I am NOT nuts.....I don't think.....or am I....I don't know......

So yesterday was my annual crotch  well-woman check up.  It's still there.  So that was good to know.  You may recall last year how I lamented over this appointment, shaved my knees for nothing and was sent off to take some type of hormone therapy to help improve my quality of life.  Well, I never did take that hormone therapy - I convinced myself I didn't need it and that through proper diet, exercise and a daily attitude adjustment I could get a handle on my life quality.  Well, sometime during the year, my doctor left the practice so I had to see a different doctor.  Things were going along pretty well but then he asked the dreaded question:  Any questions, concerns, complaints? 

The old me would have smiled broadly and quickly replied, "NOPE!"  The new and improved me looked him square in the eye and smiled broadly and replied, "I have gotten my hands on some Xanax illegally and I'd like a prescription for that for myself so I don't feel so criminal when I take it. I only take 1/2 at a time and only when I feel as though I'm going to snap."   I thought the request seemed pretty simple and should have been greeted with him whipping out his pen and script pad and getting busy writing up that script - I even started drooling at the thought of having my own bottle - marked with MY NAME and not having to hide the unmarked bottle in my closet so no one would find it.  I would be the proud owner of my very own Xanax!  As I sat there in my Xanax daydream bliss, I noticed he wasn't scribbling out a script.  He wasn't even nodding his head.  Instead, he had a VERY concerned look on his face and sat back down. 

Him:  Tell me more about this feeling that you're going to snap.

Me:  Well, maybe that is exaggerated a bit, but it's like when every single person I encounter at home, at work, in the general public, on the phone, on Facebook - just everyone - is a complete dumbass and I want to scream at them and tell them what a fucknugget they are - just when I feel like that, it causes me to pause and think maybe.... JUST MAYBE....it's ME.  I mean - it's not really possible for everyone in the world to be that annoying all on the same day is it? 

Him:  {smirky grin} mmm hmmmm I see.

Me:  See.  For instance - that just irritated me.  I don't like your response.  But I'm thinking it's probably a valid reaction to what I just said but it pisses me off and I kind of want to punch you right now.  But I'm not a violent person so I don't think that will actually happen.

Him:  How often do you feel this way? 

Me:  Well.  Not much.  Maybe 7 - 14 times a month is all. 

Him:  So 50% of your life you are upset and want to punch people?

Me:  Well, I guess when you put it that way, maybe it's 80% - don't you think people have gotten more annoying lately?  Like the world has gone crazy?

Him:  {smirky grin}  And tell me - do you sleep well at night?

Me:  It depends really.  During a full moon I do not sleep at all.

Him:  Do stay up at night and howl?  {belts out laughter}

Me:  See - you're pissing me off again.  I've heard of other people having sleep trouble during full moons, so I don't think I'm a werewolf, I think it just throws off my sleep pattern - or maybe it's because it's so bright and I don't have any window treatments in my bedroom - but something certainly throws it off and I don't sleep.

Him:  Any other time you don't sleep well?

Me:  Yes - when Aunt Flo is in visiting.

Him:  And how often is that?

Me:  I don't really know.  Seems she visits randomly - like for special occasions, holidays, days I plan to wear white capris, days I am going to the lake to boat, you know - just whenever she knows she can most fuck with me is when she arrives - so I've tried to be fairly clandestine with my plans so she won't be aware of them, but she's a sneaky bitch and always figures it out.

Him:  Right.  Right.  How often do you take those Xanax?

Me:  Well really only when I want to kill my husband, have to ride in the car with my husband, have to go to a gathering where there will be a large crowd, if I have to go to the other part of town, when my daughter wants to go to the mall.  You know.  Just when I feel a little out of control.

Him:  And do you feel sad?

Me:  Not today.  But Monday I felt sad.  It was gloomy and gray - so I slept all day so I didn't have to deal with it.  And I wasn't really sad now that I think about it - I just didn't give a shit - except for the couple of times I wanted to face punch a few people.  I just had no energy or will to live. 

Him:  I think you need to take an SSRI to help get your neurons back on track.  As women get older, their neurons get confused and a little haywire and sometimes just need a little help to get leveled back out. 

And with that he FINALLY starts writing the script

Him:  But not Xanax and not something that's an on-demand, as-needed drug - I'm thinking something routine - something that gets you a higher quality of life than 1-2 weeks a month of feeling good, sleeping well and feeling joyful.  {YAY!!!  It's a medicinal marijuana script!!!}

Me:  Okay - but will this help with my anxiety?

Him:  Do you have anxiety at severe levels {as he stops writing the script}

Me:  Well, I'm not sure.  I get nervous when I have to get the mail because I'm afraid I might get run down by a texting driver. 

Him:  {no response - tears up the script - and starts writing a new one}

Me:  And about 12 years ago I took an anti-depressant and they made me feel NOTHING.  I wasn't sad anymore - but I never felt joy either - just an emotionless sack of bones - I won't take those things if I will no longer have the desire to bust out laughing at everything I see - I just won't.

Him:  {no verbal response - tears up the 2nd script - and starts writing a new one}

Me:  Seriously.  I won't.  I'm already having a panic attack at the thought of watching people laugh and me feeling nothing at all.  I mean what's the point? 

Him:  Yes.  I do understand.  I think I'll just study on this some more and call your script in to the pharmacy so you can just pick it up there.  Come back in 6 weeks and let's see if you feel a bit better.  Okay?  Nice to meet you -and take the medicine.

And with that he quickly scurried out of the room.  Like I was some type of fucking lunatic or something.  When I got home, I told the husband what had happened:

Me:  They put me on some type of medicine because the doctor thinks I'm a fucking nut job.

Him:  What time will your script be ready?  I'll go get it for you.

?????????????????????????????

ARGHHHHHHHHHHH

I can't believe I haven't posted anything since October 6th.  Good grief - time really does fly. 

Last week, I had a garage sale.  If you follow me on Twitter, you will have experienced in real-time just how fun and entertaining  fucking miserable the whole event was.  Here are a few things I learned about garage sales this go around and want to share them with you so you can learn from my mistakes:

1. Do NOT have a garage sale right before, during or directly after a full moon.  People are fucking insane and my ability to tolerate their bullshit is VERY low.  You will end up killing someone.
2. ASK how much vodka was put into the jug of bloody mary's BEFORE you drink a gallon of them.  Lest you'll pass out in the middle of the afternoon and only learn AFTER the fact that you've ingested a magnum of vodka in less than 2 hours. 
3. People are fucking rude.  And demanding.  And just overall shitty in nature. 
4. Everyone wants to pay a quarter, for an item you have marked $1 and for which you originally paid $100 for.  AND they want it in a sack when they leave.  Go to the fucking mall if you want a sack. 
5. My husband likes to stand directly in front of me so I cannot see anything but him.  It's annoying and obnoxious - like a small child looking for attention. 
6. He also likes to correct me and is a severe know-it-all when his parents are around.  It's also fucking annoying. 

That's about it.  For now.  I'm sure there was other stuff and I'm sure this could have been funnier.  I'll try harder next time.

I could have been Mother Theresa...........

I've recently had requests to continue the mini-series.  Unfortunately, it was not I who authored the first two episodes - it was Aunt Flo.  Remember, she despises the husband.  I'm never sure when she'll make an appearance but it likely won't be long.  So until her return, you'll just have to deal with me and my ramblings.  For that, I apologize in advance.

And I have nothing to say.  I'm exhausted.  But CAN.NOT.STOP.  Must keep plowing through the mire of shit in front of me.  My week has been consumed with lifting people up and giving strength where needed.  Oh and lucky for you - I just now found something to bitch about because I'm certain y'all do NOT frequent this site for daily inspiration or encouragement.

So last night I get a call from the Prodigal Son.  His car, which has been undriveable for a month due to antifreeze pouring out of it, drove the car to the Quicky Mart to buy chew and then it wouldn't start so he left it there and some son's of bitches had it towed and now it's in the impound.  He never did catch on that this was HIS fault - just kept bitching about the owner of the business having the car towed.  I really wonder if he'll ever fucking accept responsibility for a damned thing.  So I give him instruction on what to do:  Call the impound - find out how to get it out, then call AAA and have it towed to a mechanic's shop.  All of that was too confusing for him so he dropped it in my lap and said he didn't understand, didn't have the AAA card cuz his billfold was left at the casino stolen (again with the inability to be accountable for his own actions), blah blah blah.  So then it became MY problem.

So this morning, I call a mechanic's shop in the remote town where he resides - and YAY!!!  The car was actually THERE!  Thank GOD for small towns where the impound is also the wrecker station AND the mechanic!!!  Impound bill is already up to $85 and running at a rate of $20/day.  And they need the keys. 

So I text the PS and tell him to call me ASAP about the car.  Finally get a call 2 hours later. 

Me:  Can you get the keys to the mechanic and get the car out of the impound before practice?

Him:  Why the fuck do they even need the keys, the fucker doesn't start, what part of that do they not understand?

Me:  So can you get a ride?

Him:  I dunno.  My roommates are all busy doing something right now and I don't even know where the place is. 

Me:    Can you get there today?  I will put money in your account and they will accept a debit card - but I don't want to continue paying impound fees at a rate of $20/day son.

Him:  I SAID I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.  AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE GOD DAMNED KEYS ARE.

Me: 

Him:  I will look for the keys and try to find a ride before practice at 2:00.

Me:  Thank you.  Please text me when you are headed there.

Him:  Whatever.

Seriously?  I told him to take that fucking car to the mechanic a month ago to assess the problem and to let me know  - he didn't have time.  But I know he has plenty of time to fucking drink himself silly on a regular basis.  GET OFF YOUR ASS, PUT THE BOTTLE DOWN AND GET YOUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER. 

I hope the fucking car is dead.  Because he's not getting another one until he gets his shit together.  And I'm not falling for this shit storm he's created in an attempt to force me to get him a new car before he meets the goals I've set forth in order for him to be deserving of a new car.    And also - did he really think I was going to drive 5 hours round trip to get the fucking car out of the impound FOR HIM?   At what age the male brain kicks in, I do not yet know.  The husband is at 42 and I haven't seen it yet.  So I'm holding out hope for 43.

I'm going back to lifting people up and providing strength when and where needed - I find it less draining and more rewarding than dealing with POS cars purchased from an alcoholic dumbass and run into the ground by a bunch of stupid, irresponsbile fucking college boys who don't do a single fucking thing to HELP THEMSELVES in this crazy thing called LIFE.

Have a quality day.

Letter to the Asses of the World

Dear You Know Who:

You are the most despicable person I do believe I've ever had the misfortune of knowing.  What makes it even more sickening is the fact that I think you're aware of your actions and yet justify them in your mind as an acceptable means of living.  I'd like to take this opportunity to explain to you how disgusting you are. 

You lie.  You lie about anything and everything.  Not just little white lies to protect people's feelings.  But flat out L.I.E.S. for the sole purpose of benefiting YOU.  What's funny is, most people you lie to are aware of your lies and now just assume everything that comes out of your mouth is a non-truth, or maybe a half-truth, twisted to either benefit you or facilitate your position as the victim.  You have made up more shit and caused more problems than I can even count.  When you're called out on the carpet for the lie, you just lie some more.  Digging your fucking hole so goddamned deep that eventually the rest of us just walk away because you're joke AND a waste of our time. 

You're manipulative - see above with the lies.  It must be exhausting to be you - constantly manipulating people, situations, reality, to best suit YOUR needs.  I am somewhat impressed with your ability to keep the shit straight in your head, but honestly, as time elapses, I see you failing at your own game and eventually, it will bite you in the ass.  I just keep anxiously awaiting for the day when the ultimate ass biting gets you and your little world crumbles around you.

You're selfish.  Likely the most selfish, self-serving ass I've ever met in my life.  How you have a single true friend is beyond me and judging by the number of people you've surrounded yourself with, I'm guess you DON'T have any true friends.  Instead, you just collect masses of "friends" so you have a larger pool of people to manipulate and serve you and your needs.  I've never seen you give back to a single person - NEVER.  And I've never seen you just give for the sake of giving.  Every act of giving by you I've ever witnessed has been performed with self-indulgence and self-benefit in mind.  I hope one day you don't really need someone or something in order to survive - because it will be real tricky for you to actually receive that help voluntarily from a single person you know. 

You're materialistic in a way that is totally off-putting.  Your continual display of materialism and command for those material items is disgusting.  I've got a news flash for you:  material items don't buy happiness.  They don't define love.  They don't define friendship.  Or self-worth.  All they are are "things".  Things that you think disguise any demons you may be fighting or problems you think you're hiding. 

So you just keep on telling your lies, making yourself out to be the victim and collecting "friends" and I'll just keep sitting back wondering how long this charade can last before the people closest to you figure you out and toss you to the side, realizing what a waste of a human being you are. 

Until then, enjoy your martyrdom. 

We Interrupt this Mini-Series to bring you a recent development.....

The husband came home from work the other night - blinking.  And blinking.  And blinking.  And blinking.  And blinking.  Every 2 seconds.  Blinking.  Blinking.  Blinking.  Y'all know I couldn't let this go on and because I'm such a loving, empathetic  bitch, I had to ask what was up with the incessant blinking:

Me:  Why the FUCK are you blinking so goddamn much? 

Him:  I have something in my eye.

Me:  Well get it out.  It's on my last fucking nerve.  Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  It's like being on an acid trip in a disco and you're making my vertigo act up, I may pass out.

Him:  I'll be fine. 

Me:  No.  You won't be fine.  You already drive like shit - you can't go around blind and driving  - you're not helping your cause much are you?

Him:  I had on my safety goggles so I don't know why I got something in my eye.

Me:  Because Larry fucking Wilson hates you and put it there.  Jesus.  Who the hell knows WHY it's in there - what the hell does sitting around trying to determine WHY seem  a logical solution to just fixing the fucking problem?  AND STOP FUCKING BLINKING - YOU'RE JUST TEARING THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR EYE AT THIS POINT.  Go to the doctor.

Him:  How much will that cost?

Me:  What the fuck do you care?  You don't pay for it and you don't even understand how the insurance works - just go to the damned doctor because your fucking blindness is going to be more expensive than getting this problem resolved.  I'm going to bed.  You've made me nauseous. 

So the next morning, he gets up and comes out to the garage where I was cheerfully drinking coffee and playing on my iPhone.  BLINKING. 

Me:  You'll need $25 and the insurance card.  Go to the fucking doctor and do NOT come back here until you have. 

So he finally went to the doctor and when he got back he told me he had a scratch on his eye.  That's it.  A scratch on his eye.  But, you see, I had an appointment with that same doctor later that day and that's when I got the REAL story. 

Evidently, he'd almost passed out in her office when she was messing with his eye and also has a terrible infection in his eye.  See.  I knew he was going to go blind with all that fucking blinking.  Thank GOD he has me. 

And while his eye appears to be on the mend, he's now injured his back and his sinuses are "out of control". 

I'm thinking of putting him in traction and having a large swedish woman flush his sinuses with a netti-pot every 1/2 hour.  Maybe THEN he'd quit with his incessant hypochondria and morning complaining about all his fucking ailments.  You're 42.  Not 82.  Try taking care of yourself for once and see if you don't feel better.  Until then - I don't want to hear it unless you need me to call an ambulance.  Or a hearse to just take you straight to the cemetary.

Failing by Trying Too Hard - A mini series. - Case Study #2

The School Carnival (or... Talking.  Just to hear the sound of your own voice)

Saturday night was the PTO fund raising carnival for the blonde's school.  That event is a blog entry in and of itself as it's quite the production and event and requires a shit ton of money from each family - but I'll try to stay focused on my case study here and not digress into the abyss of bullshit related to the illogical concept of the carnival itself. 

We arrived right as the carnival was getting ready to open because we were working the bounce house for the first hour.  Fortunately, there were not yet many people there, because I don't know the people and I'm pretty certain I don't like the people anyway.  We took our post by the bounce house - ready to do whatever it was we were supposed to do - mark off two punches on the cards, get their shoes off, get them in the bounce house, and time them for 5 minutes, get them out of the bounce house.  Repeat over and over until the end of our hour long gig.  Easy enough.  Got it.  All was going well, and then the people started to arrive, and that was when it started.  The talking.  Just to fucking hear himself talk I think. 

Him:  Hey, there's that one gal.

Me:    Who?

Him:  You know.  That gal, she reminds me of that one chick that played that one gal on that movie.

Me:    Yeh.  I have no idea.

Him:  Oh shoot - I wish I could remember her name. 
(oh - so do I  - believe me - because this conversation is fucking stupid and a waste of my time)

Him:    Hey!  We have that same camera!  Honey - look!  Isn't that the same camera as ours?

(I look at the camera - it's a Panasonic point and shoot jobbie - ours is a Nikon D80 - so they weren't even the same size.  Or shape.  Or style.  As a matter of fact - the ONLY thing they had in common was that they were both..... CAMERAS)

Me:  Not exactly.

Him:  Oh - I thought it was - is ours a Sony?

Me:  It's a Nikon.

Him:  Can you believe how tall Cameron has gotten?

Me:  I haven't seen Cameron, so I don't really know how tall he is.  I don't think I've seen him in like 4 years.

Him:  He's RIGHT THERE! 
(I again look in the general direction of his finger pointing into a sea of 50+ kids - all of whom have their back turned)

Me:  Huh.  I'm sorry - I guess I don't know which one he is. 

This shit went on for the entire hour we worked that bounce house.  I punched tickets, ensured shoes and necklaces were removed and safely placed on the side and out of the way, counted the kids, assembled them into groups by size so the little ones wouldn't get killed, herded them in and out of that fucking bounce house.  He was in charge of the timer.  But so busy gawking and chatting about all the people he THOUGHT he knew, that most times forgot and I was left begging him to check the time.  After the bounce house, we went in search of the blonde and ended up staying another hour (much to my dismay) - where he continued his "there's that one kid's parents" bullshit for the next hour. 

Him:  There's that one kids's parents.

Me:  Yep.

Him:  Why are you so snotty?

Me:  Because you don't have a fucking clue what anyone's name is so the whole night has been an irrelevant conversation that has left me confused and irritated. 

(about that time, some dude walks by, smiles real big and says to me, "HI!!  How are you?"  I responded with a cordial "fine thank you" and smiled back)

Husband:  Who was that?

Me:  I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.

Him:  Well, I don't recognize him.  How do you know him?

Me:  I don't.  I've never seen the fucker in my life.  He said hello.  So I said hello back.  I don't know him.  I don't know who he belongs to.  Chances are..

Him:  Hey!  There's that one neighbor around the corner - you know the one in the taupe house - oh what's their name......

If I EVER have to go to that school carnival again I'm going to take several Xanax.  And tape his fucking mouth shout.

Failing by Trying Too Hard - A mini series.

Y'all know I love the husband.  I really do.  I adore him.  But he drives me nuts with the fact that he just tries too fucking hard and that results in what appears to be a brain freeze on his part and then his lack of thinking ends up biting him in the ass because it gets on my ever lovin' last damned nerve. 

I'll recount a few case in points over the next few blogs:


Case 1:  Dinner.  An Enigma. (or... the night his head was stuck up his ass)

Him:  What do you want for dinner?

Me:  I don't know - my stomach is still not quite right - so I'm not sure it really matters since I don't know that I'll be able to eat it and survive anyway.

Him:  Do you want to go out to eat?

Me:  Considering I haven't kept a meal down in two days, not really.  I don't think that would be much fun.

Him:  Well, then what do you want?

Me:  I don't know - nothing sounds good.

Him:  You probably have malnutrition. 

Me:  I don't think so.  I think I have a bug of some sort.

Him:  So you're not going to eat anything?

Me:  I don't see that you brought me anything, so I guess not.

Him:  Fine.  Jesus Christ.  I'll go get you something.

a full hour passes and he arrives......

Him:  I hope McDonalds is okay.

Me:  Wow!  That was pretty creative on your part.

Him:  You need to eat - I think you're malnourished.

Me:  I'm not fucking malnourished - I have a bug - I'll be fine.  Why you thought McDonalds on a sick stomach would be a good idea, I'll never know.

Him:  Well, I suck at this dinner thing. 

Me:  Clearly. And now that I've eaten the food you brought me - I'll be in the bathroom.

Him:  Are you fucking kidding me?  If you ate more often, you wouldn't be malnourished and have this fucking problem.

Thank you Dr. Genius for that diagnosis.  I'll be in the bathroom the remainder of the night.  Mainly trying to avoid you.