading. If you haven't noticed, there's always some melodrama that threatens the fabric of my reality. As it stands, I'm back to wearing clothes instead of pajamas and The Lobster and I understand we're better together than apart. As it should be. 

How about a fucking cookie?

It's been 168 hours since I last posted. I don't keep track. I'm not a psychopath. During that time some major-league shit has gone down. I've refrained from killing or maiming anyone, thus landing myself in jail. I deserve a goddamn cookie. 

About a week ago I was at work when I received a text message from Satan. He told me that he would be moving and taking our son with him. At first, I panicked and thought, ah dammit Imma have to take Satan to court again. As it turns out, the Great Red Dragon was only moving next door. I didn't need to break out my courtroom pantyhose. 

After a brief phone conversation for clarification on the matter, and a great deal of mental happy-place projecting on my part, that son-of-a-bitch decided to fuck everything up. He said 5 simple words. Innocuous enough until placed together. Once strung together in a sentence, more lethal than an untreated hooker in the tenderloin with undiagnosed STD's. He said, "Next year he'll be homeschooled." 

I'm sorry, you're doing what, motherfucker??? I believe that requires some sort of consent on my part. That's what this piece of paper from the court that says, "Joint Legal and Physical Custody" means, does it not? Have I misunderstood the court's ruling or the definition of "Joint Legal and Physical Custody"? 

It was about this time that he decided to boundary check me. He said, "We'll talk about this when you're in a better mood." 

For the record, I had not yet said:

You are an incredible mumbling shit shovel!

I hope you die, you aggravating dicknose toaster.

What gives you the authority, you waffling cumdumpster zombie? 

So, you see, I had kept my shit in check. There was no need to start picking a fight with me. If it was a fight he was looking for though - by God, I was gonna bring it. Like milkshakes to the motherfucking yard! 

We'll have to sit down to discuss the schooling of my spawn for next year. Honestly though, the story got so much more fucked up.

(cliff notes): Satan told my kid about his plans; the kid got excited. He told my brat that I was on board with this bullshit scheme. I had to pulverize my child's hopes and dreams - grind them into dust. I'm now a huge bitch riding an ugly horse named "I Never Really Loved You." My son dreams of emancipation at the old age of 11 and never being told when to shower again. Satan is a shrieking assmaster wallet. 

As I haven't killed anyone yet or threatened to cut anyone, we'll move on. 

Costco on a Saturday. Shitshow, am I right? Why then do I continue to torture myself weekend after buttfucked weekend? It's not for the samples. The only worthwhile samples are at Christmastime. You can argue with me on that one if ya want to. I have my opinions, you do too. Yours are just wrong. 

Each time that I go, it's a Christmas miracle that I don't run my cart into the backs of someone's ankles. Hey, how about you not be an inconsiderate fuck? How about you move your cart from the center of the goddamn aisle if you're going to have a full-blown conversation with Jenny that you haven't seen in 7 years? Mmmmkay? It's called a walkway for a fucking reason - SO WE CAN WALK!!!

Each weekend I convince myself that I love the deals or that I can't live without (fill in the blank). Each weekend I leave with an elevated heart rate and $200.00 less in my account. God forbid I should have to exchange anything. The process is usually fine, but that line is bullshit. I'd rather just gift whatever shitty mishap purchase I made to someone else. I need a berry smoothie just to relax myself after. 

Then there's the depression that's been riding shotgun the last week or so. It's cool when it's just a day or two - I can manage that shit. After a week I'm done playing hopscotch with my negative self-image and self-defeatism. It's hard to be everything to everyone when you're busy convincing yourself you ain't shit and need fucking help. It's hard asking for help when you feel like a princess who's just complained that her feather bed was too warm. So, I'm back to nearly imploding and running people over with my cart at Costco. 

Maybe I'll just save this pent-up rage and hostility for my family sit-down with Satan. Maybe he'd like to take some depression and rage right up his ass? I'll make sure to shove it up there with his homeschool lesson plan and all his manipulations. There's only room for one master manipulator in this broken marriage - that's me! There can be only one. Go fuck yourself. 

Who Gave You Permission?

Ever wonder who gave someone the impression that it was okay to ask you the most asinine of questions available to them? Is there a moment when they ask themselves, is this appropriate or any of my fucking business in the first place? I ask myself this all the time. Here are some of my favorites...

I go to the gym. I know, you think I talk about this too frequently. It's my fucking story, just listen. I'm going somewhere with it, I promise. This is where I introduce Grant. 

I met Grant three days ago. Grant approached me after a particularly strenuous treadmill run. I don't know about anyone else, but the last thing I want to do after a workout is talk to someone while I'm dripping sweat. 

He casually walked up to me at the paper dispenser; the one you use to wipe down your sweaty-ass machine after use. Standing there, dry and ready to start his workout, he asked, "Hey, how far did you run?" I'm drenched. I sound like I've been sucking from the tailpipe of a 1971 diesel Chevy Silverado that's been rolling coal. I stare blankly at this dumb motherfucker. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm Grant." He puts his hand out to shake. 

Um, Grant, is it? Let me make a couple of things clear. Your name is the last of my concerns right now. Let's start with why you think it's cool to approach and ask me some personal shit. I didn't ask you how many sets you did and what kind of weight you were pushing, did I? No, Grant, I did not. Do you know why Grant? Because weirdos do that shit. 

I do not shake Grant's hand. Instead, I wipe sweat from my forehead and armpits. Real classy. 

Maybe Grant would like my average pace and how often I run too. I understand my rationale is a bit extreme for most of you. The way I see it, the gym is for working out. If I wanted to chat, I'd come prepared and bring my own buddy. I wouldn't partner up with a stranger here. That's how people get stabbed in alleys and rot dismembered in luggage. Grant's probably not a killer. I think I can bench more than him. That's not the point. The point is: where does this line of questioning stop?

Hey, Grant, my husband and I have sex on Wednesday's if you want to pop by and inquire as to which position is my favorite. Dinner is usually right after if you want to stick around, but you'll have to help with the dishwasher - those are the rules. 

I need a sign to wear around my neck that clearly reads: Don't talk to me - ever. Don't ask me stupid questions - ever. Life would be much simpler for me this way. Maybe I just need more sessions with a therapist. 

How does that make you feel? I love getting asked this question by someone I'm paying to help me make sense of my feelings. Here's an idea: I'm paying you, how about you tell me what the correct answer is? Then I save myself some money and you, the undoubted torture of having to listen to my bullshit. Everyone comes out a winner. 

You know who isn't a winner? The loser at the grocery store checkout lane behind me that asks, "Have you tried those yet? Do you like them?" after seeing one of my purchases. If I answer that I have tried them and, yes, I like them - sometimes I'll hear, "Oh, really? I didn't like them." THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU ASK??? I understand if you're trying to get an idea about a product you've never tried, but if you have and you don't like them, keep your shit to yourself - ESPECIALLY if you find out that I, in fact, do like them. You jackass! I don't recall asking for your opinion. 

Where's my sign? I'm just not fit for social interaction anymore. Can I retire from life? Can I spend the rest of my days watching daytime television and phoning the HOA for minor infractions made in my complex? I think I'll just walk around CVS and ask the store clerk what their opinion on all the products are and then argue with them for the hell of it. While I'm at it, I'd like to see the store manager about the length of these receipts. You are killing trees and doing irreparable damage to the environment. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! 

By the way Grant, it's still none of your fucking business how far I run. Worry about your own damn workout - maybe you'd see some better results, okay buddy? 

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.

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