Daily Archives: August 22, 2015
Recently the incredible Marie Abanga, a friend of mine, joked that my WordPress tags section could make a blog post of its own. And she’s right! A lot is going on, which is reflected in the tags. Too much is … Continue reading
This is the guy who inspired me to go to London by myself last year.
He’s 44 today, so, yeah, I’d be a cougar if there was a sow’s ear’s chance in a deep-fat fryer for THAT to ever happen. At least I’m not old enough to be his mother. I take great comfort in that small mercy.
He’s currently acting the creepy shit out of the role of Francis Dolarhyde, aka The Tooth Fairy, in NBC’s Hannibal (Saturdays, 10/9c).
Seriously. He even scares himself.
I wonder if his Mum baked him a cake today? Wait. No Mum-talk. That’s even creepier than Hannibal.
Aren’t pretend boyfriends great? I don’t have to know if he leaves his stinky socks laying around the floor, or nag him to take out the trash, or get pissy when he gets all—you know—actorly. I just get to enjoy his craft. And his face. And that voice.
So, Cheers, Richard—my make-believe darling. It may be pretend, this little affair of ours, but damn, it’s good.
No trigger, no explanation. Woke at six a.m. mid panic attack, heart pounding, head spinning. I had a relatively peaceful night so…I don’t get it. And I really don’t get why I took a Xanax hours ago and my heart is still racing and I feel one step from full force fight or flight mode.
So, splain it to me, Lucifer. For surely anxiety is born of the devil.
I have, after taking my pound of flesh, forgiven R. You’d think apologizing was a prostate exam for the man, he can’t stand to admit when he does shitty things. It’s gotta be everyone else, it can’t be him. Whatever. Fact is, he’s useful and if that’s what I take away from that friendship, as my former counselor said, “Accept what you can get.” So…buy me smokes, gimme Mangoritas, and oh, I need some household stuff and catfood. Then I’ll forgive. Forgetting is the hard part cos right when I do forget, he’ll go assfuckery again. But it’s the subhuman condition. I’m not so pleasant myself, we’re all guilty of being assholey from time to time. I’m not absolving rudeness. I am learning to go with what I can get. Frankly, if I shun any more people and isolate myself even more, I’m gonna run the risk of being labeled and anti social hermit. I prefer the term introverted loner.
Another kitten died. I am down to Arsenic now and I am so attached, I want to put him in a plastic hamster ball to protect him from whatever these cats got into that killed them. I rack my brain, did I spill laundry soap and they ingested it? Did they eat a dead bug that had gotten into my bug poison? Did I clean the cat boxes with some cleaner toxic to them? It drives me nuts, and it’s ripping out my heart. I have the big cats, but this was Juju’s first litter after her mama Bella died and to get a doppleganger of Bella…I’m so scared I am gonna lose Arsenic. And I am one more trauma away from cracking my lids.
Which was maybe why last night when the old FWB called I told him to come on over, Spook was gone and all. What I learned is…my sex drive is MIA due to all the fucking meds and it seems like more work than pleasure. I also know I prefer sleeping alone, I don’t like waking up to another in my space, and I all but opened the door and gave a push out. I feel rude and monstrous but this is who I am. Maybe one day it will change.Just seems it always ends up at this point. I LIKE being alone, it’s not more complex than that. And I’m pretty resentful of all the societal and psychological propaganda that basically says anyone not in a relationship from age 20 is some sort of freak.
Dear God, why won’t my heart stop racing…
I dropped Spook at mom’s yesterday right after my noon dose of Cymbalta, which of course, set off hypomania, and my mom said, “You’re drunk!” My whole life every time I have any manic behaviors, she jumps to the booze thing. Hardly. Though I can see why the hypomanic chattiness, flakiness, and all can mimic being drunk. I could be in the hospital on a morphine drip and her go to would be to accuse me of being drunk. Having alcoholics in her family really messed her up in the head. What cracks me up is the way she attacks me and my sis when we do have a few drinks, like we’re the evil incarnate. But sis’s hubby spends pretty much every day in a stoned stupor and that’s ok with mom. Fucked up woman. I am not looking forward to fetching the spawn since who knows what tirade momster will be on now. Probably berating me for not buying the kid a forty dollar pair of shoes with Elsa on them. Ass trashery.
I am hoping my kid isn’t sugared up and aggressive. My anxiety is so high, I can’t handle that shit. And lately she’s being bipolar-ing me. One minute it’s, “you hate me, you don’t want me around, you don’t love me.”So I will spontaneously go to her room, hug her, kiss her, and she’ll ask, “Why are you doing that?” WTF? I’m trying here, you mercurial little heathen. Makes me understand better how confusing my mood cycles are to others, but in her case, I pray to sacred pegacorns it’s personality or a phase and not the start of some imbalance.
No plans for the rest of the weekend. I gotta get caught up on cleaning but I am feeling so high strung yet low morale today it may just wait ti tomorrow. Or the next day. It was a taxing week what with the dish time, faking normal and stable, and the massive clusterfuck of fetching her from school. I think I’ve earned the meltdown into idleness.
I keep hearing “It will get better” but I am still waiting. Patience and faith are wearing pretty fucking thin.
First up, astrology. If anyone finds my eyeballs please send them home, I think I just rolled them right out of my head. (Yup, it’s snark week again folks.) “I was diagnosed with bipolar III (also known as cyclothymia) a while ago, and I was wondering if there are any indicators of that in my […]
Here she is, the sweetest. Look at that million dollar smile! (Well, it was only $460 for today’s vet visit.)
We have been exploring the gulches that meander off of Cache La Poudre canyon, out of range of cell service, for five days.
Atina learned to play frisbee, and now she’s a frisbee maniac. She’s one of those incredibly athletic dogs who will launch themselves into the air and snatch the flying disc out of it.
She tires quickly, though, and I have to balance letting her have a good doggie time with watching for signs she’s tiring. I don’t want her to get injured. She’s already got enough on her plate.
If you’ve read my previous Atina post, you’ll already know that she’s an 18 month old Belgian Malinois with kidney disease.
She is so, so precious. Even after a full day of tests at Colorado State University, after it was all over, and the senior vet student was sitting beside me explaining the results so far–Atina, who had been lounging in my lap while we waited for results–clambered into his lap and purred, as she grabbed at his hands with the amazing prehensile Malinois paws, insisting that he pet and snuggle her.
Yes, I said “purred.”
When she is trying to charm someone, she grins and makes this deep rumble down in her chest. It could be mistaken for a growl, but it’s a purr. Really.
So today they drew so much blood she needed a transfusion (in this case I am joking, but when I worked in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, that really happened all the time). She had an ultrasound and a chest X-Ray. We got to meet a student, a resident, and a professor.
Oh, and they stuck a needle into her belly to collect a urine sample. Don’t worry, I used to do that on little babies all the time. Didn’t hurt me a bit. Actually it did. Atina didn’t seem to notice it much. She’s one tough cookie.
In fact, we just got out of jail.
Quarantine, actually, but same thing. At least they let you do home confinement here, rather than sticking your dog in the pound for ten days. In our case it was camper confinement, which was claustrophobic, to say the least.
Oh right, I haven’t told you how we drew the “go directly to jail” card.
She bit somebody. In the face. Badly.
He deserved it.
Nine o’clock in the morning, this dude at a campground is already fucked up (Colorado), sees my dog, who is tied up to the door handle of my van, goes up to her, gets down on one knee next to her, his arm around her chest, his face next to hers, and says:
I saw you yesterday, she had a Service Dog vest on. What kind of Service Dog is she?
Normally at this point I tell people very politely to fuck off, but for some reason I said, She’s a PTSD Service Dog.
So this idiot starts yelling at me,
PTSD! PTSD! That’s the most over-diagnosed–
Atina had started growling–not purring–as soon as she felt the vibe, and as I started to dissociate it got louder and I said to the jerk,
Stand up and back away
(Through my growing haze.)
But he only shouted,
What’s she growling for?
Aaaagh! She bit me!
He is on his knees, pouring facial blood.
I went to see. He wouldn’t let me look at him, staggered off.
I knew what was going to happen when he got to the ER. You know, police, dog bite report, dog officer shows up and takes your dog.
I went into my van with Atina, locked the doors, and slammed into a full blast anxiety attack. I was so far gone, I couldn’t even remember about the whole bottle of Ativan sitting in the cupboard for just such occasions.
The dog officer showed up. I left Atina in the van and slunk out. I knew what had to be done.
Fortunately, the dog officer was a sweet guy with a terrible stammer, which endeared him to me. He explained the local custom of home confinement–out only for bodily functions–so I signed the paper and he went away.
The creep who got us into that mess returned after the dog officer drove away, and proudly showed off his amateur suturing job.
Yep, that’s right, he sewed himself up. All cattywampus and crooked, too.
This time it was me screaming:
You didn’t go to the hospital! You need to go to the hospital! You’ll get an infection, etc, etc.
Well, he didn’t, and it ain’t none of mine. His face is going to be a whole lot uglier than it was before.
We got out of jail on Tuesday, and celebrated by playing frisbee some more, and dabbling our toes in a glacial creek. Atina did. I kept my boots on. It’s been in the 30’s Fahrenheit) at night at 8,000 feet, so I conserve my toe heat.
Now it’s a waiting game with the vets. Results from the specialty labs will come trickling in next week, and if we don’t get our answer there, then it’ll be biopsy time. Fun. But we will do what needs to be done, for this wiggly snuggly angel (just don’t fuck with her, or me) who has landed in my lap with all four paws on my bladder, of course….
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.