trepidation and excitement

I'm so nervous.

This weekend we're going on a trip. The first part of the trip is to drop off my son at his fathers house for the weekend. This alone fills me with endless waves of anxiety. His father...I couldn't even begin to tell this story right now, but the abridged version is that he's been a lifetime alcoholic and drug addict that has been through rehab and clean for two years. These past two years have not done much at all to erase the emotional trauma the seven years before that had done, and I am at great odds about leaving my son with him. It's not so much I worry about him coming to harm (although I do believe the man is a jackass) as much as I am worried about his fathers fucked up personality rubbing off on my son. He is the poster child for dysfunctional. I have, on many occasions, wished he would just die, so my son could grow up with the happy delusion that his father was a great person.

~pause~

From there, we're going back to Asheville. I moved from Asheville when I met Mr. Wonderful, and although I loved the town, I had many, many, many traumatic events occur while I lived there (worst involving my sons father...) I haven't been back once since I moved, and I feel like the ghosts of trauma past are rising up in a tsunami in the anticipation of my arrival.



It's New Years. I'll be seeing old friends. It should be happy. But I know, I know, there will be many moments of painful memories pulling out of my system like sinew.

To say it will be bittersweet will be an understatement.

~deep breath~

But, it is also New Years, and perhaps I can choose to look at it as a cleansing, a time of healing, a time of facing the past and moving on.

When I moved, I really thought I would be back within a few weeks, months at most, to visit and see the town I loved. Then I got five hundred miles away and realized the distance between my ghosts and me was a beautiful gift of safety and therefore, healing.

I must keep in mind, that I will not be alone. My husband, my best friend, my knight in shining armor, my protector and soother of all things painful will be by my side.

What I'm most afraid of, I think, is that he won't enjoy the weekend because I'll be crying half the time.

(no, not me)

And on a bright note indeed, I will be taking my fabulous camera. I cannot begin to explain to you the sheer magnitude of things and moments and people to capture in Asheville, NC.

And so, I leave you for the weekend. You will hear plenty more, in the next week. Think supportive and healing thoughts for me. I will drink them from afar.

blibbity blobbity bluh

What the fuck is the deal with a kidney infection? And why the hell aren't my superhero powers kicking in to make me feel omnipotent yet? Why do I still feel like a pained and puny crap stick?

Today I went back to the doctor and peed in the cup again, weeeee! They said I was fine, but the lingering pain was just to be expected. Fuck me, dude. This shit blooooooooooooooows.

I'm off to take a luxurious and fragrant bath, compliments of Bath and Body Works having their big ass sale, so I can afford their fabulous smelling overpriced crapola.

So yeah. I got a hot date with some ginger orange sugar scrub, and maybe some Darvocet. Might as well go whole hog. Oh, and a nap. Yah. A nice I-smell-pretty-and-feel-like-a-million-fucking-bucks nap.

Sounds like a plan.

the spirit of Christmas

I just woke up from a nap. At the end, I was running uphill on a street near where I grew up.

As I ran, I glanced over at the swamps, and noticed all the alligators and some kind of prehistoric looking sea beasts in among what are usually very peaceful Michigan lakes. I remember thinking, "These shouldn't be here! They weren't here when I grew up!" and then everything suddenly came to a standstill, a slow motion cosmic moment in time. I could hear myself singing, a cappella, with a small and gloriously talented choir. The song? "What Child Is This?"

Having not been in church choir in over fifteen years, I must admit my sleeping self made up some lyrics that weren't correct (I, of course, googled them as soon as I woke up), but I did manage to get most of them.

As our voices rose to the line,

"...This, this is Christ the King,
whom shepherds guard and angels sing..."

I saw Joseph holding up the infant Jesus, and felt an overwhelming surge of awe. I felt the pride, the fear, and the labor recovery sensations of Mary.

Then I awoke, with a strong urge to burst into song.

Call it a little belated Christmas Spirit, if you will. One should note, for those of you readers who may not be regulars, I am a Buddhist. This dream was a bit unexpected.

But, beautiful.

Cory blog- part IV

Putting down all barriers, let your mind be full of love. Let it pervade all the quarters of the world so that the whole wide world, above, below, and around, is pervaded with love. Let it be sublime and beyond measure so that it abounds everywhere.

-Digha Nikaya

the holiday, it is done.

We will now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

yipe

Mr. Wonderful is watching the movie "Kill Bill, volume II" or whatever it's called. I would sit here and write, but I am a huge wuss and the mere sound of this movie is scaring me so now I'm going to run away until the movie is over....until then, I'm going to hide in the bedroom reading a book.

Santa who?

It's TRUE! It's TRUE! The Great Christmas Kraken came, it did!



And a good time was had by all.

blogs for Cory- part III

"Plunge boldly into the Beyond, then be free wherever you are."

-Shoitsu

oh.......you know.....

....and all that stuff.

the big picture

just click on the title of the post....




"The aurora australis rings the Earth’s south pole in this view from space.

Also known as Southern lights, the aurora australis shown here were observed in the ultraviolet range of the light spectrum by the Imager for Magnetopause-to-Aurora Global Exploration (IMAGE) spacecraft.

The ghostly light show was triggered by solar particles spewed from the sun during series of flares that began on Sept. 7. A particularly active sunspot, known as AR 798, produced nine X-class solar flares – the most powerful type of flares – during that series, though they had little effect on Earth aside from brief radio blackouts, NASA officials said.

The latest solar flares made September 2005 the most active month of the sun since March 1991, with the Sept. 7 flare – classified as an X-17 event – the fifth largest ever observed."

-compliments of www.space.com

Cory- part II

*thanks to Piranha for this jem*



"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, what are you not to be? Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

— Nelson Mandela (inaugural speech, 1994)

The Cory Blog- part I

Women of the world, speak the fuck up! It is your duty to help a sister out! (You guys can help, too, of course ~wink~)

A friend of mine is going through a divorce. She is devastated. Her husband just up and decided he is an immature self centered asshole (not his words but mine) and not capable of being a husband, step father, or even a decent human being.

I won't go into the rather long list of the ways that he has wronged my friend. The details are hers, and I won't share them. She may if she likes.

The woman of which I speak is one of the rarest flowers, the rare free soul, the type of person who can balance responsibilty with an unquenchable childlike joy. She's had a rough life, and is resilient, glorious, beautiful.

The fucknut she optimistically married has warped her into thinking she is not the brilliant source of light and pureness that she is. Most of us have been there, done that, and know damn well how hard it is to get back up and dust yourself off.

And so, I blog this, to remind her of who she is, of who we all are, inside. No matter the petty details or judgments or concerns of our day.

Cory, this is for you.



This is who you are.



This is who you are.



This is who you are.



This is who you are.



This is who you are.



This is who you are.


Not only is this who you are, but this is who you remind me I am when I am with you.
You are a treasure.

dude, no way. dude. way.

Wednesay- kidney infection.

Today- emergency root canal.

Weekend: couldn't get worse, so it's got to be better, right? Maybe a limb will spontaeously fall off or combust? Hit by a meteor?

Stay tuned, same Bat time, same Bat channel.

Indeed!

Click on the title. I do so love Jon Stewart.
Heeeeeelarious. That's the good stuff.

An interesting debate follows the article.

fucking oww

TMI WARNING!

Ok.

You know what's really awesome? I mean, besides my downstairs neighbors having some stupid Santa thing on their door that starts singing, badly, loudly, every time we walk by it? You know, that Santa door hanging shit that the neighbors child is going to be horribly traumatized when they walk out one morning and the song isn't playing right and sounds like something out of a horror movie because SOMEONE (certainly not me) took a cleaver and stabbed it through the Santa-song-singing-fuckeroony and into the door? Besides that, what is awesome?

A urinary tract infection. Which I have. Currently. While listening to some soppy, far off but echoing loudly, stupid song playing in the stairway of my building. Yes.

For those of you unfamiliar with the joys of UTI (urinary tract infection) it basically means there are bacteria in your bladder (or eurethra, whatever) and it makes you have to piss like a racehorse, but when you do, it burns like a fireant just crawled up your pee hole and got pissed off. (No. Pun. Intended.)

I used to get them a lot when I was a teenager, because I drank buttloads of coffee and never drank good old water, nosir. I had to have my boyfriend drive me home one night after I realized I was peeing blood and then spent the night curled up on the bathroom floor it bitter agony, waiting for my mom to wake up.

To her credit, when she did, she asked me, "WHY DIDN'T YOU WAKE ME UP?" and took me to the emergency room pronto.

I've been there a few times. The last time was after many successful times of curing the UTI myself using herbs and vitamins, water, you know, the good stuff. But that one time I felt better, and then suddenly felt like I was going into labor a few days later. LABOR. (I know, I've felt it, for a whole 24+ hours, yes indeed.) Back to the emergency room I went, at two a.m.

Doctors told me I had a kidney infection. Turns out I didn't cure the bladder infection I thought I had, it merely moved up into my kidneys. No big deal, it's only life threatening. Whoopdeedoo, right?

Since then, I have not fucked around with UTI's. I get them, I go to the doctor, with a quickness.

I've noticed I haven't felt good the last few days but hadn't paid much attention to it. Then I got up to go pee at three this morning and doubled over in stabbing pain.

Hello.

I've been up sinse then, and holy fucking crap am I tired! If I sound a bit slaphappy, well, golly gee I sure am. I'm waiting for the fucking doctors office to call me back and see when they can fit me in, and until then I'll be hunched over moaning in pain.

I've got a brief respite sinse I took some Motrin (at least the back cramps have calmed down) and I've drank maybe a gallon of water sinse three a.m. I can actually sit down, sort of, if I scoot to the end of the chair and hunch over a bit.

Why, silly Introspectre, are you not asleep? Too much pain. Why type? It's close to the phone that better ring soon or I might yank it off the wall and take it downstairs to strangle Santa singy-singy-sing-song-pants with the cord. Wrap it around his jolly fucking neck.

Ah, there's the doctors calling now. Santa lives to sing another day...

geek-gifting made simple

just click on it to see it bigger...

dreams...

I had this bizarre dream, about what I couldn't begin to explain. There were psycho killers and blood stains on the walls, bodies in a freezer and me jumping from roof to roof in my escape. There was something about me contemplating metamorphosing into an eagle, and then the only part I very clearly remember...

I was on the edge of gently sloping hill, with that sleepy midsummer grassy look to it. There was a tree, and a rope swing. Not one with a plank, just a few knots in the rope to hold on to.

I grabbed it, and swung out over the hill, then back to the edge. I made sure I was high enough up on the rope that I wouldn't hit the hill on the rebound, then really pushed off the hill and closed my eyes, feeling the gentle swirling rush of air, and an incredible feeling of trust and safety. I swung back and forth for a long time, eyes closed, very calm.

The image has stayed with me, and if I could find a way to play this song for you, it fits the whole dream for me....Let's see. It's by Turin Brakes, and it's called Painkiller. If you don't have a way to hear it and would like to, go here and then under the album pictures it says "Listen?" click on Ether Song.
Then listen to Painkiller, #8.

Yah.

Have a heeby jeeby Christmas

I saw this house the other day and had to go back and take a picture of it. Since I was there last they added the pretty white star thing, but the first time I went by all the had were those creepy red "candle" lights in the windows.

Ok, seriously- that doesn't say Christmas. It does say "Carrie" however. Are these people trying to be festive, I thought, or is this their way of saying they hate Christmas?

Sinse the addition of the white Christmas shittery I have decided they perhaps do like Christmas after all. That or they just got tired of all the neighborhood children screaming in terror as they ran past their house.

an excellent diet aid for us all

people are here to amuse me

they said please

I love an optimist

Wombat Speaks Wisdom

you tell me

What would happen if Queer Eye for the Straight Guy got a hold of Santa?

straining the murky soup of rage: lessons in PMS

(This is pulled from the sex blog. All links contained therein will take you to the sex blog, although the pages that are linked to contain no nudity whatsoever.)


It's been a while since I wrote about PMS. I do so with some frequency. It's good for me; it helps me to not motherfucking explode.

If you'd like to catch up, here's a list of good reading:

A Guide For Men: How to Deal with PMS
unraveling the mystery of PMS: clues
bad girl conquered
PMS analogy
howling at the moon

Ok. Now I have The Mentors "On the Rag" running through my head. (Thanks to my brother for playing that one for me in high school. Oiy. What a pal.)

Yessirree, kiddies, it's that time again! The time where your darling Introspectre, cute as a button, suddenly rips off your head and spits down your unworthy throat. Huzzah! The joy! The trepidation! Being around me is like skipping through a field of explosive daisies!

Traaa-laa-laaaa!

Here's the deal: I've spent the last week with a migraine. It's par for the course, for me, anyway. The week before that I was sick, but that was just some ghastly bug and unrelated. My point being, I haven't been feeling like my usual cheerful come-fuck-me self.

This morning Jack and I are discussing the teacher problem and Jack says something that could very easily be misconstrued as a malicious judgment of my character. I, of course, miscontrue it immedietely.

A squinty eyed, tight lipped, word clipped battle breaks out. I leave, I come back, we discuss.

He tells me that sometimes he just knows that no matter what he says, I'm going to take offense, so he just speaks "off the cuff".

I ask you, could there be a worse plan?

Is there a difference between a pellet gun and a bazooka aimed at your head? I mean, it's your head. Go ahead, think about it. Take your time.

While you're pondering that (really, take all the time you need, no rush...) I would like to tell you that I pointed something out to Jack- he can be a touchy bitch about things, too. Anything to do with the male ego, and the possibility of bruising it, is something that any woman worth her weight in ammunition knows is a dangerous territory to tread.

It's not one time of the month. It's ALL the time.

Oh, yah, there are some wretched women out there, the ones that know a mans ego is his Archille's heel, and have widdled their tongues to a razors edge to gut men emotionally at the merest flick of her evil tongue.

These women are called bitches. Say it after me: B-I-T-C-H-E-S.

The man attached to a woman like that is easy to spot: he's the one that looks at if you could only be doing him a favor by shooting him and putting him out of his misery. Men are not meant to walk around with their tails between their legs. It is not the natural way of things.

Now let me be perfectly clear: I am NOT one of those women. But to say that I don't have that bitch in the back of my brain, tightly restrained under lock and key would be a lie.

During PMS, she starts to rattle the cage.

You piss a woman off during that time, the cage could come flying open of it's own accord. It depends on how strong her own personal defenses against anger are.

Me, I've had so many years of learned repression that I'm nearly an expert. An anger repressionist ninja, if you will.

This does not mean I do not feel it, I do. OOOH, I do. And while Jack is busy talking "off the cuff", I am looking inward at the bitch filing her claws and tongue, flexing her sinewy muscles and exuding an intoxicating aura of power.

It takes everything I have to not open the door and let loose with a litany of ego crushing insults, hideously packaged as "insight", with a dagger in each one, some hidden, some in plain sight.

Instead, I close my mouth. I look away.

This infuriates Jack. He finds it immensely annoying. He doesn't like it when I shut down.

I understand. Sometimes it is a sign of the dysfunctional passivity I've learned over the years, as a way of avoiding things I don't like.

But sometimes, it is an act of incredible willpower to strain through the murky soup of rage and only say the things that truly need saying. The ability to pull out the stray morsels of compassion in a volcanic eruption of indignity is an amazing feat.

So, on this fine morning, I would like to blow some sunshine up my own damn ass, and congratulate myself on a job well done. Ok, I did misconstrue, but I did not just lash out. I waited, I calmed, and therefore, I am awesome.

That is all.

I am awesome.

Oh, thank God for computers. Finally, FINALLY I can sleep at night without wondering any longer.

Now cure AIDS.

you tell me

'Tisn't the season for sadism

This morning I saw a commercial for the new Whack-A-Mole game, only these people are tricksies (says Gollum) and left out the K. Oooh.

I remember, years ago, overhearing someone talking about what a sadistic game that was, and how awful that it should ever be re-invented for another generation of youth to get pleasure out of harming animals.

You remember the old game, right? Where the moles heads pop up and you try to bash them senseless as fast as you can to score points. There were silly sound effects, but no squashing or deathly screams, and the damn things just popped up again, without a damn scratch, every time. It wasn't like beating a REAL mole with a mallet...

...these were obviously magical moles impervious to the pitiful dangers that puny humans could inflict upon them.

Sadistic? Hardly. I can hear my dad's voice saying that it would be an excellent game to teach children hand and eye coordination, and a damn bit better than those X-Box's and children getting fatter all the time. (Ok, enough Dad channeling for now.)

Really, if you want to talk about violent games let's not even talk about video games, because that's just too easy. How about Battleship? You bomb the fuck out a ship full of (one assumes) hundreds or thousands of people and they blow up and/or drown when you sink them.

Twister is just downright scandalous AND dangerous. You could get naughty ideas or strain your groin, I mean, ankle.

Not really related, but I'm going there anyway: The Trix rabbit.

Can you say cruel and unusual punishment? Give him some fucking Trix already.

Let's take a look at some more games, shall we?


Hungry Hungry Hippos- awesome fun to gorge your hippo on marbles, you sadistic bastards, you. Hippos are mainly vegetarians, they wouldn't eat marbles. But what do you care? You just want to have fun, huh?



Rockem Sockem Robots. I mean, sure, Robots don't have feelings.

Or...do they?



And of course, who could possibly forget the glorious fun of jabbing metal things into some guys innards, and just kind of hoping your hand was steady enough?

I mean, LOOK at him! He isn't even anesthetised! And all this surgery, bah! What the poor guy needs is rhinoplasty, obviously! And an introduction to a decent hairdresser! Try to show a morsel of compassion here, people.

So, let me sum up my feelings about sadistic games by saying "Whack A Mole, Shmack A Mole" and if you're worried about violence, you might want to chuck your kid's Grand Theft Auto game and go for something else.

Maybe a bag of cotton balls or something.

muddled migraine rant

Yours Truly hasn't been writing much lately because I just golly gosh darn don't feel well.

There was the whole wedding, and the honeymoon. Then a week of trying to whip our lives and house back into order. Then I was horribly sick for a week, and then this week has been PMS migraine week.



Altogether, the last few weeks (not counting wedding and honeymoon!) have been sucking it. I give it two thumbs down, it's got a terrible beat and I can't dance to it.

But today, despite it all, I want to talk about migraines. That head crushing, focus splintering, brain screaming fun called migraines.

I get em. Right before my period.

Now, I never noticed before that it was congruent. It's a funny thing about migraines, at least for me- they effectively erase chunks of time and memory. For years this has been going on and I have never, until a month ago, correlated the two.

The only reason I managed to make the connection was because I've been keeping track on the calendar. The only reason I've done that is that because my shrink prescribed Xanax, and being highly addictive, and me being the smartypants gal that I am, I write down every time I take it. I also write down any major events going on, so that I can figure out what is making my anxiety go up and down.

No one asked me to keep a journal. I'm just cool like that. (bows) I mean, I'm thrilled that someone had the sense to medicate me enough that I can function (semi) normally, but that doesn't make me any less determined to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. Knowing all that is between you and total terrified dysfunction is a pill, well, that's not horribly comforting.

My shrink had told me that a lot of people get on drugs and then don't bother trying to work it out because they feel better so who cares? Personally, I find that short sighted and moronic, but hey, that's me. Perhaps they haven't reached their own personal breaking points yet, and don't have the motivation that I do. To each their own.



Tangent aside, I've been keeping track of all the big things that are going on (I need to be even more analytical, I think, to really get somewhere), and sure enough, I get a blistering migraine about a week before my period, every month, without fail.

It lasts for days. I am currently on day (looks at calendar) six. I've never let it get to the full blown point because I'm constantly keeping it under some sort of control. A steady diet of Ibuprofen, Tylenol and Xanax manage to keep the worst of it away. Naps. Eating. Staying cool- heat makes it a thousand times worse.

This is the weird part, because I don't see any migraine sites list a fever as a symptom of a migraine. But sure enough, that's how I always know it's coming on. I get cold, freezing cold, and have to cover myself up to the point of ridiculousness. Once I'm warm though, I'm fucked. My temperature will shoot up a few degrees and I walk around (ok, sit) in a glazed feverish stupor. Motrin works to bring it down, but it takes a lot, and I'm not supposed to take it, because I'm prone to ulcers as well. Motrin eats holes in the lining of your stomach, eventually. Add someone who takes it religiously for days every month for years and ta-da, you have an ulcer that won't go away.

Compound problem. And compound problems are really fucking hard to figure out when your brain is on fire. And being crushed. Maybe stabbed. Currently it's an off and on stabbing, with a steady throb that I can hear over the sound of my own typing. But light isn't bothering me and noise isn't too bad so it's ok. It's tolerable, in other words.



I note that it's 39 degrees outside, I have turned off the heat inside and am sitting here topless. Also, I'm a freak in the sense that my normal body temperature is 97 degrees. So, when I have a temperature of 99, it's like the rest of you having a temperature of 100.something. Brain too hot to calculate that one.

Anywho...what the hell am I talking about? Oh yes. The whole point of this post, which I have managed to illustrate pretty well, is that it makes me forgetful.

I mean, I'm doing REALLY well today. I can write. I can use words longer that two syllables, and manage to string them together in a somewhat coherent fashion. That's a really good sign.

When the migraine is at it's worst, I can barely talk. My memory is wiped by a good 50%. Half the time I can't remember what I was doing, I have no sense of time and have to look at a clock every few minutes to make sure, and it freaks me the fuck out.

I go to the grocery store and feel like I shouldn't be driving, because I just space out. But I get there and don't remember why it was so damn important that I come. I look for my list, and stare at it, trying to make sense of it. I manage to find the things I need, going over the store a few times in my demented effort to collect the things that would normally take me 10 minutes to get. I look at my watch- an hour has passed. I worry that I'm just walking around in a fucked up haze and people are talking about me, thinking I'm on drugs (the answer is: not enough). I get to the register and try to look like a normal person standing in line, and read the trash mags that are there, because otherwise I'll just stare at a spot on the floor or wall and stay that way until it's my turn.

The worst part- I get to the register and the person waiting on me tries to make conversation. Normally, I am a yappity cheerful person, cracking jokes and talking shit, so if they recognize me they'll start yapping, but my poor brain is on a delayed reaction and I have to pause and translate what the hell they just said. It takes a minute, an eyes-glazed-over minute of me staring stupidly at their face, and then trying to come up with a witty response. Maybe I do, but usually I end up halfway through a sentence and suddenly lose the words. Words- gone. I falter, staring at them and watch as they look on their face turns from confusion to concern to even (I hate it) a twinge of fear. Like I'm a fucking lunatic.



I've learned. Now I just say, "I'm sorry. I have a migraine. It's...difficult...." which is about the best I can do. I know I look insane- my eyes are bloodshot, my eyes half closed and squinting (the lights hurt), I'm wincing at every loud noise and I can't even talk right. Fabulous.

I try to not go out. I try to just stay in and not do shit. Stupidly, I do nothing but I am EXHAUSTED, as if battling this migraine has used up every ounce of my energy and I have nothing left. Yesterday I took a 3 hour nap, and then slept 10 hours last night. I could go back to sleep right now, and if I let myself, sleep for another 4 hours at least.

But, I don't. I don't because then I get really depressed. Compounding, some more. When I'm not functional, I get really depressed. My house is a mess, there's tons of things for me to do, and I don't have the energy to do them. I just feel like hell, and let's not forget PMS! Oh yes, then there's the emotional turmoil of PMS lurking around waiting to strike.

KA POW!!!

Next thing I know I'm an unruly fucking bitch, but really I just want to be left alone, hide in fucking cave and be heavily sedated and maybe fed through a tube or something. If only...if only I could be NOT depended on to accomplish anything at all, perhaps I wouldn't feel like such a failure. So, what happens? People ask me for things. I swipe claws at them, in an effort to get them to back away. Can't you see I have rabies (I mean, PMS) for god's sake? Do you not see me frothing at the mouth? Don't you know what happened to Old Yeller? Fuck! Stay away! Don't make me bite you, 'cause I will, I'm FUCKING BONKERS!

(long pause)

Mr. Wonderful and I have talked about at length, although not DURING the migraines, of course. I've done a lot of research on it, just like I do for everything else, trying to solve the Rubiks cube that is my mind.

A lot of women benefit from being on the pill, it helps smooth out the hormonal imbalance. I'm guessing that maybe it's making me worse? I don't know. I'm going to have to talk to my doctor about it, because it pisses me off to lose days of my life, and that's exactly what it feels like.

I told Mr. Wonderful last night that it really scares me, because it's like having Alzheimers disease for a week out of the month. I don't know what's going on, what happened, I can't think, I don't remember, and the entire last week is a fuzzy blur. It's like a TV channel blizzard, just nothing. And during the migraine itself, I can barely recall anything at all about anything else. Just...blank. I can go on autopilot and make it through my day ok, but barely. The boys usually eat cereal for dinner. (laughs- like they care! They love it!)



Anyway, I'm typed out for now. I'm just sick of this shit. I want it to end. I want answers.

ps) thank you blogger, for spell check. That was some crack headed shit I just wrote.

PMS analogy

While driving and shopping and being pissed off at the human race in general, I came up with a great analogy for PMS.

It's Frank Grimes from The Simpsons.

There's an episode where Frank Grimes gets a job at the nuclear plant working next to Homer. He is a great employee, but he has to stand by and watch everything that Homer does wrong, and he finally goes completely fucking beserk.

PMS is like that.

It's like I'm watching all the annoying and utterly stupid things people do and my sense of judgment and righteousness finally drive me insane. I want to jump up on counters at stores yelling, "Look at me! I have 47 items but I don't care! I'll go in the 10 items or less line!" while mooning everyone, or drive the wrong way on a one way street while screaming out the window, "I'm just a normal driver like everyone else, and I don't believe the traffic laws apply to ME!" and swerve back and forth wildly, making everyone in traffic veer out of my way.

Yah, I know. Save your breath. I'm already on medication.

fucking annoyed.

GAARRRRRRRR!

I have nothing to write about today, unless you would like to hear in great excrutiating (I'm not kidding, folks) details about How Much I Hate Everything.

Ok, maybe not everything but seriously, it's a looong fucking list.

I'll sum it up with: PMS.

Pretty Much Suckin'.

I am having a fascinating battle with my Inner Bitch to not come out and stomp the shit out of people, starting with my sons teacher.

After making sure she has at least a few teeth left to eat gruel with for the rest of her life I will next throttle the bus driver, who has taken to stomping on the brakes when the kids are too loud. What- makes sense, you say? No. The children are thrown forward, out of their seats and some of them onto the floor. That's always a good safe driving tactic, right? And then, when you see things like THIS (which happened here last week) you stop and pause and think for a moment about how awesome it would be if semi trucks were just stomping on their brakes at random, and how great that would be for our roads, not to mention our childrens safety.

Switch my child to another class and start driving him to school again? It's a fucking thought. Let my inner bitch out more often and cause some change in the world? Also a thought.

If you want me, I'll be here, growling softly but seriously, teeth bared.

The list goes on, but I'll spare you. Think of it as an act of mercy. I do.

introspectre

not hot for teacher

My sons teacher is kind of...uptight. Let's just say that the first time we met her it was socially awkward, and it was Meet The Teacher day.

Not a good first impression.

Well, my dear little monkey has been getting these nasty reports from her every day about how terrible his behaviour is, and while he IS a typical eight year old, I have to wonder why it is that his teacher last year thought he was brilliant (and she was an incredibly outgoing and charming woman) and the teacher this year (who has the warmth of a moldy shoe) seems to think he's a spaz. And yet, he's on the honor roll.

Does anyone else find this somewhat, I don't know, non-conducive? I mean, a child who doesn't finish his classwork and doesn't pay attention and can't control himself is somehow making A's in everything?

We've pretty much decided she's a bitch.

This morning Jack was in the shower and we were discussing this very fact. He asked me, "Do you think she's kind of....?" and I finished his sentence, "Uptight? Yes."

I then went on to say, "Do I think of her as having a vagina like a dried up, wrinkled prune? Yes."

I paused.

"You know what we should get her for a Christmas present? A dildo. a BIG one. And lots of lube. LOTS. And a balloon that says, 'Get Well Soon'."

Jack laughed. Ok, sure, I think that would go over like a ton of bricks with a restraining order tied neatly to it, but it would be SO worth it.

share my love

After posting about The Great Christmas Kraken we're planning, I was thrilled to see that Catscratch had the Kraken episode on this morning. And so, it my absolute joy to present you with these fuzzy images and tidbits of Kraken love.

which file extension are you?

Enlightenment--that magnificent escape from anguish and ignorance--never happens by accident. It results from the brave and sometimes lonely battle of one person against his own weaknesses.

-Bhikkhu Nyanasobhano, "Landscapes of Wonder"

Christmas: Not Feeling It

Ho ho whatever.

Christmas is a mere two and half weeks away, and I am not feelin' it. I have issues with Christmas, and some years it just takes me a long time to get all fucking jolly.

This is one of those years.

Decorating? What a waste of valuable reading and/or nap time.

Shopping? I'd rather shoot myself in the spleen. Repeatedly.

The Christmas spirit will catch me sooner or later. I think it's later this year because the fucking bastards started playing Christmas music the day after Halloween this year. Nothing make me feel more UN-merry than Christmas being shoved up my ass like a jolly merchandising suppository.

And this year is somewhat sad, sinse my son had to go and be all inquisitive and ask me if Santa was real. That happened this summer. It took me an hour to console him and stop him from bawling. The tooth fairy, the easter bunny, they all took the fall that day. He just didn't seem to know when to stop asking questions he didn't want answers to! It was hard, I'm not sure who it was harder for, him or me.

So. This year Santa is dead and I'm trying to get in the spirit of it all.

I had a talk with Mr. Wonderful a few nights ago about this whole Christmas thing, as in, what do we do this year? He knows Santa isn't real. That really wipes a lot of the fun out of it, I have to say. (sigh) It was so fun to trick him. It's wonderful fun to be Santa.

We decided we'll do the Christmas stockings and the whole bit, but to add a little fun back into it, we're going to do a theme Christmas.

That's right, a theme Christmas. (Before any Christians flip out, we're Buddhist. Back off.)

I got the idea of going to the craft store and gathering up supplies. We're going to have a family fun night of making the most bizarre ornaments possible. Two headed monkey cyborg with fish legs? Oh yah. A string of elk cyclops garland? Bring it.

The crown jewel? We're making a Christmas Kraken.



Those of you that watch the cartoon "Catscratch" know just how funny that is.

Yes, The Great Christmas Kraken will hover over our presents and who knows, maybe light up or something. Cutting down Christmas trees? No thanks. Creating a Christmas Kraken? You betcha.

Don't worry, you know I'll post the pictures. You can all relax now. Christmas Kraken is on it's way...