Sometimes life kicks you right in the poodle.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Which Shitty Disease or Disorder Should I Champion?

It's Tuesday night, and I'm having a goddamn rye and coke, and you know what?  I feel good about it.  Yeah, that's right.  I don't have any meds to get me through life.  No prozac, no seratonin reuptake inhibitors or whatever they're called, no magic little delightful pills to slip under my tongue that will melt all my troubles away.


I have two things:  horrible fitness dvd's and whisky.  An ironic pairing?  Perhaps!

Let us continue.

So anyway, life has become a great black hole of SUPER SUCK, and as such, sometimes I need a little helper.  So I've chosen POISON in a glass to make me feel better, and let me tell you my friends, at this moment, I truly don't give a shit if it gives me cancer, because then I'll say;



So anyhoo, I've been pondering all day.  As I google this and that, and read message boards about this farking disease, I invariably come across stuff like:

"WALK for ALS,"

and blah de blah de blah fundraiser, awareness, get-out-there-and-support-the-cause kind of biznatch.  And even though I'm livin' it (well, by association), I can't get all jazzed up about putting on an inspirational t-shirt, getting some pledges and walking my little heart out for it.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

I mean, I'm all for raising awareness, and getting money for research for stuff and finding that CURE, but  I just can't get it up for ALS.

Before you start wondering if I truly am an asshole, here is my problem.

Take my Mom:  my Mom died of (from?) LUNG CANCER.  Well damn you, LUNG CANCER, YOU BASTARD!  I'll go champion YOUR cause!

But wait....technically we only knew my Mom had lung cancer for like a week.


Actually, my Mom suffered over twenty years with excruciating, debilitating, disfiguring rheumatoid arthritis.


My boyfriend died from Rhabdomyosarcoma when we were twenty!  I HATE YOU, RARE CANCER!  I STILL HATE YOU WITH A HATE THA'TS DRIPPING WITH LOATHE!



Oh, right...

well, my son has Autism.  That's a real ass muncher too.

So, ah---

yeah.  Just pour me another glass.

Hey girl, you think too much. Let me take care of that.  

Sunday, February 9, 2014

And The Title Of This Post Is...

Seriously--I don't know.  I can't come up with a title, but I've got a few rolling around in my head right now:
"Major Drag"
"I Saw Myself In Another Woman's Eyes, and I Ain't Pretty"
"More Burnout?  Sure! Don't Mind If I Do!"

Dad, you're NOT allowed to read this post, so exit out here.  Har de har har.


It's one of those days.

The snow won't stop fucking snowing.  The kids won't stop fighting.  I'm so tired half my brain keeps trying to budget in a nap for the day while the other half says; "nope.  Sleeping at night is more important."  And, The Man now has to go away on business trips from time to time.  Let me tell you, gentle souls who are reading this, he didn't look particularly heart-broken to be leaving FIGHTY ANGST HOUSE today either  I mean, sure, there was the perfunctory; "I'm really gonna miss you guys," but there was an unmistakable twinkle in his eye.  And why not?  You can only say: "STOP FIGHTING YOU TWO!"  so many times.

Oh, and there's that fucking bastard ALS, who is like that dirtbag tenant you just can't evict.

Yeah.  ALS.  The past two weeks, I've been running in all directions at once.  I SUDDENLY woke up.  I SUDDENLY realised that I can't be in DENIAL or LA LA LAND any longer.  All the other kind people who were keeping my dad company, and making those hours go by, well I just let them.  I kept myself willfully and willingly in the dark.  It's like things went down like this:

Doctor:  "Yes.  You have ALS."
Dad:  "Doctor said it's ALS."
Me:  "Good luck with that, Dad.  Sorry for your luck.  I'll see ya!"

But then one day, all of a sudden (or so I imagine anyway), my dad couldn't go to the washroom a) without assistance, and b) without a breathing machine.

And it all hit me like a ton of bricks.

So I got my BIG GIRL BATHING SUIT on, and I dove in, and I started paddling and flapping my arms and legs like mad:  "DON'T WORRY DADDY! I'M A-COMIN'!  I'M A COMIN' TA SAVE YA, DADDY!"

And suddenly I was THERE, and I was learning who this lady was, and who that guy was, and I'm handing out my cell phone number to EVERYONE, and I'm putting MY NAME down as the contact person, and I'm upstairs on the phone with the technical lady pushing buttons on the incredibly scary new-fangled, computerized breathing machine my dad has up in his bedroom, and I'm unhooking the hose of my dad's breathing mask from the main machine to the portable machine, so he can get to the washroom, and all the while my brain is SHRIEKING; 'HURRY UP!!!!  MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! EVERY SECOND YOU TAKE HE'S STRUGGLING TO BREATHE!!!"  and I'm hooking that thing up with lightly shaking hands.  But by god, I did it.

And I'm realising something:  a lot, and I mean A LOT of people are idiots and flakes.  In fact, I see myself wading through a veritable sludge of idiots and flakes--people who would rather laugh with great open mouths than accomplish anything useful.

Details?  Oh yeah, the details.  In the past two weeks, I can't stop thinking of details. There are so many details.  Details pile up in my head.  Details spill out.  Details are here there and everywhere.  Holy crap there are so many details I need to think of. For example...a Personal Support Worker (PSW) comes Monday Wednesday and Friday at this time for two hours, then this time for one hour, and then one more time for one hour.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, a PSW comes in the morning and one hour only in the afternoon.  On Saturdays and Sundays they only come for one hour.  OH wait...there are more hours in the day...Dad's alone for those hours.  WHO'S FILLING IN THOSE HOURS?!?    How do I get more help?  How is this going to be enough?  How do I keep my dad out of a damn care facility?  How do I keep my dad at HOME?!?

So details?  Hell yeah, I got em.'  But nevermind.  Today the BOY wanted chocolate, and I wanted hair colour.  I'm walking around with too much white exposed at the temples, and dark roots.  You know the drill:  if you want to colour your hair, you don't wash it that day.  Well, let's go to the drug store.  And the fighting between the kids as they get on their boots, hats, coats and mitts?  RE-DIC (that's my new expression I invented for RIDICULOUS.  You like?). I mean, seriously stoopid.

Somehow we make it to the store.  I tried to plead with The Boy to just get started brushing the snow off the car windows while I got my boots on, but this elicited some AUTISTIC OUTRAGE.  WHY DO I HAVE TO HELP!?!  Fine.  Forget it.  We get to the store.  We get the chocolate.  We go to the hair colour aisle.  And, my colour is not there.  It's not there.  I need C13, and it's not there.  I'm walking around with this dopey hat over my lank hair, major bags under my eyes, and I can't stop staring at that section of the boxes of chemical dyes that will somehow transform me from tired karen into RADIANT KAREN.  In the meantime, the kids are not patient.  They're fighting, they're whining.  They're knocking stuff off the aisles by accident.

I just wanted that damn hair colour.  That's all I really wanted.  C13--beige blonde or whatever the fuck it's called.  I liked it last time.  I don't even have to experiment with anything else.  So, I try to plead with the kids to allow me (see the problem here?) to go to another store to look for some hair colour, but The Boy has more Autistic OUTRAGE.

So THEN, as we're headed to the cashier, the girl knocks over this 4 foot sign, and I've had it.  The line on my forehead gets SUPER DEEP.  I'm whining now at her to BEEEEE CAREFUL!!!!  and this woman--this immaculate, perfectly put together, neat as a pin, well-dressed, hair like a roots-less, glossy blonde helmet says in this calm, kindly voice; "Aw, it's not HER fault. Her coat caught the edge of it."

I saw myself.  Exhausted, angry, frustrated, struggling, impatient ogre mom, freaking at her kid for a little accident, and I can't say; "hey lady, I was awake from 1 til 4 the other night thinking about how I'm going to get enough care to keep my dad at home for the rest of his poor life, and all my kids do is fight anyway, and I extra can't take it today, and I just wanted some fucking C13 haircolour, okay?  That's all I wanted in life today."

Yeah, I saw myself alright--she wasn't very pretty. And now she has to have roots for at least another day.


Tuesday, November 12, 2013

What If I Have Always BEEN Boring?

Blank screen....blank screen....ohbum bleebum bloggum blooogin.

Seriously...what the hell do they say at the beginning of that Def Leppard "Rock Of Ages" Song?

Okay. Now I'm distracted. I have to look up the lyrics:

"Gunter glieben glauchen globen."

This actually pisses me off a bit.  Now I have to pop it into Google Translate:

(German ~ detected) "Gunter glieben glauchen globes."


Now I must google "what does Gunter glieben glauchen globen" mean?


I hate you, Def Leppard.  I truly hate you right now.

Of course, any of you who are too young to have ever walked around with 10 batteries in your "ghettoblaster," being all 12 years old and cool as shit, blasting out Rock Of Ages to your quiet, conservative neighbourhood...well, you won't get it.  You just won't get it.

What the fuck was I talking about?  Oh yes, I haven't been here for a long time.

And you know what?  Five of you actually give a shit, and that's good enough for me, so I'm back!  And I think I forgot how to write.

So, what have I been up to?  Well, the usual:  having inane arguments with my mildly Autistic son, watching Adventure Time with my girlie,

Adventure Time is THE SHIT!!!

trying hard to exercise 6 days a week,

I'm particularly pleased with my arm
and shoulder definition
trying hard to eat healthy food, instead of melting gourmet cheese on everything.  Seriously--why even live if you can't have a platter lined up with some Applewood smoked cheddar, some Red Leicester, and some goat cheese with a whisper of red pepper jelly on it?  Why even live.

Oh yeah! I've also been trying to grow out my hair for three years.  This is big news.  But I have to wonder:  is there something truly wrong with me?!?  It has taken 3 years to grow almost 3 inches of freaking hair.  I saw this friend in person one time, and then a YEAR LATER she posted an updated pic on Facebook, and her hair went from chin length to draping like gorgeous satin sheets over her shoulders.  WTF, hair?  I'm 41 now!  I need to grow it so's peeps think I'm 38.

And guess what, guys?!?  If any of you know me, you know I've had my thyroid poked, many, many times, because it gots a big, ugly, stupid, idiot nodule on it.  Well, I just had it stabbed again at the beginning of October.  Then I waited til November for the results.  Trust me--I was happy about waiting that long.  I had NOOOOO problem with it.  My results were AWESOME!  My thyroid is completely clear, and there is no trace whatsoever of it being cancerous.

My specialist said he was going to forward a letter to my family doc saying that I don't need to get it biopsied or ULTRASOUNDED (that's not a word. I do what I want) and the only thing I need to look out for is if I HAVE TROUBLE BREATHING, OR HAVE TROUBLE SWALLOWING!  HUZZAH!  BOO YAH!  SUCK IT, UGLY THYROID!

Now, now, gentle hearts, don't get all caught up on the breathing/swallowing thang. Sometimes when I'm chowing down on some McDonk's fries, they get all packed up in my throat, and I'm FINE.  It could be the giant nodule in there, or it could just be that McDonk's truly does put out a shitty product.  Meh--bigger fish to fry, my friends.

So that's super duper good.  What else...let's see...

Oops, I almost forgot.  My dad has ALS.


say WHAT?!?

Yes, that's right.  My mom died in 2010 from lung cancer, and hand-wringing time has returned once again.  Now, how the hell do you head-crop your way out of that one?!?

Why, yes! It IS a terrible disease!
(seriously though--have my head-cropping skills not become totally amazing?!?)

Well, looks like I did manage to do a head-crop joke for that.  Truly I am made of evil.

Bah.  It's how we cope at our house: not with hugs...NEVER WITH HUGS, with inappropriate humour!

So, things pretty much blow lately, but it's weird, because if things have blown in your life so often, you still turn around and get the laundry done.  Very, very strange.

Oh, but the blogging thing.  I have forgotten that I like writing.  Writing is my thing.  I have gotten caught up in the hum drum and the routine.  I think I got really, really frustrated with my blog when I tried to monetize it and BLOGGER basically rejected my ass. And let me tell you:  I filled out  a FREAKING REAM of information, only to be rejected in the end.  So, I did the mature thing, and promptly kinda gave up.


that's RIGHT, Charlie. You tell em' buddy.

So, I am going to try to kick my ass to do a lot of things:  a) pushups, which are so gross they actually make me really, really angry.

b) write, because it's the only thing I've been good at for longer than a couple of months.

But then I had to wonder:  what if I'm boring?  What if I've ALWAYS been boring, but I quickly run in and blow some gold and sparkly powder in your guyses' eyes, and shout something witty then quickly run away, and noooobody realises that I never did actually have anything valid to say?

Oh well, that's your problem dudes.

Sorry :)


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