Category Archives: Too Much Information


Sometimes I have stuff happen in my life and I write about it, and sometimes I don’t.  That doesn’t mean I don’t still need to write about it.

I’m a writer, and writers write.

I also am not  a big fan of cliches.

It’s just that after not writing for any length of time I get brain-stipated.   It’s like I can’t function properly because there’s too much going on.

And at the same time, I sit at my computer and my hands hover over the keyboard.  I can’t write.

I’m brain-stipated, and no amount of fiber is going to help.

I have to force myself to sit down and write something, anything, and fast.

I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I’m afraid my brain will shut down, and I’ll lose all sense of self.  In effect, ceasing to exist.

It’s really that dramatic, and it’s really not.

Brain-stipated, see?

How do people who don’t feel compelled to write see the world differently than me?  Are they simply voyeurs?  Watching the world go by with no dialogue streaming in their heads?  No need to put into words all that they experience?

How does that work?  I’d really like to know, because there are plenty of times when I wish I could just turn it all off for a while and instead of getting brain-stipated I’d just be calm and at peace.

Maybe, if I could figure out how to drug the endless procession of characters that bang on the inner doors of my head trying to get out I could relax.

Until then, though, you’ll just have to put up with the inane ramblings of the brain-stipated mind.


There Must Be Cookies

You know how you are always seeing the “Come to the Dark Side, We Have Cookies” meme?

Okay, maybe I’m the only one always seeing it, but back in the day it was the cat’s pajamas..or something.

Anyway, it’s true.

You see my once only-bad back apparently couldn’t hold out against the cookie temptation and went completely evil a week ago last Sunday.

And here you thought I was just lazy about updating my blog.

But, no…I was battling the forces of EVIL in my spine.

I was cooking dinner, I stepped back one step and was frozen in place.  I could not move in any direction without pain that is what I imagine a lightning bolt shooting down your spine, through your ass, and into your legs feels like.

Not that I would know about lightning bolts, nor do I wish to learn, but it’s a white hot thing and so was this pain.

White. Hot. Exquisite (my word for pain that’s a 12 on a scale of 1-10).

The only ‘comfortable’ (and I use that term verrrrry loosely) position, was standing up with the top half of me bent over and resting on something…anything.

And walking? Fugeddaboudit!  I looked like the old man from Laugh-In, the one Ruth Buzzi was always smacking with her purse…ummm…anyone remember that?  Sigh….I’m old.

Anywho…I dragged my ass to the doctor on Monday, and had an MRI on Tuesday, and the bottom line is this.

My spine is fecked-up..totally FUBAR’d, screwed…in other words…a mess.

A hot mess.

A hot, painful mess of facet syndrome, ruptured discs (4), stenosis, arthritis, etc.

The doctor told me to take the week off (which I did and could get used to), and gave me assorted drugs to take to relieve pain and inflammation (again, I could get used to) and so slowly but surely as the week wore on I felt a little better.

Then, I drove to work this morning.

Forty miles.  Forty painful miles.

And sat at a desk all day.  After the first hour, the pain was excruciating…even with the delightful pain medication I was given.  Of course, one can only take so much of that and function.  I’d like to measure dosage in ‘handfuls’, but cannot find those instructions anywhere.

Go figure.

Injections have been suggested, but since 2001 I’ve had eight of those with zero results.  So, thanks but no thanks.

I am waiting for someone to mention the “S” word soon, and not it’s not “S” as in Sam Winchester, because I’d be all yessssssssssssssssssssssss to that even though I prefer Dean, but hey if Sam is offered then Sam I’ll take.

No, “S” as in surgery.

This too, is not an option.


It’s because of the relatively low success rate, relatively high failure rate, and all that lies in between.  If I’m going to have  a fecked back, then fine I’ll deal with it.  I don’t want some knife-happy surgeon trying to ‘fix’ me.

No, I’m not gonna go there.

Unless, of course, there’s cookies.





So, uh..this one time at band camp…

…wait, that’s a different story

But, both include crazy.

Not mine.

I know, right?

I had to have my car’s window-driver-uppy-thingy (it’s an industry term, trust me) fixed this summer.

I was driving home from the store when SNAP! BAM! BANG! The thingy-bobber that holds the doo-hickey what holds up the glass in the window went ka-flooie.

I’m telling you, I got all these terms from my “Service Advisor”.

Anyway, since this happened on a Sunday, and I couldn’t wait for days to get it fixed, I had to have it done at my local dealership the next day.

I dropped the car off at 7:00 a.m. and waited in the “Guest Lounge”, complete with “FREE Wi-Fi” and donuts, for the “Courtesy Van” driver to give me a ride home.

The kid that gave me a ride home was clean-cut, well-dressed, and about as polite a young man as I’d ever encountered.  He truly restored my faith in those crazy kids these days.

When we got to my house I asked him if he’d be the one picking me up, and he said if it was before noon yes but if not it would be “the afternoon guy”.

My car was ready at 3:00 p.m., so I go “the afternoon guy”.  Only my morning driver forgot to one very important word.

The word is “crazy”.

So, I got “the crazy afternoon guy”.

He looked normal enough, as I climbed into the van for the (thankfully) short trip to the dealership.

Looks are sooooooooo deceiving sometimes, amiright?

The second my ass hit the seat, and he was backing out of the driveway having to stop for the young Hispanic mother pushing a stroller past my house, he mutters “f*9$ing wetbacks” under his breath.

I thought maybe the batteries in my hearing aid needed replacing.

Then I remembered I don’t wear hearing aids.

By then, though, it was too late to say anything.

I was busy holding on for dear life as we screamed down the street, me jokingly saying  “the speed limit is 30 through here, and the police do patrol my neighborhood.”

“It’s no wonder,” he replied looking at the ramshackle homes next to the nice ones, “I can imagine the kind of people you have here.”

Squaring my shoulders around to face him, I said, “Yes, they are very nice people. Very. Nice.” and gave him an icy stare.

He stared straight ahead at the road, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel.

We were silent for about five minutes when he began to regale me of stories about him and his Hispanic friends skipping school years ago and getting high while playing on the PS2.

I’m not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting.  Did he think I’d be impressed? I wasn’t.  Did he’d think I would relate? I didn’t.

Having nothing to add to the conversation, I sat silent, hoping he’d take the hint.

He didn’t, and as he sped down the road, weaving in and out of traffic, he went on describing his escapades as a teenager – and how, at 28, he didn’t “do those kinds of things anymore”.

I didn’t care at that point, I just wanted the ride to end and hoped I’d be able to release my death-grip on the armrest when we stopped.

Finally, he turned down a side street I didn’t recognize, but which he assured me was “a shortcut”.

I said I’d take his word for it.

He grinned at me and said, “It’s not like I’m going to take you out into the woods and leave you there.”

I laughed, not finding it funny, and thanked God that the “woods” to which he referred was just a stand of trees near some railroad tracks.

A few minutes later we got to the dealership.  I was glad to be back in the pool of sharks, and as I ready my stuff to get out of the car the afternoon guy couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“Yep, a lot of my friends were wetbacks…but now them sand n*($%#s, ain’t nobody got not use for them.”

I was rendered speechless.

Until I saw my “Service Advisor”.

When I was done telling him about my enlightening afternoon ride in the “Courtesy Van”, he was the speechless one.

Warning: Possibly Sentimental (Definitely Graphic) Post Ahead, Fasten Your Seatbelts

Twenty-nine years ago, this day, I gave birth to a perfect baby girl.  The last of my four children, and if she’d of been my first, she’d of been an only child.

Not because she was a terror, quite the opposite, she was (and is) a truly beautiful, smart, funny, talented, and amazing girl.

No, I’m speaking of the nine months prior to her birth.

It started with puking, there was puking in the middle, and in the end there was more…puking.

I was the Kate Middleton of pregnancy, before there was a Kate Middleton.

And, in those days there were no fancy terms for “she-who-pukes-constantly-during-pregnancy”.

Nowadays, it’s called something Latin that I cannot pronounce.

I couldn’t stand the smell of any food.  I couldn’t eat, and if I dared, I couldn’t keep it down.

Except tuna salad.

And only at noon.

I could eat one tuna salad sandwich every day at noon, and keep it down.   The rest of the day, even the smell of tuna sent me running to the bathroom.

My poor doctor was at a loss, but he did bring me in to his office every couple of weeks and hook me up to an IV filled with this dark, thick stuff that was a vitamin concentrate. It took 30 minutes to empty the bag. I’d go home and feel decent for long enough to think I could eat and then realize (too late) what a mistake that was.

The very last week of my pregnancy, when I’d barely gained 20 lbs., I went in to see him and stepped onto the scale.

The only time in my life I remember desperately hoping I’d gained weight.

I had lost 5 lbs.

It was a Friday, and the doctor looked at me and said, “Monday”.

I replied, “What about Monday?”

“If you haven’t gone into labor by then, we are going to induce you.”

“Doc, I’ve had false labor for two weeks straight, and I’ve puked for nine months.  I’m about to go insane, so I’m with you.  Whatever you want to do.”

On Saturday the contractions began and were fairly regular.  I figured the baby had heard the doctor, so she was going to get serious about getting here.

Early Sunday morning, they stopped.

On Monday morning, they started again.  This time in earnest.

We drove the 50 miles to the doctor’s office, and after examining me he said, “You’re only dilated to about a one.  Now, you can either go home and wait.  Or, go to the pharmacy, get a bottle of castor oil, take it and walk, walk, walk.”

I chose the latter.

We went to a local mall, and saw the movie “Ghostbusters”; though by then the castor oil was doing the job it was designed to do and I missed half the movie.

The contractions grew steadily stronger during the day.

I walked and walked and walked some more.

We went to a favorite restaurant and hubby ate dinner.

We walked some more, then decided to go to the hospital as the contractions were now regular and about five minutes apart.

When I got there, and settled in, the attending came in and examined me.

“You’re only dilated to about a three, so I think we will send you home.”

I suddenly became the world’s largest bee-yotch, screaming at him that there was no way I was going home until this baby was born.

He grew pale as I became more angry and loud.

“I’ll go call your doctor.”


He came back in a few minutes and told me that my doctor had said to just let me stay.  God bless that man.

As my labor progressed, the anesthesiologist came in to give me an epidural.  On his first try, he missed.  My blood pressure plummeted and I passed out.   I’m told that I nearly fell off the bed, but was caught by my husband and a nurse.  I don’t remember that part.  What  I do remember is that after the successful epidural I felt no pain.

I also was never charged for that epidural.  Apparently, the doc that missed had felt so bad he was nearly in tears when he left me.

During the delivery, I was on a bed that tilted up so I was nearly sitting.  This allowed gravity to help.  It also caused severe friction burns to the backs of both thighs.  They were so bad, a nurse from the burn unit had to come down and treat them afterwards.

Once she was born, and I held that beautiful baby girl in my arms, everything was forgotten.

Okay, not completely.  That puking memory stayed with me a while.

I was in the hospital a few days longer than most people because of the burns, and the general rundown condition of my body from the lack of nutrition during the pregnancy.

During those days I ate.



Think lumberjack.

Suddenly, I was no longer pukey and nauseous and I couldn’t eat enough to fill me up.

I also slept almost constantly, only waking to eat or have someone poke and prod me.

The docs weighed me as often as they weighed my baby, and on the first day it was discovered that from pre-pregnancy to post-pregnancy I’d lost twenty-five pounds. So, although I’d gained twenty pounds during pregnancy, the minute she was born I lost forty-five.

My system was so run down, I spent the next year and a half catching every little virus that came along.  I was constantly sick with colds, strep, you name it.

Eventually, I recovered and as I’ve watched that baby girl grow up to have baby girls of her own I can tell you this…

I wouldn’t trade a minute of the puking for all the tea in China.

Maybe for gold, or cash money, but not for tea.

So Happy Birthday my darling baby girl, and I know you were a precious gift from God who continues to brighten my world.


What the what, what?

Anybody get the number of that truck what ran over my head Tuesday morning and gave me a TWO DAY migraine?

No,  it had to be a truck.  My neck/back/shoulders feel like I’ve gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson….*feels for ears*…umm..pre-crazy Mike Tyson.

I hate when I get a migraine, but day-ummm…two days?? Really?  They usually only last a few hours to a day at most.

And I still have a headache….just more of a dull throb now.

It’s complicated, the ‘why’ of it all, but in a nutshell one of my ruptured discs is in the first cervical spine joint, so when that one presses on some nerve in there BAM! I get a migraine.

I’ll be back, eventually…I was awarded a “Liebster Award” last week and I still haven’t written the post about it.  But I will.


Ever have one of those months…erm..years?

Yeah, in November I contracted double-pneumonia (the walking kind, as opposed to the it-will-kill-you kind)…

Got over that about a week ago…..finally.

Did a happy dance, realized I was shaking all over…and not in a happy-dance kind of way.

Took my temp…it was 101.


That was last Saturday.

By Sunday, I was literally incapacitated.  I was sooooo sick.

On Monday, dragged my ass to the doctor.

I have the flu.

And bronchitis.

And a throat infection.

Ima just gonna go crawl under the covers and stay there.

Somebody wake me when it’s 2014, kthxbai!

This Isn’t Really a Post About Anything………

……….just I’m sick…and whiny…..waaaaaaaaaaah…

I got walking pneumonia and an ear infection the day before Thanksgiving. 

Spent Thanksgiving day entertaining the family, not a one knows I’m sick, and then spent the next three days just lying around doing nothing much.

I couldn’t…everything is an effort and I get tired just walking from one room to the other.  Also, I feel drunk without the fun, because my ear is full of fluid.

I do feel a little better today, but I’m back at work and I’m already exhausted.

Like I said, this isn’t really a post about anything.

So, um…are you ready for Christmas? 

p.s. Aaaaaaaaaaand our computer blew up – literally – yesterday.  It’s old (8 yrs.) so it’s time to replace…but I didn’t plan on spending that money right now.

p.p.s. I’m thankful I have the money to replace my computer, so I’ve got it better than many people I know.

From the Department of Updating Updates to Updates

Here’s a few updates on recent shit important stuff I’ve posted.

Apparently, good-guy Sam isn’t such a good guy after all.  He NEVER responded to my e-mail.  This means no money for Rock and I to take a trip.  When I told Rock he just sat there, stoney-faced, not saying a word.  In fact, he hasn’t moved since. I’m a little worried about him.   Thank you, Sam.  Thank you sooooooooo much.

And, while we are at it, my genu-wine Fuh-bee guy, Juke, hasn’t returned any of my e-mails. Not a one…at least I don’t think he has. I was a guest of the county for a brief time and didn’t have any Internet access, so if he sent them then….. 

The poor dude with two first names, Eric….sigh….I probably came on too strong and scared him off.  He was a skittish colt, already, and I’ll bet all my talk of Empire State Building and Valentine’s Day just sent him over the edge.  Note to self: next time, maybe start with a coffee. 

On a happier note, my baby girl is out of the boot for short periods of time now.  She’s trying – probably too hard – to rehab her foot/ankle on the fast track.  Patience is not one of this girl’s virtues.   The important thing is it’s getting better on its own.  Too bad I can’t get back the years she shaved off my life when I heard her screaming and crying over the phone.   Yeah, there’s no ‘fast track’ rehab for that.

So, there you have it…direct from the official Department of Redundancy’s Department – Update Division.

I Don’t Know How to Respond to That

Sometime during the years we had four teenagers in the house, the kids and I developed a unique method for communicating.

3 X 3 Post-it notes left on the kitchen table, morning, noon or night were just big enough for quick notes, pleas, questions, etc. between me and the strangers sharing our house and using all the damned towels.

Not exactly heartfelt, soul-searching types of communications you see in Lifetime movies, but we got our points across.

Until the day that my oldest daughter left this one on the table:

“Mom, where k-y?”

I must admit I had no idea how to respond to a request for K-Y from my then 17-yr. old daughter.

Of course, my first reaction (okay, second reaction – my first was why is she asking me this question) was to Google chastity belts  – they still exist, I went against one of my own Internet rules here and actually asked Uncle Google about ‘chastity belts’, knowing there’s not a ready vat of brain bleach on the stove this morning ::shudders:: that’s how much I love you people – but quickly decided that was just a tad bit too Middle Ages even for me.

Instead I responded on my way to work that morning with:


And waited all day to find out the answer.  Was my baby girl involved in some kind of kinky activity that I really didn’t want to know about…even though I had to? If so, did I really believe she’d leave me a long note about her new job as Busty McChesterson and how it was a vital tool of ‘the trade’, and didn’t we keep a supply and if not, why not?

The mind raced, back and forth, all day.

When I got home, I raced to the kitchen table to see if I’d gotten a reply.

I had:


I bought a bigger Post-It note pad the very next day.


I am constantly amazed by the search terms that bring people to my site.

Occasionally, I’m amused.

Often, I’m perplexed.

Rarely, I’m startled.

But today, today I’m frightened.

Wanna know why?


“husband spontaneous combustion”

And, no I don’t really want to know.

I…just….I….no, no, and no.