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Just Sit Right Back…

…and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful riiiiiiiiiiiiiip…

It started from this lovely dog, and ended with a trip…..to the doctor. (and now you’re humming the theme from ‘Gilligan’s Island’ and later today you’ll still be humming it and wondering why…and you’re welcome)

You see, in the one corner on a retractable leash of 16 feet, was my beloved GSD.

In the other, an armadillo.  A live armadillo. Y’all there was a live armadillo in Texas. No, really, I can confirm.

The chaos when said dog sets her formidable sights and muscle onto retrieving the creature…excuse me…the live creature without warning the person holding the leash resulted in a resounding rip/tear as the leash/dog combo went from dead run to all stop.  And, no, it wasn’t the leash or its braking mechanism that was the source of the tearing.  It was my shoulder.  Specifically, the subscapularis tendon and muscle.

I think Einstein created a formula for just such an event:

Force of Dog X Mass of Dog + Acceleration of Dog in Pursuit of Prey = HOLYMOTHEROFALLTHATISHOLYFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!!PAIN!!!!!!!

Or something like that, it’s all very scientific.

I waited a couple of days, but when I realized my right arm was absolutely zero use I decided I might oughta see the doc.  She manipulated my arm, making me cry and see stars at the same time….and I’m pretty sure I grabbed her leg and squeezed reaaallllly hard…before saying I needed an MRI and it was probably a rotator cuff tear.

The MRI confirmed it’s a tear.

Next week I see a surgeon, because of course I am one of those who will have to have surgery.  Of course it’s a complete and utter tear, none of this partial tear shit for me, nope, when I tear something I go all the way.

There’ll be surgery and rehab and lots of whining on my part.

It’s a good thing that…my Mate is a mighty (sailin’) man, a Skipper brave and sure….

You’re welcome, again.

 

 

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Okay, Shit’s About to Get Real

*WARNING* Language and anger ahead.  If you’re sensitive, go away now.  If you’re  a snowflake, go far, far away and don’t come back.

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

No, really,

WHISKEY. TANGO. FOXTROT.

Why is everyone so upset about this Pepsi ad?

It’s an advertisement.  For a fucking soft drink.  It’s no more, and it’s no less.

Get over yourselves, snowflakes of the world, you don’t get to be the only ones outraged. Wait, yes, you do get to be the only ones outraged when your outrage is so clearly manufactured. And, if it’s not, sweet clothespin jeebus, you people need to get out more.  Or maybe just study your history.

How about four young men, staging a protest because they weren’t allowed to sit at a Woolworth’s lunch counter? 

How about separate fucking bathrooms, schools, and being force to sit in the back of the bus – all based on skin color?

You who protest a fucking Pepsi ad hide behind your keyboards, and compress your outrage in Twitter-sized posts.  You weren’t there, on the front lines, fighting for equality. You need ‘safe zones’ everywhere you go. You’d probably piss yourselves if you were ever on the receiving end of true opposition to your beliefs.

If Dr. King, Jr were here he’d slap the shit out of you and tell you to shut up or dig in and work for those people who are still facing inequality and discrimination every day. Not just people of color, but all people.

If Mother Teresa were here, she’d pray for your fragile asses and go back to ministering to the unwashed masses; quietly bringing dignity and a measure of comfort to their lives.

If Ghandi where here, he’d tell you to find your inner peace and project it on those around you.

But none of them are here, and I’ve taken great liberties with what I’m *sure* they’d say if they were.  Who knows?  Maybe they’d dismiss you out of hand for the immature children you so clearly are.

 

 

 

Crazy Mother Trucker

Last Friday a snowflake fell on Dallas and the entire world went batshit crazy.

In all fairness, a few pellets of sleet joined the snowflake so there’s that.

Now, my normal commute these days is about an hour.  On Friday, it took me THREE AND A HALF hours to make it from work to home.

I think a Kardashian or two got pregnant, gave birth, and started a search for the baby daddy all in the time it took me to get from Point A to Point B.

I saw TWELVE accidents in a 20-mile stretch of highway.  All of them single-car, none of them looked like anyone was hurt, and every one of them avoidable if people would just pay attention.

But that’s not the worst of it.

Stuck, sitting on the highway with no exit in sight, I had to pee so badly I created a makeshift bedpan for my car’s front seat and prayed that a. I wouldn’t have to use it, but if I did then b. I’d positioned it properly.  (fyi, I didn’t have to test my MacGyver-ish work but I’m seriously considering carrying an actual bedpan for future disasters it was that close)

But that’s not the worst of it.

Then there was the part where I was watching big rigs get stuck on bridges with slight inclines because the bridges were solid sheets of ice, and praying that fishtailing trailer didn’t slam me as I crept past them.

But that’s not the worst of it.

You wanna know what the worst thing was?  Other than having to hear my hubby on the phone telling me how pretty the snow looked from in front of the fireplace at home while I struggled to maintain some control over my bladder?

It was the mother trucker from hell in front of me. She appointed herself shoulder police, and since we were in the far right lane and no one was really moving, she had ample opportunities to block drivers who tried to take advantage of the unused shoulder of the highway to move up in the world. She’d pull off to the shoulder every time someone broke from the pack and tried to maneuver their way around.  Once an SUV came up alongside me, and I guess she saw them at the last second and pulled hard to the right forcing the SUV off onto the embankment and down in some slick/frozen grassy area. I thought for sure he was going to roll it, but he managed to maintain control and got around her.  She wasn’t happy, so she decided to stay on the shoulder because no one, by God, was going to do that to her – the SHOULDER POLICE – again.  Since she seemed content to now be the person using the shoulder to move along, I inched my car up until I was about halfway down the length of her trailer.  It was at that point she rolled down her window and started gesturing wildly and screaming at me.  I rolled down my window, utterly perplexed as I had not tried to use the shoulder to pass her but was, in fact, passing her in the lane. You know, the right of way, the part you’re supposed to drive on.

The conversation went…

CrazyMotherTrucker:  Do you want to get run over, bitch??!!

Me: What?

CMT: DO YOU WANT TO GET RUN OVER??

Me: But, you’re the one on the shoulder and I’m nearly passed you now so why don’t you just let me get in front of you and….

CMT: I’M COMING OVER NOWWWWW!!! RIGHT NOW!!

Me: (realizing at this point she had about 40,000 lbs. on me) Uhhh….

And she did…she just kept coming, and I had nowhere to go because right next to me was another truck and he had nowhere to go and so on.

So I stopped.

And I prayed.

And I held my breath and my bladder…the last one just barely.

And she juuust missed me by an inch or two as she did just what she screamed she would.

Crazy. Mother. Trucker.

 

 

Random Shit – Just So You’ll Know I’m Not Dead…Yet

So, a few weeks ago we bought a farm.

Sweet clothespin jeebus, what were we thinking?  Not only did we double the square footage of house we will now occupy, but we like bazillioned the amount of outdoor space we will now occupy. Thankfully, most of the outdoors looks like a forest and that’s exactly how it will remain.

Oh, and hubby doubled, yes fecking doubled, his commute.  Mine will remain about the same, because traffic.

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. are we doing???

We’ve also listed some other property we own for sale, put my mother’s property on the market – and it sold in three days, but now we wait for probate and try to figure out the drunken monkeys who wrote the damned mortgage on the property’s thought patterns – and hope/pray/cry/scream in frustration over the whole fecking mess which boils down to will I really be able to sell it at all or must I back out of these deals because when I do sell the property the mortgage company will come after me for the entire mortgage when I’m only responsible for half?  Jeebus, I hyperventilate just thinking about it all.

Then, this past weekend we spent 745 hours cleaning, packing, and de-feckifying the current house so the listing agent can come take pictures of it tonight and put it on the market.  Let me just say it’s been a while since I dusted anything properly. Apparently. Trust me on this.

We told the kids, they got weepy, the grandkids cried, and everyone decided we had to have a farewell potluck in the old house in a couple of weeks before we actually move – which will happen on Halloween, as you do…or at least as we have done the last two moves.

So, I’m a wee bit distracted and a wee bit exhausted, and a wee-wee-wee all the way home aching from head to foot.

Oh, and this morning my tire alarm went off in the car so I stopped to put air in the tire and was harassed by a homeless guy on a bicycle.

Good times.

Things That Freak Me Right The Hell Out

We all have them, the things that you see or do or see others doing that freak you right. the hell. out.

Here’s a partial list of mine:

1.Getting a text from my dentist’s office about how excited they are to see me on such and such date.  Really? You look forward to inflicting pain?  Dentists are freakishly weird.

2. Having the vet’s office ask me which of my “kids” or “babies” I’m calling about, AND when I’m there and go into an exam room, they announce that so-and-so’s “mommy” is waiting in such-and-such room.  I’m pretty sure mating with animals is illegal…wait, it’s still illegal to mate with critters, right?  Tell me I’m right. PLEASE. Because, if it’s not then I’ve crossed over from freaked to full-on fecked up.

4. I skipped 3.

5. You just went back to look.

6. Drones.  I actually swatted at my hair the other night, thinking the drone overhead      was a swarm of bees trying to kill me.  In my defense, it was my first droney-bee           encounter, and it was high enough above me that I missed. Dammit.

7. My frat-boy neighbors, a/k/a  The Dronemasters.  They NEVER sleep. Never.  Go to       bed at midnight?  They’re up.  Get up at 2:00 a.m.?  They’re up.  4:00 a.m.? They’re             up! They do this every night, then all their vehicles leave during the day.  I think       they’re vampires…and now I’m really freaked out.  And lest you think I’m that             neighbor peering out my windows at the frat boys, may I remind you that I can’t see their house from the only window I have that faces them.  I have to go outside to verify this.  I’m just looking out for you.  You’re welcome.

So, what freaks you right-the-hell-out?

Did You Ever?

Did you ever just have so much going on in your life, some good, some not so good, that you felt like you should build a blanket-fort, get inside with some cookies, milk, and a stack of books and threaten anyone who dared peek in with maiming?

Yeah, me either.

I was just checking.

Heh..heh…

It Probably Won’t Be Long Now…

….before the store management asks me to leave

The conversation will go like this:

ME: *engaged in some utterly inappropriate activity in public, oblivious to my surroundings*

MGR: Ma’am…ma’am…MA’AM!!

ME: Wha…?

MGR: While the staff and I appreciate your level of comfort here, and understand your need to ___________________(insert whatever stupid thing I happen to be doing/saying at the time here) we’d like you to leave.

ME: How soon?

MGR: Yesterday.

Why do I think this will happen?

Remember this?

Well, ever since that happened, every time I see the manager of the store he gives me the side eye and a wide berth.

Yesterday, I was quietly shopping again, headphones on and listening to Kevin Hearne’s “Shattered”.  It’s part of his Iron Druid series, and I totally recommend it…mostly for Oberon, but I digress.

Anyway, I was minding my own fecking business, that’s what I was doing, when I got a text from my son.  The one to whom we are (probably) going to gift the mini-van I inherited from my mother.

He’d had it ONE day after I spent over $500 getting some repairs done to it, and he’d slammed a curb, blowing both passenger-side tires, and bending the rims.

I knew he had the kids with him, so my first concern was them.  They were fine, so I called him…and…well…

ME: ARE YOU SHITTING ME??????????????????????????? WHAT. THE. FUCK????????????????

(I am screaming this into my phone’s headset – it’s one of those bluetooth things that looks like a collar and the buds come off it and go into your ears, but it’s not readily noticeable, so anyone standing nearby might think I’ve suddenly lost my mind and am screaming at the air..or myself.)

SON: *mumbles something about “sorry” and “can’t believe this happened*

ME: WHAT??

SON: The person in front of me slammed on their brakes, so in order to keep from hitting them I had to brake hard and I  rode up on the curb. I was only a mile from my apartment, so I limped it home.

ME: WHY WERE YOU SO CLOSE TO SOMEONE YOU HAD TO DO THAT????????? ESPECIALLY SINCE WE’VE BEEN HAVING ALL THIS RAIN? JEEZUS-CHRIST-ON-A-CRACKER, SON!!!

SON: I know, I know…I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry.

Did I mention I was in the middle of a store?  Did I also mention by “middle” I meant checkout lane?

Ever see someone actually “skitter” away from you?   I did, three employees as a matter of fact, all color draining from their faces.  I didn’t care, then, I was so beyond furious.

ME: I CAN-NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT!! I JUST SPENT HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS ON THAT THING, AND NOW YOU DO THIS!!!

SON: *soft whimpering*

ME: STOP IT. Everyone is fine, here’s what you do, get me pricing on repairs from Discount Tire, and a turnaround time. We have to get this thing fixed right away.  Call me back.

It was about here that I noticed the store manager and a couple assistants sort of hovering a few feet away, and realized they didn’t know what this crazy woman was up to or might do next.

Well, I didn’t do anything.  I just quietly paid for my groceries, one brave bagger having stepped back into the ring of my fury to bag my stuff, and then I left.

The whole time, though, the manager just stayed there by the register.  He never said a word, but he watched me.

Sigh, I’m just one more outburst away from being banned, aren’t I?

p.s. the repairs are going to cost me another $400

p.p.s. one of the things broken on the van (not by son’s stupidity, it was already broken) is covered under a manufacturer’s recall so yay!

 

 

What Fresh Hell is This?

I may have mentioned a time or elebenty hunnert that I live with an enormous amount of daily physical pain.

I’m beginning to think I may actually be a reincarnation of the goddess Odyne. Which reminds me, why can’t I be like Athena or even Artemis?  I’d like to be able to say I possess badassery or indescribable beauty because I’m a descendant of the goddesses of both, but nooooooooooooooo I have to be Odyne, the goddess of pain.  Oh well, at least I’m a goddess, even if I don’t rate more than a mere mention in mythology and lack a Wiki page of my own.

Is there a goddess of sleight?  Because I’m pretty sure Odyne has a valid grievance here, and I’d like to talk to someone about that.

And, I have gotten waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay off track.

See, that’s what pain will do to your brain.

So, the sources of my pain are numerous and boring – eight ruptured discs, spinal stenosis, fibromyalgia, arthritis, blah, blah, blah…

Most of the time a liberal application of heat, and the liberal downing of pain medications I take, keep me upright, mobile, and not feeling all stabbity to the world.

This week, though, it’s been different.  And by “different” I don’t mean ‘oh joy and happiness, I don’t feel like I’ve been run over by a truck!’  I mean it’s been ‘holyfeckballsoffirebreathingdragons, what.the.feck. is going on?’

My sciatic nerve, heretofore a quiet little dude that I gave nary a thought to, is pissed.

Royally, royally, pissed.

He’s decided to show me how pissed he is by setting my right leg on fire, while simultaneously stabbing me from ass to heel with a hot poker.

This is going on all. the. time.

It’s actually a breathtaking kind of pain.  As in, I gasp with each wave of pain, am nauseated most of the time from it, and cannot focus on what anyone is saying to me until the wave subsides and I wait anxiously for the next.

Even upping the pain meds is not dulling it much.  And they are strong motherfeckers, let me tell you.   Sciatic-Bob (yes, I named him) is stronger.

I know the inflammation will pass, and I really wish I could take anti-inflammatories but they make me pukey, I just wish it would pass sooner rather than later.

This gettin’ old shit? Ain’t for wimps.

Drunk’s More Fun

Or so I’ve heard, not that I personally have any knowledge of what “drunk” feels like, or even how to spell the word, or that I’ve ever known anyone who got drunk.

Probably.

But, what is not fun is waking up, getting out of bed, and immediately falling down to your knees.

That.  That is not fun. That is painful.

It’s also quite startling for the dog lying beside the bed.

But, it’s what happens when you wake up, stand up, and are suddenly more dizzy than anyone has ever been since the beginning of humanity.  And, it’s what happened to me this morning.

The dizziness subsided a bit after I was up a while, but then driving to work I noticed my head was tilted to one side and it was difficult to keep it ‘tween the lines.  Good thing I drive a tank, and good luck to everyone around me.

As I sit here, typing at my desk, I feel like I’m on a perpetual roller coaster…or drunk…with much less funnage (it’s a word, now) than I imagine either activity creates.

No, I don’t know what’s wrong, but because OLD I suspect either I’ve got some inner ear fluid thing going on or my rocks ‘er off.    And, by “rocks” I mean the inner ear bones that keep the world from going all funhouse (no, that is an effin’ word Mr. SquigglyLine) on me have gotten out of alignment.

It happens, as I said, because OLD.  As we age those bones wear down and move out of alignment.  When that happens, BAM! drunken old person syndrome (DROPS) ensues.  If you do happen to get drunk, you can just tell everyone you have DROPS and because you’re old they will believe you and probably offer to buy you a ham sammich or something.

I just hope the nausea that usually comes with dizziness didn’t come with this funpack, and I hope this shit clears up soon.

Like I said, it’s no fun.  And, yes, if it persists or gets even weirder I’ll go see the doc.  Another not fun activity I try to avoid.

Rant in the Feels

I’m big into nostalgia.

Only, not my nostalgia.

I’m big into the nostalgia of times I never encountered, and times when the things that make you go SQUEE! with delight were past me and thoroughly engulfed my children. The latter nostalgic times are embraced, loved, fondled, and homaged by a terrifically gifted writer (and very young man..okay, I added the “very” part because old) by the name of Matt at his blog Dinosaur Dracula.

Matt’s take on everything from movies to food is a reminder that oftentimes things are much sweeter looking back.

For the things that take me back back, to a time I never encountered but wished I had, I read a Reader’s Digest publication called “Reminisce”.  It’s full of warm and wonderful recollections of times long gone, often told by the people who lived them. I have always said I was born of the wrong time, and when I read the magazine I feel it’s true.

But, not for the nostalgic way things were when women stayed home and baked bread, or washed clothes in a tub.

No, I’m too lazy to go back to those times.

What I miss is the simplicity of everyday life.  The lines between right and wrong were clear and definite. Home, family, children, marriage..these were sacred trusts.

Anymore, I don’t know what’s sacred except maybe the love of self.  With twitter pics of a naked Kardashian-West, and the glorifying of things I believe to be so wrong – like Caitlin Jenner – I long for a time when I wasn’t affronted on all fronts by the out in fronts.

Don’t misread…I am not totally judging, okay maybe I am judging a little bit, but mostly I’m saying I don’t care that Kim has “..nothing to wear..” or that Caitlin used to be Bruce.

I DON’T CARE, and I don’t want to celebrate that shit or any of the other piles of shit I’m constantly forced to see.  I also don’t want to be confronted with it every time I turn on the television, radio, open up Facebook (and thank the gods I don’t use Twitter other than to auto-send a new post, because I do not understand that at all..not one bit), or simply exist in this world.