Dance, damnit!

New Year's Eve.
We survived another one. Most of us. 2 suicides in a 2 week period here. 1 was a 37 yr old mother of 4 who battled mental illness all her life, and 1 a 80-something vet who was just so lonely he couldn't take it anymore.
I always say, if nothing else, I'll hang around just to piss off those who want me gone so badly. I can't imagine not finding out what is going to happen next in my twisted life. It would be like putting down the best book I've ever read without finding out the end. Or giving in to whatever moron thinks they have control over me.
Never. Gonna. Happen.
Life is the perpetual motion machine. Once begun, it takes an opposing force to stop it. And it's New Year's Eve.
Indulge in whatever you like, or not, as long as it hurts no one else. And DO NOT INDULGE AND DRIVE or I'll hunt you down. Wear goofy clothes and a hat you wouldn't normally wear on a bet, kiss someone at midnight, don't dig a hole on New Year's Day, and DANCE, DAMNIT!

The Christmas one

I wasn't feeling very ho ho. My friend committed suicide Saturday morning. I know, not the best opening, huh? And today I went with her husband & family to the funeral home. Still not putting the "fun" in "funeral," I know.
Then, the fender bender. It was really a paint scrape by an inexperienced driver on ice & snow. The guy, knowing where we were going and with 2 chihuahuas shivering their eyes out in his car, made us all wait 2 hours for cops to show up to write a report for the insurance company.
My BITCH kicked in. Hard.
This douchebag is keeping us from a funeral home to say goodbye to my dead friend and keeping these 2 babies shivering in a vehicle because he thinks he is getting a payday??? Fuck this!!
So I excused myself, went to the ladies' room which happened to be directly behind where he was standing. I may have had a whispered word with the gent. And a true Christmas miracle occurred! Within 2 minutes, he decided, in the true holiday spirit, to call the police & tell them it had been resolved to mutual satisfaction, and we left.
What a generous spirit.
Now, the funny part:
One friend sent me a lovely knife etc. (In PURPLE) as a gift, and said it, "better not end up as evidence!"
She knows me.
I hadn't even told her about my day.
It didn't (yet), and the best I can wish anyone for their holiday is friends like I have, and try to be.
They are the greatest gift.
And books. Lots and lots of books.

Here's what happened

A few weeks ago I was in the holiday giving spirit. I had just finished planning my personal charitable donations, everyone's gift was either ordered, bought, or at least selected and budgeted. I had a little left over thanks to Amazon. Not much, but a little. I remembered my nearly ex's daughter, who is fighting an addiction. Not always successfully, but still fighting it. It's rough. I've been there. And I knew she is always having trouble paying her phone bill. She had asked me for help before, so I still had her information somewhere. I decided as an unexpected gift I would pay her Dec. bill.
Couldn't find the info. Then I remembered, it was stored in the nearly ex's old phone, which had been left here.
I got it from the box o'crap I plan on making sure he gets the second the gavel falls on the divorce. I charged it, enough to turn on anyway, and began scrolling through the old texts, looking for her sign in & password, when I saw the text from his mother, a.k.a., lying evil manipulative control freak bitch mil from hell's asshole.
It was dated last year, but it chills me to the core.
"Call the cops and tell them she is threatening you with a knife..."
I'm a felon. Yes, I did what I was accused of doing, and would again every day, forever, because I did it in defense of a child. I believe protecting the vulnerable is a cornerstone of the social contract most of us abide by in order to occupy the same planet. No, I won't get into details.
But I've never threatened anyone in my life. I don't believe in threats. People who threaten rarely act, and are cowards who get off on inciting fear, which truly terrorism, in my not so humble opinion. I believe in doing, and shutting the hell up about it, and paying whatever price you must for your actions.
I don't threaten.
But it's the kind of thing cops love to get people like me on. "You are a violent felon? Well, let's take any hint of violence and use it to lock you up for life!"
And being female? Yeah. A guy with a violent felony in his past, most people say, "Oh, he was young and wild. I bet he was drunk or some woman done him wrong..."
A woman with my past? "That crazy bitch is gonna snap again some day!"
Or, as a fairly new friend put it, "I was afraid to tell you what happened. I mean, you are a murderer."
Ouch. No, I'm not. I exterminated a scourge on decent people, particularly children.
But now, I'm afraid. Every unexpected knock on the door, every unfamiliar phone number, every snap of a twig, I think, "This is it. And I did nothing this time but my freedom is going to be snatched away from me, this time for life."
I don't sleep well. I don't know how long before I will again. All it would take to collapse my life is him to remember that text, and say the wrong thing to the wrong Good Old Boy, misogynist cop who hasn't gotten laid in a while and... I just have to hold on until the divorce is final. That's what I tell myself a thousand times a day.
Just. Hold. On.
Then the boys and I sell the house and VROOOOOMMMMM down the road, never have to even be in the same state as the rat bastard ever again.
Just. Hold. On.

Sing-a-long!

,Here we go:

🎵 Dashing (creeping) through the snow,
In a 1 horse open (passenger side window perma-stuck 3/4 up) sleigh (Buick),
O'er the hills (flat as a pancake) we go,
Laughing (whimpering) all the way.
Now bells on bobtails ring (no idea what this means. My whole life I've heard this song, still no idea),
Making spirits bright (dismal).
What fun (srsly?) it is to ride and sing (KTGL is cranked up) a sleighing (slaying) song tonight (late afternoon)!

Bastarditis

I was getting dressed for appointments this morning, and waiting for the cat-sitter (BratCat is very sick, or I would just hire the dog to keep an eye on the cats as usual), when I got a phone call I absolutely hated. A neighbor died yesterday.
I was passing along word when I was asked, "What was it, cancer?"
In a way.
She died from Acute Selfish Bastarditis of the Husband. Oh, she had a lot wrong physically, major gastro-intestinal issues, bad heart, lungs, but nothing that in itself would have killed her. But her system was weak, and she needed long term loving care. She was married, so she should have had that, right? Not with her husband.
He was in the top 3 most selfish, inconsiderate, least nurturing men of all time. The #1 spot being up for debate, because I say it is my nearly ex, and others say Hitler. Her husband was #3. Seeing her wasting away in slow motion in front of him, all the man cared about what what he wanted to do - partying with his friends, his new truck, getting high, getting drunk, anything but what she needed. And we aren't talking newlyweds or 20/30/40 ages, he 60's, old enough to know better but selfish enough to not give a damn.
This hits me really hard.
It was very nearly me, and if not for a really wonderful friend, it would have been. Less than 2 hours from it.
"Aw, a little fun ain't never killed nobody!"
Yes, it did. And it happens far too often but I'll be damned if I'll ever even almost let it be me again.
Rest in peace, finally, peace.

Zaphod in the White House?

I am absolutely horrified at the notion of Donald Trump as president.  I, who cannot vote, seem to be the only one who recognizes Trump as POTUS to be the equivalent of Beeblebrox as Galactic president - I just know he is going to steal the White House and fly it off on some personal errand.
And exactly what the hell qualifies him to even run? His spiel has always been, "I'm rich because I'm ruthless and incredibly lucky, so pay attention to me!" Not a word in there about intelligence, strength of character, nor compassion, all of which are absolute requirements to be in a position of such power as President. This man has never eaten ramen noodles for 2 months and been grateful to have that. He has never even pretended to understand what the struggling poor go through every single day, and we are the majority. You cannot bestow power if not tempered with compassion and empathy, and he has neither.
And nobody has really thought this through. The name alone should disqualify him. We can't be saying, "My president Trumps your queen," because it would be too absurd. And he would probably want to build condos on the mall, guild Congress, add slot machines to the Lincoln Memorial, and have a line of Secret Service cheerleaders with pompoms precede him everywhere.
Yep, the Trumpettes, who form a kickline and dance to a custom all-Trumpet version of Hail To The Chief as he enters and exits buildings. I don't want to live in a world where pom poms are symbols of politicians.
Remember that great Adams idea, "Absolutely no one who seeks the job must ever be allowed to have it."
Here's the personification of that. Let The Donald go back to shilling real estate, and trying to convince himself he isn't a waste of space as a human being by having a reality tv series that more than 6 people watch, but stay the hell out of politics. We have enough to do trying to run a nation of broken people without adding massaging your tacky ego into it.
And I'm not that big a fan of pom poms.

Just... bullshit.

Yes, I call it.
Nobody should ever say:
You are strong enough; you can do this by yourself!
That is the worst thing you can say to anybody, ever.
And we all say it - especially to women friends who are suddenly going it alone.
You're all wrong. Well-meaning, but wrong.
I've been married, divorced, widowed, and just plain old don't want anybody, and I'm here to tell you, nobody makes it alone. Friends. The ones we call family, not mere relatives. Total strangers. They are vital.
Have them.
But never tell anyone they are strong enough to "go it alone," because nobody does, and that's just a shitty thing to say.
This post?
Was supposed to be about something else - why I'm not a writer - but stuff happened, and... yeah. Tomorrow. Or not.
Have friends. Be one.
Accept "The kindness of strangers," because sometimes, that is all you can get.
And by the way?
It's okay to need help, sometimes. It's okay to accept help. It's okay to ask for help. And when you can? Give it. Freely. Without expectation of return, in any way. You've probably been a jerk at some point in your life, so if you can't accept paying forward, then for fucks sake, pay it back.
And why I'm not a writer? Actually not worthy of a whole blog post. Turns out by the time I have the story (or blog post) clearly enough in my mind to put something into words, I know the story so I'm not interested in it anymore. I do better sitting down like this and just spewing out some things and hoping they make some sort of sense later. Very few writers manage to turn out anything worth reading this way. I don't kid myself I could do it for an entire coherent novel. So while I am not gifted with the ability, nor the self-discipline, needed to write for others, I am blessed with the ability to recognize great writing from others, and help coax it from them.
It's enough.

Curses! Foiled again!

I haven't posted in a bit, not from lack of anything to talk about, but from too much, and most of it was health stuff and since I talk about all that everywhere else, no need for it here. This started with my health and ended up with me still sneezing my fool head off, via Colorado.

Hippy Neighbor, or HN, got a credit card. I don't know how, but I suspect someone will lose their job over it eventually. It has a 25% interest rate. I know loan sharks who would cringe at 25%. HN didn't care.
"I'm going to Colorado!!!"
And she did. She didn't pack, didn't plan a route, just got in her car and left. She did call me from the road and ask me to take care of her dogs while she was gone, though.
She was gone for 5 days. She came back happy, and as stocked as they allow.
Included in this bounty was 2 of an item alledging to be chocolate taffy chew. 10% THC.
"I smoke weed all day everyday, and I've never felt like that in my whole life! I couldn't walk! It was wonderful. I know you can't smoke anymore, but you can have these..."
I thought about it a few days, I admit. Finally, not wanting to risk having it in my system in all the bloodwork lately, I decided against it. Then I happened to mention it to my doctor.
"You know, as long as you aren't smoking it so there's no damage to your lungs, I don't see the harm in trying it. It will be legal here next year anyway, and if there is something that can give you a little relief without affecting the medicine roulette we're working on, go ahead. If it comes up in a test, I'll tell them I okayed it. But just once for now; we don't need to mask any new symptoms or effects."
GASP
I had permission to get high

I waited a day. I planned around it, making sure I didn't need to go anywhere, had appropriate munchies, drinks, movies. Finally, it was tim. Nothing could stop me no, I was going to get high!
After struggling for 6 minutes, I gave up. I couldn't get the damned thing open. Sure, I could have gotten scissors or a knife to open it, but I realized - these things are made for people who have numbed or killed most of their brain cells and they can open them. I better not risk mine. They are in bad enough shape as it is.
So, I tossed it in a drawer, and maybe in a few months when it's legal, and we've gotten my brain back to whatever passes for normal in there, I'll revisit the cheeba chew. For now, I've still got all the munchies...

Glass Houses & Pie

I love love love love ~big pink heart~ love when people try to tell me how to live my life. It gives me the warm fuzzies all over that so many people care so deeply that they feel they must instruct me on everything from my sleeping schedule to my choice of coffee brands.
Not really.
I appreciate that you pay enough attention to my life to notice the choices I make, but as for telling me how to live? Not so much. If I ask for your advice or input, great, and remember I may not take it, but I have the information and what I do with it from there is on me.
But.

You can't...
Reality begs to differ
Hide and watch
Yet, I did
Oh? 1 of us must be dreaming or hallucinating again

You have to...
No I don't
There are only 2 things we have to do - be born and die, and everything else is an option

You need to...
Oh, suddenly it's about my needs
Or else what?
You have no idea what I need

Srsly, telling me not to do something is a doublecat dare ya, it's the green light, waving me in the the pits, it's saying YOU MUST DO THIS NOW. And telling me I won't do something? Please allow me a few moments to call my bookie and place a largish wager, post a status on facebook about doing it, sell tickets to the show, make a note in my diary, take out insurance on the event, and have a crew of journalists ready for live coverage.
All this in because in the past few hours I've had a slew (ok buttload. Better? Yeah, no, I like slew) of people telling me what to eat, drink, feel, do, think, be... yeah.
I don't care that you don't approve of my food choices. Today, I have eaten:
Shrimp for breakfast. It's what I wanted when I wanted it. Midmorning I had a few cheese and crackers (with a glass of wine! Yep, because I knew I wasn't driving and I wanted it. I don't care where the sun is, what time it is, any anachronistic misogynist system's opinion, or any imaginary standards or when it is okay to drink may be). Lunch? fruit bowl and steak. Midafternoon was baked potato. And dinner? A slice of homemade apple pie with vanilla gelato and a glass of milk. I may eat cereal in the middle of the night, too. And so what? I'm getting all the nutrition I need, in a tasty way, when I want, and in a form that is acceptable to me. And it doesn't have a damned thing to do with anybody else. It doesn't change who you are as a person, shake the foundations of the institution of marriage, affect the dow-jones, cause tidal waves, incite riots, lower the water level, or in any way whatsoever affect anybody but me, and that is my choice. If it does, that is your choice.

The glass house? People who live in glass houses shouldn't get stoned with nudists.

Booze Rules

I've posted this, in some format, on furbook, but this is an expanded version.
What qualifies me? A lifetime of experience. I have performed, without a net, for decades in the Professional Level, to the point where I am no longer qualified for the drunklympics.
Cuervo wants me to lend my name to ads, now that they have determined I am not wholesaling.
Since '89 the Bud distributer has sent me clothing saying my boobs & rep behind the name is good for business.
So here we go!

• Don't drink sugary booze. The sugars lend to hangovers, when metabolizing. If the only booze you can stand is sweet? Don't drink. Same with mixers, if they aren't pure juice. Don't like the taste? Don't drink.
• Hydrate. 1 bottle of water for every 4 oz. of alchohol. I once had a waitress at the now defunct (moment of silence) Fitzgerald's in Reno mention, "I notice you never seem drunk but you drink an assload (legitimate measurement term) of stingers (always a serious proposition for non-pros, and my fallback drink for cold weather), is it the water?" Yes. Yes it is.
• Food does not "sober you up." It allows a slower window for the booze to affect you. Same for coffee, except it also gives you greater awareness of the consequences of your drunkeness.
• No matter what, save 2, and exactly 2, of whatever you were drinking the night before. Choke them down immediately the next morning. Keep them down and you will be able to function the next day, pre 1st lunch beverages.
• Do not drink craft beers. Except Big Wave, Red Stripe, Old Peculiar if you must drink beer, stick with the basics, and no, cheaper has no bearing, it only means more for the money but usually passes through without time to have as much effect. Translation - if you piss it out before it buzzes you it does no good 
• Take 3 aspirin with water before passing out. This is not a myth. Hangovers are caused by dehydration which causes swelling of the brain and neurological system. Inflammation is caused by dehydration.
• If you misjudge your intake v capacity, and must yark, for fucks sake, make it interesting. Yarking off a balcony onto a parade during Mardi Gras thus inciting a riot - twice - is acceptable; ruining your cute date's Cole Hahn's are not.
• Wine is an entire other subject.

Let him eat steak!

I recently mentioned on facebook I was going to throw a couple of steaks on the grill - 1 for my dog and 1 for me. I immediately received a message admonishing me against this, and lecturing me on animal nutrition, etc.
My initial polite reaction was, "Fuck you, you don't feed me or my dog, or pay my bills." I didn't send that.
My secondary response was, "Thank you for your concern."
What I really want to say is this:
I know. Okay? I know a dog's nutrition isn't covered by a steak. I didn't also list the steamed veggies and potatoes that would also be part of his (and my) meal, because that doesn't make for a pithy fb status.
I also know my dog. You don't.
I adopted Geo (yes, he was named for a gravity bong but no, I didn't name him) when his alleged human father had to go to jail for a few months and it was bitter cold, but he had nowhere for Geo to go.
He has been my baby ever since.
Geo was chased with a vaccuum, slung against walls, starved for both food and love when I got him. He would eat any and every food, because that was what he lived - scrabbling to survive and I can empathize - eating anything to stay alive except dog food because he was never given it. Why spend money on dog food when that could buy beer? That was how he was raised until I found him.
I used to get up at 7 am and cook for Geo, real food - sometimes eggycheesygoodness, and once I even made beef wellington for him but that was a long story/rare situation/bar bet.
But Geo won't eat dog food. Except Blue Buffalo, and only that about twice a week. He will eat kitty food occasionally, which makes sense as he truly believes he is part cat. Brat and Rags do not discourage his puppycatness.
But Geo has never gotten past his cringing when even I reach to pet him if I reach overhand toward his head, running to hide under the bed or sofa when there is a loud noise, or refusing to eat dog food. I suspect something regarding dog food and abuse of which I am not aware happened in his pre-me past. Good thing, because I know where the son of a bitch who did all that to him is, and I don't want to go back to the joint.
But all this is in aid of saying, I'm about to take steaks off the grill for my dog and me, and screw you if you don't like it.
Did I mention I also put shrimp on there for my cats?

Hatching

Saturday is my birthday. The weird thing is, I had forgotten it. I was talking with my friend Joan, when she mentioned I wouldn't be in the hospital like I was for my birthday last year. I had been so focused on making the 1 year since my heart surgery, that I completely spaced it also being my birthday. Not suprising, since it was probably subconscious avoidance of the whole issue. I'm not one of those people who trips out on number of years. Ask me how old I am. Go ahead. Answer: Beats me. Don't make me do math.
I'm old enough to vote even though not allowed, drink, be president (Can felons be President? If so, watch out, Kanye!), too old to give birth, not yet retired. Somewhere in there.
I remember asking my mother how old she and my dad were, when I was maybe 5 or 6, and she paused, then answered, "Well I was born in '37 and he was born in '32..." and stopped to do math. I thought she was kidding. Everyone knows how old they are, I foolishly thought. Then about 15 years ago I was filling out a form somewhere, and it asked age. I had to do math. I stopped and thought, Whoa, it really does happen!
But blocking out birthdays isn't a bad idea for me, usually. This year will be the first in I don't know how many years that I haven't been incarcerated, in hospital, or homeless. Yes, I've been homeless. No, this isn't about that.
My last good birthday, I was 3. There were no fights nor arguements, the whole family was there, and I was happy. I had a white 3 layer cake with pale pink roses, from a local bakery but really nothing unusual and it remains, in my mind, the ultimate birthday cake. I haven't had one like that since, despite repeatedly requesting it from various people over the years (and it isn't the same if I buy one or make one for myself. I can't explain why not, it just...isn't).
But last year? I got my life back. And I was literally 2-3 hours from dying before my surgery. Helluva gift.
This year, I'm going to eat cake, even though I'll make one for myself, probably something involving chocolate, and it will be the best damned birthday ever.

Shame on you all

I wasn't going to talk about it, but I can't not talk about it. Maybe the problem is that too many people don't talk about it. I mean the "R" word. Yeah. Racism.
They are doing work on the railroad here, for about a 7 mile stretch, and at every crossroad in addition to a gazillion signs & flashing lights, they also have a worker stationed holding a STOP sign. Redundant, I feel, but no one asked me. These guys have been out there since I took Geo on morning walkies, at least the 2 I can see from my house, so I presume all of them have been. 1 had a cooler and had a bottle of water in his hand, and 1 did not. The 1 who didn't was black.
I had to make a run into town (yes, there was a sale on booze. Don't judge me) and noticed every single group or individual had coolers or was holding water bottles. They were all white.
I don't immediately jump to the "R" word, but I also damned sure don't allow it around me, and have no trouble speaking out against it, when I see it. Immediately.
First thing, I stopped and went back to my house and grabbed 3 bottles of water and took them to the guy, and told him, "I've worked outside in summertime, it sucks, here."
This kid couldn't have been more than 20. And what he said hurt my heart.
"Oh, ma'am, thank you, ma'am, they were supposed to bring around water but I think they forgot me."
Ouch. Fucking ouch.
All I could do was tell him, "My house is right there. If you need more water, or to use the bathroom, you just come right there."
Then I got on the phone and made some OH HELL NO YOU DON'T calls to the railroad.
I don't know what will happen, if anything, but to the railroad people who furnished all the guys but him with water, and everyone who drove by without seeing, shame on you all, you rotten excuses for humanity.

Film

Greatest moments in cinema? Easy. Hands & paws down:
#1 - Jaws when Richard Dreyfuss is in the water, goes to wet his mask, then looks up at Roy Scheider with a totally blank face, "I ain't got no spit."
This formerly passionate erudite man has been through hell's anteroom, and comes out wiped of all but horror, with a double negative, that expresses his absolute terror in 5 syllables. Brilliant.
#2 - Natural Born Killers in one of the first scenes at the diner as Mallory begins dancing to the jukebox, and the good old boy exclaims, "What in the hell is that?" It isn't about the girl doing a slinky hootchie dance at all, but about Man's eternal response to Woman. I don't know what it is or why but I am mesmerized.
#3. The Godfather, when Michael is in Sicily, sees Appalonia, then meets her father. The 2 underlings with him panic at her father's response, but Michael, a true capo by birth and by environment, understands and without a single hesitation assuages her father with respect and honesty.

Yes, there are a ton of others, but I got this question in my email (along with one from another person about my favorite lube - Penzoil high mileage. Srsly, whatthehelllllllll as Peanut would say!) asking my top moments of cinema. Here ya go.

Wait, what???

I had in mind several things to talk about in this post - my having lost the trick of sleeping, more political buffoonery, the importance of hygiene, increase in roadkill lately - until I received a phone call from one of my doctors.
"I feel I should apologize, in a way, but not really, because if you were an idiot things would not have progressed to this stage."
Uhmm...
He went on to explain that had I not been intelligent enough to mostly manage my own recovery, they would have been monitoring me much closer, and could have caught the problem far earlier.
Erm...
If I was stupid I wouldn't be sick???
For those late to the party, I had open heart surgery last year (on my birthday!) and now have been diagnosed with Cushing's, but because of all the metal in my body, from the heart valve, the leg, and various other bits, they can't run standard scans to figure out which of the 3 types I have. Hoping it's medicine-induced, we're playing pharmaceutical roulette, 1 med at a time, hoping to trigger a regression of the adenoma currently playing house in my pituitary gland. So far, the only new thing is my insulin level going apeshit.
"So you're saying I have a brain tumor because I'm smart?"
"Well, in a way, yes. Hmm. That hardly sounds right."
No shit. I always thought being intelligent was a plus, until now.
Shows what I know. Hey, maybe that makes me dumb enough to be healthy!

We're both mad as hell!!

I am not going to recap the Cecil & now Jericho events because a jillion news agencies have already covered that. I'm going to say this:
I quit. If this is what humans do and allow, I no longer want to be one.
Far before I ever read the Dalai Lama's quote, I adopted as my personal mantra, "Our job as humans is the leave this life a better place than when we got here, or at least don't fuck up the joint any worse!"
There's a reason the Hippocratic Oath begins, "First, Do No Harm."
And humanity has lost the plot when it comes to what we do and allow, because we're too busy worrying about violating rights of complete wastes of oxygen like Dentist Douchebag. I personally believe both he and the poachers have ceded their rights to be treated as humans. I think they all should be hacked up and fed as a meal to the cubs, and their belongings sold to fund continued feeding them until they are old enough to hunt for themselves.
Because that is the only solution that adheres to the social contract we must abide by in order to survive on this planet. And I think I may be channeling Serge A. Storms. I'm fine with that.

**Note: shortly after posting it was released that Jericho is still alive. Yes, and? I stand by my original statement. Dentist Douchebag and all poachers, as well as the sick fucks who buy the kills should be food for the victims' families.

Oh, CENSOR off!

That's right, once again I have been taken to task for using the f-bomb. Well, fuck.
I quote, "You have a public setting on your page, and because of your many humorous cat pics, some children also see your page, and should not be subjected to foul language."
Foul language. I consider organized religion, politics, orange powder cheese, my power bill this month, reality tv, and anything by One Direction to be foul, but I don't go telling you what you can expose your children to, although perhaps someone should if you think you can tell me what I can publicly post anywhere.
Contrary to popular belief, I do censor myself. A lot. Not because I'm worried about exposing innocent little Sally or Johnnie to the word "fuck," but because I don't want to influence anyone's personal belief system. I express my opinion, but I damned sure don't tell anyone what they should do or think or feel or say, because I'm too busy screwing up my own life to try to direct anyone else's.
But really, what the hell kind of kid are we talking about, anyway? To be on fb, which was where I received the "helpful" *cough* message, a kid has to be at least 14, I think it is? I doublecat dare you to find a 14 year old who has never seen, heard, or said "fuck."
Have you listened to the radio lately?
Ever see "A Christmas Carol?" It wasn't "fudge" Ralphie said, if you recall, and that was an 8 year old in the 1950's.
This is 2015, in case you were unaware. Evolve a little, accept that children are much more exposed to "foul" language than ever.
And I really don't say "fuck" that often.
Ah, fuck it.

Grow a pair, already!

I read. A lot. For a living, for relaxation, to expand my mind.
There is a very disturbing trend of weak female protagonists. The first time I came across one of these, I spewed a flurry of f-bombs that woke the dog. "What the everloving fuck? You fucking weak fucking bink, don't let that fucking bitch talk to you like that! Tell her to fuck off and die!" I railed. Then, I kept seeing it. These weak women who actually swoon at the sight of blood (excuse me, doesn't anyone else know that the average woman sees far more blood in a month than most men do a lifetime?), allow their intrusive families and friends to dictate their dating/mating habits, fold to any bit of pressure, and are generally just wusses.
Simone de Beauvoir. Betty Friedan. Helen Gurly Brown. Hell, Scarlett O Freakin' Hara and Miss Marple had more balls than these shoe-obsessed literary women.
Those are the women I admired, not some limp lass who allows her family to set her up on blind dates, even though she is in an "almost relationship" with the studly guy. What the hell kind of weak, lame message is this sending to the younger generations??
I'll remind my generation and tell the younger generations now:
Grow a pair, or a spine, or something. Be strong. Be unafraid. Be alone and okay, or with your equal and okay, but you have to be better than is currently being written of women.
You just have to be.

"Don't blow a gasket"

Srsly. "Don't blow a gasket." That is now part of my actual doctors' orders. Yes, doctors, plural.
I got the sutures in my head removed yesterday, while finding out I have some cranial blood flow issues, that aren't caused by my heart, although can adversely affect my heart and the mechanical valve. Another round of tests next week, more pills, bed rest & off my feet - never up for over 3 minutes at a time, as little stress as possible *snort* and in the meantime, "don't blow a gasket."
Uh huh.
Is that a clinical term?
I have cats and a dog. I have recipies dancing in my head that beg to come to life (chai cream truffles & a cake pie!), laundry that needs to be done, a house to be taken care of, a lawn to be mowed, 5 books that need to be proofed so I have little things like water, electricity, food...
So, I'm trying to do life in 3 minute increments, with 30 minutes rest in between. 1 cat, Rags, totally gets it. My cuddlemuffin. BratCat is...as advertised. Geo doggy NEEDSTOPLAYMOM and I'm here in a big old pile of guilty trying not to blow a gasket. Logically, I know if I drop dead of a blown gasket, nothing gets done. And with my supersniffer, I can tell I have that smell. The one I had most of last year. The one I get when something has really malfunctioned in my body. The one I smell on people who are deeply ill or dying, that no amount of bathing or deodorants or perfumes can cover. The scent of fundamental unwellness that is a better alarm to me, and the few like me with a sense of smell that makes a bloodhound quit his job in frustration, than all the lab tests in the world.
It's whispering to me, but now it's saying, "Don't blow a gasket."

Little victories and no delivery

I have been going through what is so eloquently referred to as, "A bit of a rough patch," by a dear friend in England.
No shit.
Serious ongoing heart/circulatory health issues, staggeringly bad luck, rotton timing, natural disasters, and compounded by my less than graceful normal self have led circumstances to find me currently sporting 5 sutures in the top of my head, and an inability to stand or bend without passing out of at least becoming woozy. No, I was not Hitler, Pol Pot, Judas Iscariot, or any other infamous bastards in a prior life - that I know of - but life is kicking my ass. And biting it. Yep, 2 spider bites on my left cheek. Nope, not on my face. Looks to be venomous, with some truly wonky neurological side effects, and is being treated.
But I wanted to take a bath. I ~BIG PINK FLUFFY HEART LESS THAN 3 ~ my baths. I require soaking in a deliciously bubble-filled tub, uninterrupted by man nor beast. That hasn't worked so well, as of late, but this morning I declared a State of Bath Emergency and filled that sucker right on up with my favorite feel-smell-good bubbly stuff. At 5 am. Because knowing my recent propensity for hygiene-related incidents, I was also thinking there are 20 farmers less than a few miles away, still home plucking the goats & milking the chickens before dawn, should some sort of mushroom cloud rise from my bathtub and they might get the cats and dog out before any violent bubble damage could occur.
I got in, enjoyed a brief soak and wash, started to get out, and froze. What if I fall and bamage the rest of my drains? I was in mid-crouch, clinging to both safety rails like a lobbyist to a politician for 7 freaking minutes. I was completely convinced that if I moved at all, the whole falldownboomsplat thing would happen yet again, but terrified to move for fear of being trapped in my own bathtub and no restaurant that delivers nearby. As my muscles screamed over the voices in my head and the complaints of 3 furry guys who hadn't had 1st breakfast, another noise began intruding over the cacaphony.... beep... beep... Beep... BEEP.... My phone battery was critically low.
Yeah, I'm not being trapped in a bathtub with no food and no phone.
I took a deep breath and s l o w l y crawled out, yes, crawled over the side of the tub, and managed to get myself upright and dressed. And charged.
And I did it without ending up nekkid head-first in a snowbank next to a funeral on YouTube this time!! But that's a story for another day.

Yeah, I know

Okay, I haven't blogged here in a bit. Is "blogged" in O.E.D.? I can't be bothered to look. Noo wurd, if not. My cat was sick. No,  it isn't a crap excuse. 1 of my cats, BratCat, has a very rare type of Feline Acute Respiratory Disorder (Birth Trauma-Induced, Non-Contagious) which before Brat had a 100% mortality rate by age 2. Brat is 5 1/4, which is huge. Most of that is because nobody bothers to do research on something that is "always" fatal, but we've proved it isn't, so STEP IT THE FUCK UP, VETS!
Yeah, that's a different blog.
Amurika just had another anniversary, accompanied by the requisite fireworks by people with a an illegal B.A.L. and insufficient knowledge of the symbolism of fireworks.
Next year, no matter where I am (and it won't be Nebraska, regardless), I'm going to go around and if anyone in a mile radious of me can't demonstrate a working knowledge of American history, the calender, and fireworks safety through  interpretive dance, I'm confiscating their fireworks.
Try me. I used to make my living blowing up things, and will not hesitate to include morons, again.
That said, I want to talk about something that I read about in a disturbing blog a few weeks back - The Happy Housewife's Hidden Cocktail. Yeah. It's 3/1 freaking mouthwash & vanilla extract over ice. Insert full body rigor here. I make it a habit to never bitch about something I haven't experienced firsthand (not including incest, coprophilia, or being Republican) so I tried a sip. Don't. Just... don't.

No, you don't, unless you have

An acquaintence had a massive heart attack last week, and has severe brain damage from lack of oxygen during and immediately after the cardiac event. He can't speak at all.  It terrifies me.
A few weeks ago, I strolled up to the bike show just as they were doing the rev-up for the hp contest. I hadn't been around a really powerful engine since my surgery, so I wasn't prepared. From 100 yards away I could feel the wires that hold together my ribcage were beginning to vibrate.
People who claim to care about me get butthurt and pissy when I refuse to be around them when they're smoking pot, because I can not have anything illegal in my system in any bloodwork, or I lose my benefits completely.
Same thing about sodium content in foods, stress in general, going out "partying" or socializing with people whom empirical data has shown will end up with at least 1 person in handcuffs. Think felons R us, on parade.
But you don't know what it's like to be gasping, never quite getting enough air, knowing and often hoping that when you close your eyes each time, that you may not wake up.
Unless you've been there, yourself.
I do not owe anyone my health, my heart, my life. If I choose to jump in front of a bullet for you, that is one thing, but I refuse to let anyone's childish, selfish, petty, bullshit behaviour make me drop dead of heart related issues. And only until you've actually been there, do you know.

Murder, she whimpered

My treadmill just tried to kill me.
I hadn't been on Treddy - yes, that's what I call him - in nearly 2 weeks, since I have a sick cat (Yes, I'm a cat person, but that isn't what this is about) and also because my bro, Frank, was visiting to give me a break around the house, and because I gave myself a concussion last week. Yes, I'm that graceful. Not a long story - door, dog, leash, temple, doorframe. I know.
Anyway, I hadn't been on Treddy in 12 days. I had been doing 3 miles a day, every day, for months. That may not sound like a lot, but it is when you consider just a few months back I was on a table with my chest cut open for 17.5 hours to have a valve replaced and a bypass on another. It's been a long road, and I still have a long ways to go, but this also isn't about that.
This is about Treddy. The executioner.
I don't usually walk that fast, about 4 mph, but I have a long stride, so it goes pretty smoothly. Not today. Treddy was looming in judgement every single time I glanced in his general direction, so even though I didn't really feel like it, the cat was having a little better day, so I kicked my own ass onto Treddy. 6 minutes in I heard a pathetic whimpering. It took me a bit to realize was coming from me. 12 minutes in, I started crying. My back and legs screaming for mercy, I stabbed through sweaty blurred vision in the general direction of where I swear the OFF button used to be. It had traded places with the SPEED UP button in what I can only surmise was an attempt to take my life. I was prepared to stop; Treddy sped up. Graceful me, went zooming off the back and was only saved from certain death, or at least another concussion, by landing in the garbage can. That's right. Treddy tried to kill me, then dispose of my body.
My legs are now jelly, and my blood pressure that I'm doing all this to keep lower is now anything but. I've rarely been in greater need of a bottle or 4 of wine. And if my lasix kicks in again any time in the next hour, I'll just have more laundry to do tomorrow. When I can walk again.

Quiche and '76

Yes, in my mind they are connected.
I'm taking a MyDay today, which means unplugging as I see fit, from the world in general. But this is stuck in my head, and I have to get it out, so you, Lucky Reader, get a free trip into the psychotic amusement park that is a fraction of my mind!
You're welcome.
Ever hate someone so much that anything about them, or that reminds you of them, you also hate? Or at least can't really like?
1976.
1 of my exes was born January 5th, 1976. Yes, a few coughcoughcough years younger than me. I hate him far more than any other human being on the planet, for reasons it would take far too long to explain. We got married because of the chemistry - we were both extreme adherents to the chemical life, and I was weak. Same reason we split up, except I stopped the chemicals and became strong.
Anyway, I hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate, okay I really dislike anything associated with 76. I won't even get gas from that station. And 1976 wasn't a bad year for me, originally. My family, being the patriotic bunch that we were, celebrated the Bicentennial by going to Canada! Right. Moving on.
I hate 76 so badly that when I hit that Powerball a few months back, my first thought was, Oh I'm so glad 1 & 5  were not my numbers and they cut off before 76! Okay, that was my 2nd thought. My first was, Huh.
Yeah, it takes a lot to shake me. I kind of accept anything astoundingly good as just payment for the incredibly shitty things that have happened, many of which I don't feel were justified. On that scale, I'm still due some amazingly wonderful things, and there's time since I seem to be unbreakable.
The quiche? Oh, yes. 1st, if your quiche seems dry, as my ex used to think until he tasted mine, substitute 2 tablespoons of plain Greek yogurt for your cream.
See what I did there? Yeah, I'm impressed I remembered it, too, but the cats and dog ate snoozing in sunpuddles.

Men are oranges

Okay, I had this insightful bit composed in my head, but by the time I got my connection back, it was gone. Stormy.
I'm honestly wondering at this point in my life, how much tequila must be involved for me to get to numb. More than a fifth, but that was enough for me to totally lose my train of thought. Or maybe it was that it took more than 6 seconds. I've never been diagnosed with A.D.D., but I have 2 cats, which is kinda the same thing.

Same basic concept but hugely varying differences in peel, skin, taste, pulp... something along those lines. I've become a connoisseur of oranges. I started gorging myself on them, unabashedly, when a friend swung by with some that had been on trees in his family's orchard 2 days before he arrived. 

Yeah, *that* kind of fresh.

They triggered my highly sensitive metabolism, and I started ..oh! I just discovered if you're in a dark room with only cell phone light while peeling an orange, you can see the spray as you release the peel! You can't see that in normal light. Wait, what was I... *sigh*

Anyway, turns out oranges also have a bunch of potassium, but nobody thought to tell me because most people prefer bananas to oranges. See! I remembered the point this time! I just lost the in between stuff. And my original analogy.

What happens in Reno, gets temporarily stuck in Nebraska

Stephen Hawking isn't dead. Jackie Chan isn't dead. I'm not dead - to the point of it sticking.
I was reading the rumors of Hawking's death, and posted the snarky fb status, "You're nobody until false rumors of your death have circulated," then I realized, waitaminit, that happened to me.
I don't talk about it much. I'm still dealing with it, 7 years later.
Without revealing details upon which the statute of limitations would be called into play, I was murdered in 2008. Yes.
I've been shot 6 times, poisoned twice, stabbed, gassed, drugged with strychnine, been rattlesnake bitten, blown up (I swear I don't piss off that many people; I just end up in the weirdest circumstances, hence, Nebraska), 6 brown recluse bites (that came 2nd closest to killing me), 4 major car wrecks and 2 motorcycle wrecks from which no one else recovered, stabbed twice, etc. ad finitum, ad nauseum, and the only thing that really ever came scarily close was my own heart taking a powder last year. Except being murdered.
I was at Gold Dust West in Reno, having midnight supper with friends, and had to use the loo. I excused myself, was on the way to the ladies' room (it's all the flipping way across the casino from the restaurant) when I was urgently hailed by an acquaintance who had a faux-mergency outside. Normally I wouldn't have fallen for it, but I had dinner on my mind. And the bathroom.
His white van was waiting, and he urgently beckoned me over, exclaiming his 9 year old daughter (who was a great kid I knew better than I did him) need help. I stupidly fell for it.
I woke at a place I shouldn't mention, and wished I had never woken. I was tortured (No. Some things are still too painful) for what seemed years but I later learned was only 2 days - ONLY. Yeah, me too - then hotshotted with a gram each of heroin cocaine & meth, and left for dead as a supposed overdose (not well thought out considering obvious other injuries), in the middle of S. Virginia St. I'm told the paramedics argued over whether to transport me to hospital or the morgue. I wasn't actually alive, but I had no identification so no one could be called to ask for a decision about DNR. They put me on machines, keeping me going but with No brainwaves (shut-up) for 3 1/2 days until Reno's finest finally got around to running my prints and DING DING DING we have a name! They located my DNR, turned off the machines, and against anyone's expectations, I lived. Kicked back into play as it were.
8 days later I woke, with 2 name bands, 1 with the name I used then, and 1 that said, "Special Friend of S..... ......" I still have it. No, I won't talk about the afterlife, because I refuse to influence anyone's faith or lack, thereof, except to say, "You're all wrong."
My waitaminit comes from this: After I was out, I read my own obituary. Yeah, creepy factor 10. I saw a total stranger with a copy of 1 of my custom tattoos, with In Memorium Mama Vicky over it. I listened to people I'd never met tell anecdotes about my shennanigans down at the river, as I quietly absorbed healing sunshine. Want to know something about you that you never did? Be dead. It's bizarre. So I moved to Nebraska, for reasons that now seem equally bizarre. I'm out of here before the end of the year, thanks to Powerball.
What was the reason? I won't say. It isn't my secret to tell, not then and not now.
My point, and I do have one, is that... well, hell, I've forgotten my point. Maybe I am just rambling. Death is weird? Nope. It's totally gone.

Stage erm, blog fright

I got notifications that a few writers I really admire are following my blog, via twitter.  No pressure at all. And I was kind of (srsly) stressing, "what should I write? Should I go funny? Insightful? Profound?"
Yeah, my goofiness fixed that.
I was going to pee (lasix + way too much coffee + my daily recommended booze) when BratCat pulled a, "Oh? You need to get to the bathroom in a hurry? Remember how I wanted snacky treats? I'm a sudden doorstop!" and put on brakes in the bathroom door (for those who just got to the party, I'll cover 'steamies' another time. In the face of the CA drought, regardless of recent flooding here, it would just be mean. And I have the solution to that drought, btw, but no one has asked me. Yet).
Anyway, I had a beverage in my hand at the time (yes, I know. Still not as bad as the woman in the ladies' room at Eldorado Casino [next to the elephant's balls & if you've been there you know what I mean] in Reno, several years back who looked bleary-eyed at her bloody mary, slurred, "Fuck it, 'sgoin' there anyway," then poured her drink into the toilet), when I also had to slam on brakes.
The doorframe, Brat, gravity, and the beverage kicked my ass
I went in full Charlie Brown up into the air then OOF down, landing ass first, but with my beverage (Jack, since you ask) intact.
After that? Yeah, I'm kinda over blog fright.

Full throttle

Here a fun game I recommend most don't try, but I'm a trained professional:

Make a drinking game out of the internet. Everytime someone posts something so stupid you can't even explain to them why it's stupid, take a drink. I used to use tequila but the Cuervo people started actually worrying about how much of their product I was buying. They thought I was an unlicensed wholesaler. And I kept waking up in Nebraska, naked, and covered in kitty litter.
So now I stick to beer. Tip for the carb conscious - Miller Lite has the lowest carbs. See? Healthy lifestyle consciousness here.
I also recommend not going to any political, religious, sports, gender-biased, or news sites. Unless you want letters from Miller wondering if you're an unlicensed wholesaler. "But Vicat", you may gasp, "what does that leave me?"
Any other site not focused on anything. I don't care if they are discussing coffee, crop rotation, Galileo, the best kitty litter (Dr. Elsie's Precious), the temperature in Uganda, or the metaphysical aspects of Clive Barker's collected works, there will be somebody going full throttle twatwaffle to quench your thirst.
Cheers!

Obsession

I admit it, I have an obsession
It's a song. I play a few games online, and you do, too. Admit it. I don't care if it's Trivia Crack (I got bored with it after 18 questions about LeBron) or Words With Friends (Yeah, I can rarely think of the words or phrases I know are in OED, which is why I make up new ones all the time), or will my fb account be there today or will it get nuked again for no reason with no warning, if you're online, you play.
One game I play is DoubleU Casino. Don't judge. I lived in Reno a long time. This one is free, as long as you are smart, & patient enough to not spend real $. Anyway. The mobile version has this 1 game, Shooting Stars. When you get a "Big Win," it plays this funky tune.
That is my latest obsession. It has been haunting me for weeks. I hear it in my sleep.
I'll play the game just to hit a Big Win, then let it play for a while, until another bleep or blip requires me to stop it.
I don't know the tune
I feel like I should. Like I've heard it before, maybe on an outtake reel of a movie.
I've asked the DUC people and gotten no response, but you can hear it, briefly, on youtube. No, I'm not linking it, just Google it.
But.
In my mind, somewhere in New York, on a darkened stage with just enough light to make out the figure of a man...
"I haven't played one of these since... "
heard: (trombone)
🎵Buh.. buh.. duh duh... buh.. buh.. duh duh...🎵
Another figure, slips behind a drum kit, a little more light, almost revealing a man
"Hey, that's kinda..."
🎵snare in tempo with bass drum to trombone🎵
More light and 3rd figure
🎵Blues piano picks up beat🎵
4th figure
🎵Banjo🎵
rising light to reveal:
Bill Murray, Dan Ackroyd, Eddie Murphy, and Chevy Chase!! They finish playing the funkiest little ditty I have ever heard, a groovy rockabilly motown jazzy little jive tune, without ever saying another word, then the:
"LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE!!!"
And none of it is ever advertised before, nor mentioned during the show.
And that is what happens in my obsessive mind while I'm talking to anyone about anything, showering (because baths end up with concrete rash and me hiccuping in cheap wine), settling real estate issues, etc. Lately.
Obsession.
But play the damn game on mobile just to hear that song.

My defense mechanism - let me show you it

No, of course I don't have a gun. I'm a felon, and that would be illegal. And it definitely isn't pink. We criminal types are a law-abiding bunch. Right. Moving on.
My emotional defense mechanism is humor. I know you're terribly shocked. Try to gather yourself.
I have a lot to be defensive about, especially lately. My friend who's sister was dying of breast cancer? She died last night. Yeah. Damn, it got her fast. As another friend put it, "I really farking hate that we keep having people to walk for. And I hate that there's not a damned thing I can do to make the people left behind feel better."
It's also my late father's birthday today. He was born in '32 so...carry the 3... The math - it burns... okay he would have been 83. He has been gone for 21 years. Doesn't seem like it. But he is the one who taught me to never show when you're hurting. The man dropped a transmission on his face while working on his old truck - it was 3 shades of yellow; we called it "The Daisy" behind his back - you could see his teeth through the 3" gash in his cheek. He grabbed a shop rag, wiped some of the blood away, then continued working on the truck, only going to get stitched up (15 stitches) after he was through. There was no crying over anything after that. But he was wrong.
It's okay to cry. It's okay to totally lose your shit when things fall apart. It's also okay to laugh at funny things at funerals, because funny things happen in life whether it's the end of one, the middle of others, or the beginning of a new one.
And I know my friend understands that, so she'll forgive me if I continue to make jokes, share funny pics, and snark away.
I gotta be me!
Happy birthday, Dad. I'll eat cake for you.
And if I had a gun, which I don't, it isn't pink.

A question of coffee

"You talk a lot about coffee, so how do you take yours?"
Sheesh. You get 1 shot to ask me a question and that's what you ask? Fine. My 1st pot I take IV before getting out of bed. 

Okay - MY COFFEE - 1/2 cup plain old Folgers Dark and add 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon. 12 cups bottled water
- I am not drinking this foulness from here. When the past 4 years they keep sending out cautions to not boil the water or use it to make ice or drink it if you are young, elderly, or have "certain health conditions," which they never specify, because of illegally high nitrate levels in the water as part of the run off from the fertilizer plant and from all the farms but do they do anything about it? Hell no. Anyway. Where was I?
- 1 Tbsp vanilla extract (gets rid of bitterness - I should have drank some on Mother's Day!) added to the water. Pour it in except about 2 Tbsp water, leave that in the pot and add 1 Tbsp caramel extract. Flip switch. No not that switch. The On switch. The instant it's ready I pour a LARGE mug, with 1 Sweet & Low and just a tiny splash of real cream. Trust me. It's all about texture and richness of flavor - worth a few extra calories.
And yes, it's strong. Why the hell drink something that's going to fuel my lasix in a conspiracy to keep my a.m. mailing address as "Bathroom" if it isn't going to do it's real job of waking me up and getting me to function!
Then, I have coffee. 1/3 ea Bailey's, brandy, Kahlúa.
Next - Katie's gravy lesson.

The Pink Thing

C. The big 1. Not me this time, for which I am selfishly, guiltily grateful. 2 dear sweet friends are dealing with it, currently. 1 who caught it early and has an excellent prognosis. Good thing, because she is also pregnant. 2 lives. The other is losing a sister. Rapidly. There is no hope. Hospice starts tomorrow.
I'm not going to out anyone - they know who they are. My heart hurts for them all. I've been there.
It's why whenever I can I do the walks. Why I donate, when I can. Why I admire the shit out of people who do "The Pink Thing" every chance they get. It's why I'm angry as hell when I hear of bullshit government spending on million dollar vacations for polititions and a ton of other crap we don't need when a majority of breast cancer research comes from private funding. Yes. Look it up.
So do "The Pink Thing" every chance you get, because it could be your sister, or mother, or brother (yes, guys get breast cancer, too), or it could be you.
I know I'm supposed to throw in a snark or two here, because, well, I'm me. But I don't seem to have one.
I'm sure I'll make up for it.

Tolerance is intolerable

I hate the term "tolerance" when referring to sexuality. It's condescending. It implies, "We know you're wrong but we'll tolerate your little snit. For now."
Don't practice tolerance. Practice "Who cares?" or "So what?" or even better, "meh."
Nothing Miley Cyrus, Ru Paul, Ellen Degeneres, or the guy up the street does or says or thinks is going to affect me or who I am, or who I do *snicker* so why the hell should I care. I don't care if your thing is blind midgets in scuba suits wearing feather boas in the middle of the street, just don't block traffic. And no it does not undermine anything, and if you use that word in relation to anything but mining or construction I'll slap you with a haddock. I don't know why a haddock, it just popped into my head. Don't harsh my flow!
Sigh
What was I... damn, derailed by seafood.

Ungifting

Mothers' Day tomorrow. Another gifting day for most. I don't really think we should require a day to make us be pleasant to the person who gave us life but since this kind of thing seems to approved I won't buck the tide on it. Have more of them, though. 1 a week would be nifty. I don't like the gift part.
I have reason.
I married a man who was easily in the top 5 most self-centered creatures in this universe. His reign may have extended further, but since I have yet to travel beyond, I can't be sure, and I strive for accuracy. He was selfish, also, and petulant, mean, cruel, unfaithful, psychotic, delusional... but let's not go on about his good points. He was self-centered to the point that if he bothered getting me a gift for any occasion (during rare periods of work & if he hadn't spent every cent on meth yet), it was always some horrible tacky thing that I wouldn't have on a bet, didn't fit, didn't work, etc. that he wanted me to have. Not a single thing in all those years I actually wanted or needed or could use.
I won't even get into the whole birthday thing (what the hell is so hard about 9" & 3 layer round white cake, white frosting, pale pink roses from an actual bakery not the WalMart deli??? It's not like the damn date shifts, it's the same every year so no it did not "sneak up on you" you gacked fool!) .. okay I got a little into it, backing out now. Mothers' Day.
All I ever wanted for any day, socially mandated or not, was 1 day every now and then when he wasn't a total jackass to me, screamed at the kids & me, whined, got so high he lost things and blamed everything on me when I didn't have the vacant smile of the locals.
I was left bitter.
So I'd like to un-gift that bitterness.  I don't want to carry around this loathing for holidays. I don't want anyone to have the power to make me this angry at a day. Because I am.

Lost In Translation

I had this wonderful witty blog written espousing the cause of not relying on the internet to translate anything. I cited the exquisite Rosalind Chao, books, cultural references. Then furry interruption and all was lost.
I'm not going to try to recreate it. I'm going to drink tequila.
Srsly.

Inappropriate Muttering

I've been asked to leave yet another Bingo tournament. Same reason as always - Inappropriate Muttering. I can't help myself.
I'm the one who appreciates the brilliant irony of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick In The Wall" but simply cannot get past the double negative.
Some of you now know where I'm going with this.
B 8
"BE EATEN!" I thought I whispered. Evidently not.
They might have let it slide if I had stopped there, like the folks at the Sands back in Reno always turned a deaf ear to my mutters (except that 1 time when I accidentally leapt from my chair and screamed, "4 gold balls and I'm playing 50 cards but didn't have even 1??" They asked me to leave).
But when my B 8 trigger is flipped, I can't stop myself.
O 69 - snicker
B 1 - Zen bingo
I  19 - not for 70 years you old gink
B 4 - and during, and after
B 9 - lethal

I guess some find this disruptive. I call it responsive and corrective.
Maybe it's the use of the word "lethal."

Mawwiage

I'm a survivor. Of marriage. I won't say how many, but I have rice marks on my back and Elizabeth Taylor is nervous. I didn't want to remarry the last few times but circumstance and my own weakness of character prevailed. I'm not that weak anymore.
Dear What Doesn't Kill Me, you made me really strong!
And I know my own experiences, plus others', have made me cynical regarding the entire institution. Every time I see or hear of a wedding I long to scream, "DON'T DO IT! IT'S A TRAP! YOU'LL REGRET IT BEFORE THE HOUR ENDS!" But I don't because it is their choice to make, and affects me not the least bit.
Which is my point about gay marriage, everyone is in a snit about. Who cares what gender someone is? Anyone has just as much right to make each other miserable as anyone else and gender doesn't matter. I promise. If anything anyone else does or says affects "the foundations of marriage" for you, then the problem was already there and it's your mess to clean up. Clean it up & get out, stay, or shut up.
And that brings me to Ann Wilson of Heart. Didn't see that one coming, did you? She just got married to some finance guy. I don't remember his name or know anything about their courtship, and it isn't relevant (besides being none of my business). What is relevant is their occupations. She sings, and he diddles money (technical high finance term. Shh). But we all know at some point, he will whine, "You never sing for me anymore," to which she will reply in tears, "You only love me for my song!"
Or the other way around, "You never buy 3rd world countries for me anymore..." Okay maybe not.
But it will happen and you know what? Shut up. You were attracted by her singing, admit it, but that isn't why you claim to love her so shut up. And you have used his love of your music to get your way about something, don't lie, Ann, so shut up.
Yes, I do know. I'm an expert on what not to do in a marriage, remember?
But this really applies to everyone, regardless of gender (See what I did there?) or primary occupation. If you commit to anyone, legally or formally or simply by promise, and know exactly what they do and who they are, you have no right to whine when they continue to do and be that. If your ability to embrace that aspect changes, admit that and apologize, then bow out gracefully.
Srsly

Off Limits? Nope.

This is, as advertised:
"Further proof that the sole goal of mankind is now to take selfies absolutely everywhere possible, a vibrator that can video capture an orgasm from its epicentre has been invented.

The nightmarish love child of an endoscopy and a vibrator, the 'Svakom Gaga Camera Vibrator' allows for a new level of explicitness in amateur sex tapes.

Footage taken can be uploaded to PC or smartphone and the device also syncs with FaceTime, offering the unprecedented opportunity to be on the phone with someone's genitals."

I call too much technology. Yes, I suck at selfies so I'm a tad bitter about them, particularly since BratCat can do them and the only image I can successfully capture is my chest scar. But this isn't about that.
I have done the whole, "Examine your vagina with a mirror to better know yourself," routine. For about 3.7 seconds during which I went, Huh. Okay. Different view. Big deal. Unless you are undergoing some sort of physical diagnostic process, there is just no need for this product. And they already have a gigantic Mr Microphone wand thingy for that.
Stop the madness!!

Trash America

I'm sorry, but I simply can not get past the eyeball tattoos. If at any moment you feel the need to get a tattoo on your eyeball "I don’t think there’s any better time to sit down for that little heart-to-heart with yourself. ‘Good morning. This is your wake-up call. It’s from Darwin.’ But that’s just one person’s tiny drama, meaningless except in the bigger picture, which is trying to isolate the exact moment we turned into Trash Nation."
I blame William Shatner. Allow me to explain. Roadkill 911, as I so reverently called it, was the first step on the highway to hell that is UnReality TV. It was the tentative toe dip into others' misery that led us to a Honey Real Bounty Singer Beach Pad Survivor Factor mentality. That only encouraged Hollywouldn't to throw up it's collective lazy hand and admit they have run out of any decent ideas, and began broadcasting anything that would hold still for a clear (enough) shot. Meanwhile, Theater as they say, struggles on, with less recognition outside Manhattan than ever. How about bringing Shatner to Broadway? Turn the tables and maybe induce popular appeal to Theater and force Hollywouldn't to go back to actual work, instead of lionizing never-beens.
But lay the hell off Shatner for not making it to Nimoy's funeral. The guy may have accidentally killed American Society, but he had a charity thing he had planned months prior and I'm fairly certain I heard Nimoy saying, "No, Bill, do the charity gig, I don't care what happens to the shell that used to house my soul. I'm In Search Of the next great adventure..."
Yes, it still hurts.

I was not expecting that

Everybody knows this one:
Type in your pet's name with .com and see what you get. I tried Geo.com and it was a big hub site. Rags.com sells - what a suprise - rags of all kinds. I was not prepared for Brat.com.
Nothing. Nada. I could actually have Brat.com as a domain. I was expecting at least some twisted sex site featuring naughty schoolgirls with giant lollipops inserted in various orifices. Orifi? Whatever. Or maybe a disgruntled mommy site with tips on terrorizing, I mean toilet training tots. Notice that alliteration? Yeah, complete accident.
Or maybe combine those and add a 900 number to call for hot toilet training moms wielding giant lollipops in dominatrix schoolgirl gear... okay maybe not. But there are fetishes for everything anyone can imagine so why not!
Regardless, now I'm all bummed because I could actually own Brat.com but I can't right now. Maybe for his Gotcha Day.

Cooties

I haz them. I'm fairly sure I brought it on myself by snarkily commenting it was a sad sad day when I was the healthiest and most sober person at any gathering of bikers. The Universe tapped it's brakes and went, "Really. I've got a minute, allow me to clear this up." Within 24 hours it was clear I had it, too.
Cooties, the crud, sickies, Martian Death Flu (stolen with love from a Reader's Digest article sometime in the 70's that I remember making me actually long for 'flu because it seemed to me they were getting pretty good rest). No matter what you call it, I have it. What is an inconvenience and makes others feel merely crummy can kill me. Easily. I almost made it 6 months out of bypass & valve replacement with no infection. Missed it by a damn week. But it's more than some imagined goal, because my heart valve was damaged by fevers of the past - rheumatic fever in my teens, chicken pox at 25, double pneumonia at 28...you see the trend.
So, yeah, I'm scared. Because even though I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do medically, at any moment whether I'm home or in hospital my heart can say, "Nope."
Cheery enough for you? Me neither. But that us why I haven't made another entry until now. I couldn't look at the screen for long without getting dizzy as a sportswriter offered free buffets for life.
I'll try to do better.

Against My Better Judgement

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