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.