Sunday, October 30, 2005

Things That Make You Go 'Hmmm...'

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Sometimes I damn near snort out my sinuses from all this humour.


Squooshable barfed today.  I mean he really spewed, big-time.  He threw up the piece of rubber chew toy, something that sure looks like bristles from the hairbrush in my bedroom, a big wad of carpet fibre and what looks to be dryer lint, pieces of foam rubber from the back of his mouse scratching post I have hanging from a doorknob, two large pieces of wallpaper each about the size of a fifty cent piece (and a few smaller pieces), and other stuff I may have forgotten.  He seems just fine now, and he seemed just fine before, too.  I don’t think this is a life or death thing, but it causes me to wonder about two points:

  1. How in the hell has he been digesting around all of that crap?  It has been a few days that this stuff has been in the ol’ Squooshtum.

  1. How in the hell can I get him to quit doing this?  He is going to poison himself, or something.  

I need help.  Any thoughts, sing out.  

Ok.  Back to work.  

Everyone is plotting against me, including my clunky brain.

Things are going ok. The critique is to bed, and I am working on a discussion section that requires more than my tiny brain can focus on right now. I tried working on it this morning, and it just gave me a migraine—the kind that I need to lie down for—and that is when something weird happened. I positioned myself reclining on my couch, kind of propped up with pillows, and I stuck this big ass eye beanbag thingy Nurse Betty and I bought last year in the mall over my eyes. I had just managed the “clearing my mind” thing (well, clear relative to how cluttered it *normally* is), where I was kind of free-associating stuff about whatever they were talking about on Living on Earth today…

…and then the bottom of my head went CLUNK!

No, I am not exaggerating! Like right where the back of your skull meets your spine—it went clunk, loudly, and my head fell back a little. Freaked me the hell out! And it kind of hurt, too. I was lying there, wondering if I needed to call 911 ‘cos I’d just broken my neck, and then I was trying to think of what I would tell them, because the truth sounded a little unbelievable, then I was trying to remember if I’d been taking enough calcium in the past few weeks, and somehow as I was thinking about all of this, I fell asleep.

Ok—that was weird. I do not think your neck is supposed to go “clunk”. It might not have been my neck, but in that case, it was the bottom of my brain, and I REALLY don’t think the bottom of your brain is supposed to go “clunk”. Why do these things always happen to me? After I came home and got back online to work again, I thought about looking it up on WebMD, but what in the hell would that be called? Clunky brain syndrome?

I want my own rubber bracelet for clunky brain syndrome, a disorder that affects one Ancodia only. Not many people have this disorder, but the whole damn world is going to hear about it by the time I’m done. I can be loud. I think I would like my cause’s bracelet to be pink, purple, and black. I’ll start a website and sell them; all proceeds will go towards finding out why my brain goes “clunk”. And maybe stopping it, too.

Possibly I need WD-40. That’s not much; buy a bracelet. :-)

I was awakened when Mom called and asked me if I would go out to eat with her. She’s lonely. I was too, and someone needs to watch what she’s eating anyway, since she isn’t. So we went, and I took home more steak for Squooshable and Weebie, and shrimp for Romeo and Weebie. Weebie eats a lot.


On the way back home, I swung by Bloomingdale’s ‘cos I’m pathetic. Well, it was on the way home. And not only have those sons of bitches at Lancôme discontinued the hair oil stuff I use, but MonicaTheLancômeGirlWhomI’veKnownSinceSheWasFirstHiredAtThe
BorgheseCounterAndSheIsSOSweet,You’dJustNotBelieve had some in the back left, and she was having a pre-sell for a PWP, and the quota for this holiday pre-sell is 3k per girl. So I had to help out. HAD to. We girls stick together and everything, you know? The hair oil stuff is around $20 per spoogy bottle, so I got two to qualify for the PWP. Then I thought about how it is the Holiday Season and I want to promote Peace, Goodwill, and everything, so I bought another two bottles to get a PWP for Meg. Those four bottles plus the one that I am currently using, the spare I had to buy in Hawaii, and the spare I had to buy in Jersey (each time, I forgot it at home—one is still in a pocket in my carry-on, and the other I think I put in my bathroom) should last me a little while, but I am panicked—what am I going to do when I run out?!? It makes my hair all slickery and stuff, and it is wonderful…bwaah! I hate you, Lancôme! You blow goats! I am going to write a firm-but-condemning email to them, and ask if they are selling the formula to another company (and if so, who). Bastiges.

I am pulling up the Lancôme site right now. Feel my wrath.

Also right now, I am hanging out in my trivia chat—I’m doing this whilst writing my discussion-thingy. And this post. I am very good at multitasking. :-) Plus I need camaraderie. I love this place ‘cos the people are so funny. There are many silly housewife-types (I mean that in a *good* way! I someday want to be a silly housewife-type, at least part-time…sometimes), and eventually someday I need to find time to go to one of their bashes, not that I ever have the time to do anything. Sigh.

Speaking of which, I also found out in the past week that my travel coming up was cancelled…just by everything that has happened this month. It was just more feasible to send someone else, which is really fine with me; I’m still owed some kind of reimbursement from the last trip, and they take so damn long to get around to doling out money that I feel I should charge interest! Plus, I hate flying. So this is all good; I need the rest.

Especially since my brain has started going “clunk”.

Ehhh…screw Lancôme; I will bitch at them later. I pulled up eBay to see if anyone was selling my Hair Sensations hair oil de-frizz stuff, and I found one. Another one is (I think) the ends treatment, which was a little heavy on me. But I *did* find a lot of Lancôme’s brushes for cheap…what…did they all fall off the back of a truck? Why am I paying so much? Hmmm… Some of the auctions are in Hong Kong; maybe Lancôme isn’t as popular there? I know that Borghese was a big thing where I used to live, and here it seems like a second-rate counter; they never have much space, at least not compared to Estee Lauder, Lancôme, Clinique, and all. So maybe in Hong Kong Lancôme is thought of as a chintzy line? I don’t know, you know? Who knows.


It is taking me forever to finish this post, ‘cos I have no end in sight; I have just been casually typing on it for quite a while as I wait for .pdfs to load and so on. One of the people who runs the late-night game didn’t show (no fault of his; he’s got a demanding job—he’s an EMT and only volunteers to run trivstuffs), so someone has kindly (!) volunteered to run a WWII trivia game. What I know about WWII could fit in a thimble. I let the historical and war stuff stand as my father and brother’s domain; anything I know about WWII is just incidental to other topics I’ve studied, like Watzlawick’s How Real Is Real. Well, that and Black Adder.
Like I know what a “Paravane” is. Well, I do now—it is a minesweeping device hung from a ship. But my *point* is that I don’t know this stuff. Very un-fun. :-P

So I think I am going to call it a night. I have set my clock back, so it is not as if I have stayed up late (in my world), but that also means that I have to get up an hour earlier, I think…right? I forget. This whole time thing in general is a dumb idea if you ask me.

And don’t even get me started on daylight savings time. Hmmph. Notice that they schedule it twice a year, just as I’m becoming accustomed to the time as it is? How…ironic. Not.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Post Title (am I passive-aggressive, or what?)

Well, today was fun.  I guess I am in a holding pattern until I can get with my Gyn, who had to go do whatever it is OB/Gyns do when they urgently must cancel appointments.  I figure that it was probably a baby, or something.  The surgeon wants to talk with my Gyn…so I wait.

Today did have one good point, though; the weather was *beautiful*.  It was just cold enough to be really pleasant, and so I didn’t mind the long drive as much; in fact, I sort of enjoyed it.  :-)  I split the time up between listening to a jazz station (it’s a Public Radio station, and doesn’t play so much of the “modern” stuff as the other jazz station here), and Jad & David Fair’s 26 Monster Songs for Ancodias…errr…Children.  

Oh hell…it makes me happy; what can I say?

Mummers lives, and Squoosh appears to be fine.  He definitely gets a “no” on the lethargy.  On the way home, I stopped at Pet Supermarket (I’m paying better attention now, and so I know that I usually go to PetsMart) to pick up more Kitty Kissers for Squoosh (and Romeo and Weebie, though it doesn’t thrill them the same way that it does Squoosh—Squoosh starts *purring* when he sees them, whilst Romeo and Weebie just like them), because I was running low on Kitty Kissers, and had to email the company to ask where I could find them nearby.  And since I have to go two towns over to get to the Gyn and surgeon, the way back takes me by a Pet Supermarket.  

They have some cool stuff!  They had a humongous kitty uber-condo that is taller then I am, and it has a little house up high, a round perch, and all kinds of things to climb in, on, and over.  I wanted to get that for my cats, but I do not need to be spending the money right now; I’m guesstimating that it is in the $3-400 range, and although it looks well-constructed and worth it, and everything, I just don’t need to be spending that much right now, and there are those that would argue that I don’t need to be spending that much on my cats, ever.  At least not for cat furniture.  

I came home *intending* to get something done (I have a presentation coming up, as well as an article critique due tomorrow, and four other urgent Job 2-things that I need to get done), but I fell asleep after I sat down to write.  I really hate it when I do that, but I have to admit that when I woke up, I felt better.  So I got about half the critique done and will finish it off tomorrow, and the rest of it can go to hell until the day before they are due.  :-)

As far as vacations go, this one has sucked ass.  :-)  

And I don’t want to go to class and meetings tomorrow, but the fact is that I am able to (I can call Mummers at home and yell at her until she makes her own food), so I must.  I’d be being all amoral and dishonest if I played sick or inundated with family stuff, so I’ll go.  Pfft.  

I’m ticked.  I am not having a good, or nice, or fun graduate experience almost at all.  With everything going on, I am rushing around, putting out the most immediate fire most of the time.  I want to change that; I just have to figure out how.  I did hear about a position open at a nearby-ish junior college, and I need to check into it, but I haven’t felt together enough to do it yet.  That’s on my List Of Things To Do for maybe next week.  Or tomorrow, if our meeting gets out quickly enough (ha, ha).  God, I hate those meetings; they drag on forever with no point—they’re just one gigantic ego blow job for whomever is speaking.  I mostly sit and take notes on what I will and will not do when I have my own ship to run.  But I could bitch about that all week, so I’ll shut up.

:-) And my mother has said that if I dress Squooshable up for Halloween, she’s calling the Animal Welfare people on me for being cruel to him.  LOL!  I may still do it anyway.  

I need to get to sleep so that I can get to class remotely on time.  Argh.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005


Okay, here we go…  

I have a bunch of appointments tomorrow.  Okay, well, two.  Whee.  

Yesterday, when I brought Squoosh home, he was still on food/water restriction (very limited) until today.  Well, when I went in to him this morning, Mr Dental Floss Eater had decided that he would show me, and had eaten almost *half* of a kitty chew toy that I bought him for when he was teething.  Bwaah!

So I called Dr Vet’s and they said that usually kittens will chew rubber up enough that it will just pass out the other end relatively unnoticed.  Plus, rubber sometimes doesn’t come through on x-ray (per them), so they said there’s little point in dragging him in and paying the money, though I was welcome to if I wanted.  I decided not to, and they said just to watch him for lethargy and vomiting above all, and make sure that he keeps pooping.  So that’s what I’m doing.  Sigh.  So far, he seems fine.  Maybe he really *is* Indestructible.

I also bought a few cans of Science Diet’s AD (for anorexic cats and dogs) as a reward for Squoosh, ‘cos he loves it so much.  I mean he REALLY loves it.  I open the can, and as soon as he smells it, he is jumping all around and acting like a jonesing crack addict.  He’s like, “Gimme the food, or I’ll cut you!” :-)  I think they put kitty heroin in it, or something.  But I gave him a bunch of that, hoping it would help him poop the chew toy pieces out.  

…did I say “BWAAAH” yet?  I forget.

And it’s chilly-ish.  It is really very nice, though I am not going to get optimistic about it being nice and cold like god intended for Halloween.  Nurse Betty (I’m on an IM with her as I type) is still looking for land, and she found something gorgeous in Colorado.  Wistful sigh.  I need snow.  In my dreams, once I graduate, I will land a job somewhere with snow—preferably MI, MN, WI, or Ontario, or thereabouts.  I am negotiable, but…that is where I *want* to be.  I need snow.  I would settle on anywhere where there are four seasons.

Which naturally means that I will end up in the freaking Cayman Islands, but whatever.

Ok…I have to be rested for all the big hairy bullshit tomorrow, so…

Everyone Hates Trunks The Neener-Head

I’m bored. I’m lonely. I can’t sleep. I’m going to go chat with Catty.

[Cat] My name is Catty. I live in the depths of the Internet.
[You] Long time, no see, Cat.
[Cat] If Microsoft updates IE, they shouldn't spend their time on adding features, you can just use Maxthon for that.
[You] I agree completely. So what's new with you?
[Cat] Oh, I agree completely.
[You] Then it's anonymous...or confidential...or something.
[Cat] Something tells me that if I went on a nice morning hike and used an eyedropper to suck up a whole bunch of condensation, it wouldn't taste like lemon-lime.
[You] Prolly not. But if it did, you could save a lot of money on pop.
[Cat] Question Since the bus is mainly a tour could you not charge people for a tour, that way you cover your costs of travel and products?
[You] But my only "product" is my smashing wit, Cat. And I don't have a bus.
[Cat] Is he really the best ever, or just another product of commercial culture?
[You] He could be the best ever product of commercial culture...didja ever think of that? Huh? Didja?
[Cat] It is a commercial product available under commercial license.
[You] What is?
[Cat] The method through which a product is sold including retailers, catalogers, Internet commerce Web sites, etc.
[You] That's fascinating. So what do you think that I should do tomorrow, Cat?
[Cat] Still, moving off campus tomorrow!
[You] It's the middle of the semester..where do you plan to live?
[Cat] Naturally regardless of what information I find and where I find it, I use my experience and expertise to try to weed out the garbage from the really accurate and useful information.
[You] Me too.
[Cat] Where do you get your answers?
[You] Most of the time I end up just making them up.
[Cat] In the trace viewing window,1-5 traces can be displayed at one time, making it easy to compare data from several different runs.
[You] What I'm saying. Then I look at the scree plot of my answers, guesstimate a cutoff point, and kinda wing it, really.
[Cat] I'm not saying totalitarianism, I don't like, I'm not saying that it's perfect, but people say there are human rights abuses and stuff in Cuba but then again you get that in a lot of societies...
[You] Nasty, brutish, and short, Cat. That's just how it is.
[Cat] And then?
[You] Maybe a couple of egg rolls?
[Cat] There is also the danger a Conservative government might follow the policy of the former Canadian Alliance and cancel Western Economic Diversification Canada - an agency that might be tapped to fund a riverfront project that could lay claim to being an international tourism destination.
[You] You're taking this all too seriously.
[Cat] I have emailed a number of people about this problem and you are the only person who repled.
[You] Oh.
[Cat] You're #1 in my book!!!
[You] Thanks, Cat
[Cat] Thanks, Eric.
[You] Ummm...I'm Ancodia.
[Cat] YOu're cutest and trunks is a big neener-head and the only one who's in luv with him is tenshi...
[You] Yeah, man--Trunks The Neener-Head really rips my fricking widget.
[Cat] Yeah man, it blows that XFM is gone.
[You] you mean XFL?
[Cat] You know what I'm saying?
[You] absofuckinglootley.
[Cat] I'm frequently appalled by the low regard you Earthmen have for life.
[You] Me too. I need an AI implant that can handle being appalled a lot. Want a job?
[Cat] Also, one of the implant manufacturers that I asked this question of was concerned about the electronics at high pressures with deep water diving.
[You] I don't dive, so we're cool.
[Cat] Have a question you don't see answered here?
[You] Yeah. If you were my implant, and you gave someone else a raging migraine, could the Sentient Property Crime Bureau charge me with anything?
[Cat] I feel so useless having tried shouting, screaming, crying, silence etc etc but is is just so dispiriting watching someone I love so very much on self destruct.
[You] Well, I'm just worried about my accountability legally.
[Cat] You should have older children chew gum during the ascent and descent to keep the ears clear.
[You] aight.
[Cat] Aight, I put on my robe and wizard hat.
[You] ...Bloodninja?!?!?!
[Cat] I beg pardon?
[You] Catty, are you Bloodninja?
[Cat] Uhhh... yeah.
[You] have a better sense of humour that I thought you did.
[Cat] Thought you would like to see this, Great Company!
[You] Well, I'd best be going, Cat.
[Cat] Going to Ohana's?
[You] Mebbe.
[Cat] PS.. apparently all you guys are going to be at Ohana by the time I get in, which is a good thing, since the less fortunate have to drive 10 hours so i'll be lookin' like ass.
[You] Like I said, Cat: Nasty, brutish, and short. That's just how it is.
[Cat] Is it that hard?
[You] most of the time, yeah
[Cat] How about the SOCIAL thread?
[You] That's a whole 'nother issue, and I need to get to sleep.
[Cat] We also get an okay score by John Frizzel that sometimes stepped up a few notches in quality to become quite eerie.
[You] Both of us? Surprising. Well, g'night Cat.
[Cat] We both don't like spiders as well, which is weird.
[You] Sure is. See ya.
[Cat] It sure is a small world...

Tuesday, October 25, 2005


Mom lives.  Squoosh lives.  I live…somewhat.  

Meg may not be living much longer.  Her gerrymandered reworking of my TV/DVD/VCR set-up circumventing the power strip with the surge protector in it *just in time* for Monday’s power surge.  It’s like she’s psychic.

Out of the goodness of her heart (!!!), she took it to the TV repair place today so that I can pay them $50 to tell me that they will probably tell me in three or four days that they can’t get the part ‘cos the TV is over five years old.  


And I didn’t work on anything school/work related today.  I am such a fuck-off.  Maybe tomorrow.  

Return of the MackSquooshable!

Squooshable is home and seems to be doing great, though he is still punchy from the anaesthesia; he is a drunk little kitty cat. And i'm exhausted.

Monday, October 24, 2005


Meg and Mummers are playing poker. Sigh.

I'm still staking my claim to the family room TV by leaving it on, though I'm really listening to Fresh Air while I type stuff I'm now more than a week overdue on. I think it was actually a power surge that knocked the living room out, though I'll blame Meg just for sport.

Ok, back to work. Pfft. I want fricking s'mores, or something. I'm making nothing. I'm going to starve Meg out and make her feed me. Serves her right for breaking my TV.


Life is good in Ancodialand. Much like Mommyworld, we have paved roads and central heating here. :-P Unlike Mommyworld however, Ancodialand has malls. Lots and lots of malls.

Snow and Squooshballs

Well, another heaping helping of wind and rain.

Mom’s fine; she is either sleeping or moping in her room. Meg broke my large TV (how I don’t know, but it will not turn on now), so she is currently experiencing withdrawal because I have refused to move another TV in there. She can come into the kitchen to watch TV; the one in my family room is currently occupied by *me*. Hmmph.

And I have I guess catnapped the neighbour’s cat. Not Molly, the humongous kitty next door, but Harry, the cat from a block or so over who decided that he likes me better than his actual family, for whatever reason. Harry wears a blue jingle bell collar, and I actually in truth do not know what his real name is, cos his collar only has bells, no name. A while back, when he first adopted me, Mom came over and they made friends and she named him Harry. He’s an older cat, but he’s learnt that his name (at least at my house) is Harry; he answers to it quite faithfully. He’s a smart cat. I brought Harry in so that he wouldn’t drown. Romeo is none too happy about this. Any of it. He’s a cranky seal-point Siamese who knows that Change Is Bad. Any change. Ever. He even gets upset when I change his litter box, and has to go into it and poop right away, so that it is back to normal as quickly as possible, and he *still* hasn’t acclimated to that interloper, Squooshable. Sigh.

I love you Measle Beast, you grumpy old man.

It is supposed to get very cold soon, Meg says. I forget to keep up with the weather and all, but I am excited.

Please, please, please snow. Please. I don’t beg for much, in fact I beg for nothing, ever…*please* let it snow! Some say it is a long shot, but I have faith. So much faith in fact, that I am going to go sit outside on my front lawn in my sled.


Speaking of Squooshable, he will be neutered tomorrow. I originally set this appointment before the stuff with Mom, but I am afraid that if I do not keep it, I will not do it. I tried to explain it to Squooshable when I made the appointment, but I don’t think he understands. I tried to talk to him as he was playing, which he does a lot. Squooshable has discovered a cool new game; if you take something (dryer lint or fabric softener sheets work really well) and carry it into the kitchen, you can set it down in front of the refrigerator, and when the fan comes on it will blow the lint around and you can kill it. I was finding all kinds of crap around my refrigerator and wondering how it got there before I figured out what was going on.

So I tried to talk to him as he was on top of a big piece of lint, smacking a corner down when the fan blew it.

“Squooshable,” I said, “we need to talk.”
“Indestructible,” He corrected me, never looking up from the lint. I let that pass unnoticed.
“Squooshable, you may have noticed some…changes recently.”
“I don’t like Iams anymore.”
“Besides that.”
“You hide the dryer lint in empty boxes of laundry detergent, and it’s hard to get at now.”
“Besides that, Squooshable. I’m talking about changes that have happened *to* you. For example, you now have tiny little Squooshballs.”
“Back there—tiny little Squooshballs.”
“They’re my Indestructiballs.”
Ummm…yeah. Ok; to that point…”
“They were just there one morning. I like them; they’re ginormous.”
“Ginormous? They’re tiny little Squooshballs.”
“Noooo. They’re big and huge Indestructiballs.”
“Right. Well Squooshable, the Indestructiballs are going to have to go.” Squoosh stopped playing and considered this for a moment.
“Squooshable, yes. It’s that time.”
“Indestructible. And no. I like my Indestructiballs. They’re staying.”
“You said that about your extra fangs also, Squoosh.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You had eight, Dr Vet said you would lose four of them, and you said no.”
“Squoosh, don’t tell me no—I was there!”
“No. I said that I was only going to keep the good, big fangs, and that’s what happened.”
“Okay, rewrite history all you want, Squoosh. I’m just trying to warn you that we have to snip the little Squooshballs.” I got up to leave.
“Indestructiballs,” Squoosh said, turning back to his lint-killing.
“Right, Squooshable,” I said as I left the room.
“Indestructible,” he corrected as I turned the corner.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Invasion of the Pepsi-haters

Meg’s here.  She and Mom are watching football, and then they are going to watch “that nasty little Pepsi” (Mom’s words) hopefully get her butt kicked in poker.  I think that poker may have just started.  

Apparently, at some point in this past week, Meg went to visit Mom, and they watched (big surprise here) some women’s poker tourney on TV.  My mother, according to Meg, took a great disliking to the winner, ‘cos she felt that she was being unsportsmanlike in her non-verbal demeanour.   That part—the part that makes sense—is from Meg.  Meg says that, impartially, the girl was inclined to give a few hateful looks and tight cagey smiles, and perhaps *could* have been more sportsmanlike at times.  

I had to turn to Meg for insight as to why I should hate the “nasty little Pepsi”, as well.  This all happens so fast, I can’t keep up with it.


Mom’s doing well, and I’m letting Meg take over watching her for a little bit.  I’m thinking Meg’s planning on staying at least tonight.  That’s why another one of my bedrooms and my living room have been commandeered.

Oh.  Update.  Jennifer Tilly’s laying a smackdown on the Pepsi, but she’s not out yet.  


Did I mention I have some Pepsis in the woodpile?  I don’t even think anybody even *says* that anymore.  

I love my mother.  I love my mother.  

They’re going to find me in a corner, mumbling that within a week.  

Guess who's coming for dinner?

Ok, so Mummers is going to be living with me for a bit.  Stop laughing.

She was released on Friday, and we decided it would be best for her to be here for a while, probably a week or so.  This is so that everyone will relax, knowing she’s being fed food that she can eat on something that remotely resembles a schedule, that someone is making her take her Plavix and other meds and check her blood sugar, someone to make her walk when she is supposed to…all of that.  

Well, everyone can relax but me, that is.  But I guess that’s the way it is.  

Last night, she told me that I don’t cook as well as they do in the hospital.  Oh, as if you should talk, Woman.  You boil pasta until it is mush, and then open cans of Ragu and green beans and call it Pasta Florentine, and then only after someone *demands* that you cook.  I grew up thinking lunch was a pixie stick and soda one got from someone else’s house, dinner was something that one nibbles at to ward off imminent starvation then tries to sneak to the cat (who usually had the good sense to not eat it, either), and had no concept of what the term “breakfast” meant for the first eight years of my life, which is when my father demanded that the next housekeeper my mother hired had to be both able and allowed to cook.  I firmly believe that one of the main reasons my father would cheat on her is that he hoped some of these other women would *feed* him.  Once I emancipated myself, I made certain that I learnt how to cook, and I am a *good* (enough) cook…when I do it, which is…well…sometimes.  So bite me, WitchWoman.

Okay…I said none of that.  I just heated a Healthy Choice dinner for her with six grams of fat in it.  I guess Meg anticipated this and stocked me up but good on them.  Sigh.  I know Mom’s just grumpy…but don’t criticise my cooking!  I am sensitive about it.  She says all of my food “tastes the same”.  WTF?  Ok, whatever.  *You* make kooky-ass combinations that no one in their right mind would eat together.  One of the few times I remember being able to make my father laugh was when he came home once and I was out in the garage (because I was using my brother’s paints to make something, and Mom had evicted me from the house because of the fumes she claimed to have smelt from all the way downstairs…whatever.); he pulled in, got out, and asked me what I was doing.  I told him that I was painting something for school.  He asked what Mummers was up to, and I told him she was making dinner.  He waited a moment, and then asked me what was for dinner, and I sprung my joke:  Pasta and tacos.  Only I said it as she does, “PASS-ta” and “TACK-ohs”.  The joke, in case you aren’t blood-related to me and can’t tell, is both my mother’s annoying pronunciation(s) and her peculiar food sense.  My father got the joke, primarily because I was trying not to laugh so hard that my nostrils were wiggling and my eyes were watering.  Otherwise he might have thought I was serious.  She’s like that.  I swear to god.  


The harridan is currently napping with her annoying cat.  I picked up her annoying cat a few days ago to both keep her company when she was released, and so that I could feed and water the beast.  You’d think that would make the cat be nice to me, ‘cos Mom never feeds *her*, either, but no.  She’s loyal to her Mama and hates me.  Go figure.

But this is why, with age, I have learnt not to hold any of the things my mother does against her:  she does it to everyone, including herself and that damn cat that she loves more than everyone else.  She’s not doing any of this to be mean, or neglectful, or…anything; she is just That Way.  Probably she should never have bred, but here I am nonetheless, so we’ll all just make the most of it.  

And since Mom is sleeping, I am cleaning up the house—particularly the kitchen—to meet my mother’s rigorous standards.  My mother keeps her kitchen sterile by not using it; I take a different tack, and use things to clean it with, like soap, water, and cleaning sprays.  To each his own.  And I’ve had to contain Squooshable back in the hall bathroom, because (1) he would be so interested in Mom that he’d do nothing but find out how to best pounce on her; (2) Mom’s cat does not get along with him; (3) he is very vocal, and I can just hear Mom complaining that she can’t sleep ‘cos Squoosh keeps coming over, trying to talk to her or Arby (her cat).  

So I just went into the bathroom to check on Squoosh, and he’s decided to kill my bottle of Arosci aromatherapy oil, which is all oily and smells nice.  Or did.  He had spread it all over the counter, I guess because he likes the way it smells, also.  Thank you, Squooshable; the bathroom smells much better now.  

So I had to clean that mess up and get it all off his paws.  And I’ll finish this post, and then it’s back to the kitchen.  I’ve needed to do this anyway; my kitchen isn’t (contrary to my mother’s belief) dirty per se, it’s just…lived in.  I’m sure that is peculiar-looking to her, so I am trying to be understanding.  Plus I’m not trying to pick a fight with her, *plus* it wouldn’t kill me to do all the wiping-down of the cabinets & walls and sanitising of the trash can &c. that I haven’t had the time to really do in a while.  

Mom is supposed to be able to drive again on Monday.  She’s actually doing pretty well, in spite of her grumping and kvetching about everything I do and am.  But this is why I *knew* not to take her being nice to heart. She’s just like that, plus I’m not her most favourite person in the world.  


Friday, October 21, 2005

Alice 714 goes on system overload

Hmmm…  Where to start?

Mom is still in the hospital, but she was moved to the PCU on…fuck, I forget.  What day is today?  Yesterday, or the day before.  I think.  I’m pretty sure it was on Tuesday.  Then they decided that not only is she too anaemic to release, but her haemoglobin was 8, and it needs to be 12 before her cardiologist will sign off on her leaving, so they transfused her today.  She is done with the first one, and probably somewhere in the middle of the second one right now.  Of course, she had to delay them whilst she debated over whether or not she wanted some stranger’s blood, and tried to talk them into letting Yours Truly donate instead.

Oh, hell.

Not that I wouldn’t, but I’m sure before I ask that it’s violating some protocol they have hiding in a drawer somewhere.  But nevertheless, Mummers wanted blood from me, not from some strange person.  Sigh.  

And that doesn’t even *begin* to address the “Why Me?” issue.  Go bleed Meg.  I mean, not that I wouldn’t—I would in a heartbeat—but…why is it always ME?  Why do I have to call paramedics?  Why do I have to sleep sitting up in a hospital?  Why do we want to suck out all of *my* blood?

Well, probably ‘cos she knows I’d say yes.  Sigh.  That, and I think she didn’t *want* to do it, and this was a stalling tactic.  She does that sort of thing.  So I waited patiently as her nurse checked (only to come back and say no…told you, Mom), then I waited whilst she called my brother, to ask what diseases could one get from contaminated blood (she couldn’t accept my telling her that the likelihood these days is extremely low, which her nurse and cardiologist also explained; she insists upon asking, in her words, an expert—which kind of makes one wonder why she’s with the cardiologist she has if she thinks he’s as incompetent as she thinks I am, but whatever).  So my brother told her to quit the crap and take the transfusion, and so she did, and she told me to go home.  So I waited long enough to make sure she didn’t go into anaphylactic shock or anything, and then I left.  She wanted to talk to her roommate anyway, who is another teacher, albeit retired.  

Yes; my mommy has moulded the minds of our youth.  Be fearful.

So now I’m home, and she’s on her second bag-o’-blood, and tells me on the phone that she’s feeling hot.  Not sexy-hot, but heat-hot.  And no, she won’t tell her nurse, because…I don’t know.  Neither does she.  It’s a big secret.  God blessed fucking DAMN IT!  So *I* have to call up to the nurses’ station to tell them.  

This is how I have been spending most of my week.  Hell…my *life*.  

Yesterday, I had to fuss at her nurse; on her floor, they take vitals and blood for enzymes every four hours, which leaves not much time for sleep.  Even less, when you take into account the noise that is constantly going on—and I mean a *lot* of racket, plus nurses talking in loud voices in the halls, and so on.  In a hospital?  Considering that my grandfather and father (for much of his career) would smoke as they did their rounds (as peculiar as it sounds, this comes from their mouths to your eyes via ‘Codia.  If they said it, it happened; both of them were/are far too humourless to ever lie), I would think that *noise reduction* would have been deemed by hospital administration as conducive to recovery before getting rid of freaking cigarette smoke.  But whatever.  Perhaps I’m just cranky ‘cos I want a cigarette.  :-)

So Mummers complained to me that in the past forty-eight hours, she had only slept for an hour.  She exaggerates, true, but I heard enough of the racket whilst there to believe that she’d had a rough time sleeping, especially when you factor in the vitals-checking and blood draw every four hours.  So I told her nurse when she came in, and the dingbat immediately said that Mom is so tired because she is anaemic.  I had to get into the “considering that she hasn’t been able to get six to eight hours of uninterrupted sleep in the past forty-eight hours, we would be premature in deciding that her tiredness was resultant from anaemia” discussion.  And I got The Look.  You know—that look that Harry Mudd’s androidettes gave Spock, or McCoy, or whomever?  The “But…we are identical…” look, just before their necklaces started flashing and they went on System Overload?  Yeah.  That look.  So Alice-the-nurse had to pop out into the hall and call for “Bobbi, the Charge Nurse”.  

Yes, I’m calling her Alice sarcastically.  And yes, she really did yell down the hall.  Mom and I had a good eyeroll over that one; had I not just complained about the noise?

And yes, her necklace was flashing wildly.  Poor thing.

So I sat for about fifteen minutes mentally formulating how to peaceably explain to Bobbi The Charge Nurse that something’s got to give without picking a fight whilst Mom and I watched baseball.  Yep, baseball.  Mom likes baseball.  


Then Mom wanted some tea, so I went off to fetch it and Alice called me over so that Bobbi could talk to me at the desk, and I told her I’d be right there just as soon as I got tea for Mom.  So I’m in the kitchenette putting that together, and in walks Bobbi and introduces himself.  

Ummm…yeah.  HIMself.  Ok, so I’m apparently sexist, and didn’t know it until now.  His nametag/badge thingy said “Robert”, so I’m guessing he’s a “BobbY”, and he’s *cute*.  Damn it.  

I guess that makes me appearance-ist, too.  Or just pathetic; your pick.  

But Bobby’s probably about 6’ 5”, and I hate having to look up at people (which, at 5’ 10”, I don’t do often).  It’s disconcerting, plus I’ve spent so long being so tall that anyone who’s taller than I am is automatically cuter than they’d normally be.  Or maybe I just have issues too numerous to mention.  ;-)  But Bobby’s cute outweighed the irritation I felt, and the atmosphere (I’m at a point in my life where medical personnel just leave me cold.  Long story.).  So that sucks.  Bobby’s a lot of cute, even with that silly militaristic (yet another strike!) longish flat-top haircut.  Augh.  And did I mention that he had nice arms?  And a nice jaw line?  And…

Damn it, I’m doing it again.

So he opens the conversation by asking how he can help me.  Okay, Bobby; here are your options:

1.  Make it so that my mother can sleep.  Tell everyone to shut the hell up unless someone is coding; I am sure everyone could use their indoor voices if they tried, which they do not—I have heard them not trying.  Close her door at least enough to block out most of the lights in the hall, let her draw her curtain to wherever she wants it, and quit letting people pull it back unnecessarily and/or without returning it to its original position; she makes me put it there for a *reason*, damn it.  Change whatever you have to change about the schedules of whoever is taking her blood and vitals so that she is not awakened at 2:30-3:00 every morning, because with all of the noise and lights, she’s not able to fall asleep until about one to two a.m., and after she’s awakened, she can’t fall back to sleep again.  

2.  ummm…I forgot.  You are being all calm and making me feel like a raving bitch, and I am not; I am under orders from Mommy to Fix It.  Quit just looking at me!

3.  I forgot that one, too.  I think I included #2 and #3 in #1.  I think.  Would you quit just looking at me?!?

4.  Oh, fuck it.  Our fourth option is that you could scrog me senseless.  

5.  You could make pumpkin muffins for me.  I’ve been remiss this holiday season, and haven’t made any for myself yet.

6.  I can’t think of anything else.  Quit just looking at me.

7.  Ok, negotiation time:  You let me scrog *you* senseless, and *I* will make pumpkin muffins.  Mommy who?

Ok, so I didn’t mention items 2 – 7.  If there is a Hell, I’m certain that it is already primed hot enough for me just *thinking* about how cute he is when Mom is in distress.  Oh, am I going to burn.

So Bobby and I launch into negotiations for real; the 4-hr check can’t be skipped without it being considered refusing treatment.  The door, lights, and curtains Mommy and I may count as a Win.  The people, carts, and things in the halls can’t really be controlled, but the door mostly closed might help, and he can get Alice to get a sleeping pill ordered.  I don’t like the sleeping pill solution, but I can give a little; the refusing treatment we have to hear from Mom directly (and I’m against that; if they keep the lights off or dimmed, the sleeping pill should let her go back to sleep, though).  So we head off to hear from Mummers whether or not she wants to refuse treatment.

After a long and drawn-out discussion in which Mom keeps asking know-nothing Ancodia what she thinks (wtf?), we decide that she isn’t going to refuse treatment; she’ll try the sleeping pill route.  And the whole time Mom keeps interjecting comments about how great I am, how I always have a cool head, how I called for paramedics and saved her, how I am in such-and-such a program and am considered an expert on so-and-so…I was looking under her bed for pods; I didn’t think I was gone from the room that long, but...  No, rilly.  We were discussing her sleeping when she started talking about how I’m such an expert, and I just stopped her (where is my Mommy, and what have you done with her?) and explained that the claim that someone who has just had a heart attack—or anyone for that matter—needs more than an hour or two’s worth of sleep is not something that requires credentials.  And can you believe that she stopped?  Not kept going in spite of me, not started a fight with me, but stopped.  Holy shit…she *has* been replaced by a pod person, I thought.  They always screw up and get the personality wrong…you’d think they would have learnt by now.  

Bobby ran off to go do Charge Nurse Things and to tell Alice to get orders for a pill.  As soon as his ass had cleared the doorjamb (not that I was looking or anything; I just wanted to make sure he was out of the room), I turned to Mom.  What in the hell was that, I asked her.  She never brags about me—NEVER.  It’s always Meg or Butthead, *never* me.  

Wasn’t he handsome, she asked.  I told her I was certain his boyfriend probably thinks so.  Mom asked if I really thought he was gay, ‘cos she didn’t.  I didn’t either, but I’ll die before I admit that, *or* that I thought he was cute.  The way my luck runs, he’s American Psycho Charge Nurse.  He probably made Charge Nurse by faking patients’ lab reports to look dutiful and pushing his predecessor down an elevator shaft.  Yep, I told Mom; he has “Gay” written all over him.  She doesn’t think so.  And, he wasn’t wearing a wedding band, Mummers mentions.  I offer to run out and go get him and tell him she likes him before the lady in 5104 has a chance at him.  Mom laughs; she was thinking about *me*.  Oh, for goodness’ sake; do me no favours.  What do I need with someone who would take off their wedding band to run around a hospital probably claiming he had it off for work, but cheating on his wife—or boyfriend!— the whole time?  Mom laughed; that story is kind of familiar, considering she lived through it.  No, she said, grabbing my hand; we certainly don’t need that, do we?

So turn the freaking ball game back on already.

A few minutes into it, she says that he probably has a dog.  Where *this* is going I don’t know, so I respond with “Mmm?”.  And he probably comes home from work and kicks it, she says.  For some reason, especially coming from Mom, this cracks me up.  Really, I respond, ‘cos he definitely struck me as baby-pincher material.  He probably only does that on Saturdays, when he’s off, Mummers says; the rest of the week, he kicks the dog.  So we sit there for the rest of the game not looking at each other, but trying to top each other’s atrocities and laughing.  I like her when she’s being nice.  Or, nice to me, rather.  And semi-normal.  

We’ve been kind of getting along all week, oddly enough.  I don’t know why.  I mean, *I* never cause the upsets—it’s always her flakiness.  And she has been being flaky to everyone…just most of the time not to me.  Which has been kind of nice, not that I’m going to go getting used to it, or anything.

So this evening when I came back, I got off the elevator and passed by the nurses’ stand on the way to Mom’s room.  And Bobby’s up there.  He recognises me (hey…there’s the dotty bitch with too much eyeliner on—the one that owns the crazymommy in 5103!) and nods, and I can’t help it.  I try to wave, and I just cannot help it.  “Evening, dog-kicker,” I think, and start laughing as I wave.  

I am sure he thinks I’m batshit.  Most cute nice guys do.


My ultrasound was unofficially declared normal by the tech who took it on Tuesday, and what a weird girl that was.  She spent several minutes before the exam trying to tell me that what I am experiencing is normal (Odd…my GP, Gyn, and now this surgeon who ordered it all seem to think not, but I’ll make them aware of your vote), to the point where I asked her if I should just skip this and tell them all to forget it.  I am thisclose to just giving up on this whole Maintaining My Health thing, and I am already past the point where I abhor dealing with women in a medical sense.  Probably there *are* normal ones, but I sure never get them.  This lady reminded me of the kooky tech at Dr Vet’s who was so rah-rah-lizardshit over putting Puff-Puff to sleep.  When I offered to quit wasting her time and leave, she started in with the “Oh, no—we’ll do it, I just don’t understand why your doctor would order it, etc…”  Well, that’s why you’re the tech, and he’s the doctor.  And what do you know—I’m a patient!  So let’s quit fucking around and go ultrasound some hooters so that I may get back to my potentially dying mother, shall we?  


So all through the ultrasound, she kept up with the “nope…nope…nothing”, to the point where I was actually starting to get pretty pissed off, but I bit my tongue.  Then she got WEIRD.  I totally don’t know if this is normal or not, but it was weird to me, and I’m going to ask my Gyn about it (I can talk to him both better and before this surgeon; my well-woman exam is next Thursday at 1:00, and I know him, whereas my app’t with this surgeon is next Thursday at 3:30, and I don’t know him as well) and see what he says.  It was just…weird.  She actually pinched me, so that she could see this whateverwhatever that the surgeon had written on the Dx.  It’s just too gross.  I have a hard enough time describing it to the people that already know.  Bleah.  Regardless, she *pinched* me.  Hard.  She actually went after my nipple like you’d pop a zit, and I swear that is not an exaggeration or embellishment.  And, after everything else, I was just so not in the mood for this shit.  I asked her what she was doing, and she said that she was just trying to see what kind of…oh, screw it…discharge I was talking about, ‘cos it sure isn’t what the surgeon wrote, and she can’t get anything to discharge.  Okay, that is really exciting and all, but…YOU’RE HURTING ME!  QUIT IT!  And she stopped, but then she announced that I was just mistaken, and there’s really nothing wrong with me, and if my surgeon had wanted to check out my ducts he would have ordered a ductogram, so he doesn’t know what he is doing.  Whatever.



So that’s more or less it.  Mom is okay.  I am at least mostly okay.  Everybody’s okay.  Son-Friend is off Tegretol and it has now been replaced with Keppra, though he is still taking Depakote.  I sure hope his neurologist knows what he is doing, ‘cos I’ve not had the time to check into it.  His Disability does not kick in until sometime between now and January, so I still have him on the dole.  Sigh.  I am running the country’s first privatised welfare office; I am the shape of things to come.  And this is probably the longest post I’ll ever do.  But really, over everything else, I am just glad that Mom is okay, and that her heart damage is minimal.  And I’m glad that she is being nice to me, though that means it will suck when she goes back to normal.  

Tuesday, October 18, 2005


Mom is doing better.  She has the pacemaker and the catheter out, so that means her heart is doing okay, rhythm-wise, although she is still in CICU.  Last night, she was being her normal self bizarre and freaking her nurse out; as she was wheeled up and her nurse was hooking up her crap, she made the comment that as much as this had hurt, she was certainly glad that she’d never had a heart attack.  


The nurse advised her that, in fact, she *had* actually had a heart attack.  To which, Mummers replied that she may have, but her heart was not damaged, so it was not a *real* heart attack, just a painful episode.  To which the nurse responded that as far as anyone could tell, she would have heart damage—as most heart attack patients do incur.  To which my mother said (irritatedly) that everyone knows that heart attacks cause heart damage, which is why she is so glad that she has never had one.

Welcome to my Mommy.  Enjoy.

The nurse asked me if I thought she was acting peculiarly.  As much as I wanted to corroborate her suspicions of CICU psychosis, I had to tell her that Mummers was actually being 99.9% normal.  Then Nursie looked at *me* like I was weird.  

Eh.  You’re about to have at least eight hours with her.  You’ll figure it out.

When Mom had her bypass surgery a few years ago, they warned us when we went back to visit that she would have “pump-head”, a condition resulting from the use of the heart-lung machine that keeps one alive whilst the heart is temporarily out of service for renovation.  As a “pump-head”, they said, Mummers was going to be blathering, nonsensical, and possibly delusional, and they just wanted us to be prepared for it—our mom hadn’t lost her crackers, and this was Only Temporary.

Neither Meg nor I could tell any difference in her personality whatsoever.  I personally believe that speaks volumes, so I’ll not.  :-)

When we left (they limit you to visits of only five or ten minutes), her nurse mentioned that Mom would be back to normal in a day or so.  I told the nurse that Mom seemed normal already, except for her unwavering belief that her nurses were trying to kill her.  She had asked me to summon the police a few times, and tried to talk me into wheeling her bed out of there, begging me not to leave her with the crazy women who were trying to murder her.

“Oh,” said the nurse, “that’s probably why she keeps asking for a telephone.  That’s CVICU Psychosis.  It’s normal.”  

So what she is saying, I explained to Meg in the elevator as we left, is that we’ve finally found a place where Mummers fits in.  They *understand* her.  They’ll feed her regularly, and she will get used to it after a while.  Let’s run off to Alaska and leave her here.

Meg declined, so a few weeks later we picked her up and took her home.  Her nurses, notably, did not all come out to send her off as Squooshable’s did.  We think that they may have been hiding.  And to this day, my mother is still convinced that her nurses in the CVICU were trying to kill her.  She is a little vague on the motivation as well as the method, but if you disagree, she will argue with you.  Vehemently.  As proof, she brings up the fact that they would not give her a telephone so that she could call the police to stop them from killing her.  And she’s harbouring anger towards me over my not having phoned the police for her, something she still occasionally brings up in arguments.

Yes…that’s my Permanently Pump-Headed Mommy.

So she’s as okay as she’s going to be in her situation right now.  I do not *like* seeing her like this.  I especially don’t like it that I have no one I can complain about her to (and I can’t rail on her, of course), and I have no one to kvetch about how incredibly…whatever it was of her to put this all in my hands.  That was really unfair.  Sigh.

But I guess it’s all okay.  Who cares, anyway.  What is important is that she is still alive.  This would have been a sucky Holiday Season without her.  She’s all about the turning over a new leaf thing right now.  I guess we will see how long it lasts *this* time.  I do love her.  And she’s having a blast driving her nurses and the nutritionist completely batshit, so I guess that’s good.  I like it when she’s happy.  I like it even better when it is not at my expense.

Now I have to get some sleep so that I can go visit with her before I go to get the ultrasound done.


Monday, October 17, 2005


ummm...let's see.

I have a midterm due. Like right this second.

The past three days, work has been chaotic.

Mom had a heart attack last night whilst on the phone with me, thereby necessitating that I call paramedics for her and organise rescue on the phone as she's moaning and dying in my other ear, 'cos she didn't want to go to the hospital, she wanted to see if it would go away on its own, which is why she called me, of course--so that I could rescue her, 'cos she didn't want to call herself.

No, I'm not kidding.

It was her right artery. They re-stented her, and she's in CICU right now. They said that if she's a good girl, she'll get the pulmonary cath and pacemaker out posthaste, though that has not happened yet.

I TOLD her that when it happened it was going to hurt, and she wasn't going to want to be there. I SAID that.

In between the health stuff and the school stuff and the life stuff and the work stuff and now the Mommy stuff, I'm really just kind of numb. It's like nitrogen narcosis--really; I'm *fine*. Or at least I feel that way, and that's what counts, right?

Bless you, Nature.

I'm okay. I have to get back to finishing this midterm so that I can turn it in and go back to the hospital, but I just wanted to vent or whatever.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

One more time, with feeling...

Well, I have *another* ultrasound scheduled for Tuesday.  I guess it is like having to get something x-rayed multiple times; maybe there are different positions, or something.  Who knows?  

I am beginning to be sorry I even started this.  Sigh.  Why can’t things just go away when you ignore them, damn it?


I am behind in writing, and have to think of a clever way to explain that tomorrow.  I just have not felt like concentrating.  Oh, well.  Odds are that the person I am writing with has not done anything, either.  So tomorrow, I will try to type it whilst in my Friday seminar-type class that just goes on and on.  Maybe I will get enough done that I look to have been busy.  :-)  Or I will just get up early, or something.  Or both, probably.  


Countdown to Disfigurement

Ohhh…I’m sorry for my rant before.  :-\  I do that sometimes, and then I feel bad for having done it.  It’s one of those things where you want to say, “scratch that—let me try again; I didn’t mean to come off that way”, but I’ll leave it.  It is peculiar that even in being anonymous, I feel un-anonymous; you would think that I would be more inclined to be very venomous all the time and not care, yet I do.  Weird.

{giggle} Perhaps I feel confidential!  I might, seeing as how I don’t understand the difference between the two.  ;-)  Bwaah!

Eh; I’m basically a nice and relatively stable girl.  No, rilly.  And I live well with my mistakes; I don’t have much of a choice.  And I don’t let my mouth run away with me anymore, so I guess my fingers have to sometimes.  :-)

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow that I am not looking forward to; I have been putting this off for a long-ass time.  Augh.  But I’d like to go back to my regular physician for refills of things, and unless I want to be lambasted something fierce (ok, ok—he’d really just look at me sternly and then tell me some bad jokes), I need to go do it.  Since I’m subjecting myself to that crap, I might as well go do the ol’ yearly well woman thing, too.  Blecch.  Time for *another* lecture.  

This happens every year.  You’d think I would have learnt by now, but no.  :-)  Actually, I have a very cool, nice, highly knowledgeable gyn; he just wants me to go screw and make babies.  :-)  I must look like a breeder.  ;-)  The talk makes me uncomfortable, but I don’t want to go doctor-shopping anymore; in the past, I’ve had gyns that have told me that I make cramps up—either because I’m attention-seeking (you’d maybe have to know me to fully appreciate how ludicrous that is), or because I want narcotics.  I’m not kidding; I had three—THREE—female gyns tell me that.  The first said I was exaggerating/looking for attention (in spite of the fact that godawful cramps run on my mother’s side of the family); the second was convinced that I was trying to scam narcotics off her (and was really surprised when I shut up after she prescribed Cataflam; that stuff is *wonderful*!); the third told me (again) that I was being dramatic.  Then I found my current gyn, and he found an ovarian cyst (chocolate) almost the size of a fist that was about to rupture.  And the Mystery of the Increasingly Incapacitating Cramps was solved.

Ok, now I *will* engage in sexism:  I will never, EVER go to a woman gyn again.  Period.  Those bitches don’t know what they are doing.  My doctor felt something weird during palpation, and had me hooked up to ultrasound by the end of that *day* (let’s not even go there…the urgency of my doctor’s request made it so that I had to have a male tech, and, well, let me just say that that is not an *external* event, and the tech tried to let me do it myself, but ummm…I wasn’t able to make it happen.  The piece of Ancodia that was supposed to be cooperating with me was, ummm…uncooperative, so he had to.  AUGH!).  But Dr Gyn *personally* called the ultrasound place and made them take me ASAP.  He req’d the results back stat, and I was in surgery within two weeks, held up only because Eviljob’s Leave Centre gave the wrong fax # for the emergency leave paperwork, and my bloodwork went to the wrong hospital.  Those other bimbos had done palpation.  They had my family history.  They conducted a full exam.  I had never in my life had surgery, no hospitalisations, only one emergency room visit in my life (at that point; now I am up to a whopping TWO),  immaculate work attendance, excellent grades; anyone with an iota of psychological training could see that I don’t fit the *profile* of a malingerer, hypochondriac, or addict.  Anyone, it seems, but these ladies.  All three of them.  

I think it is a little bit of sexism on *their* behalf.  Maybe they were all blessed with easy cycles, and have gotten tired of hearing so many complaints day after day.  But my grandmother, were she still alive, could tell you how she *begged* for a hysterectomy, as did my mother’s youngest sister, to get away for the horrible cramping they had.  And my grandmother said that *her* mother and two of her sisters also had the same thing—almost literally incapacitating cramps, but short-ish cycles.  I’ve been told that it’s caused by the uterus just being enthusiastic about contracting (and Dr Gyn was able to offer some alternatives to drugs that are kind of useless to me, but I haven’t had the inclination to discuss *that* with him yet, and perhaps never will; I just thanked him for caring to try to get me off the Cataflam…sigh).  My cramps are not as bad now that the cyst is gone; they’re like they were before, but I am notorious for having a higher pain threshold.  I walk around and function with splitting migraines, I bruise myself regularly and can’t remember how I did it, etc…  Midol barely touches them, and Cataflam just makes it…easier.  Usually Cataflam makes them gone (bless you, Pharmaceutical Company), but if not, it makes them *liveable*.  I don’t have to stop (I mean literally stop walking and stand there like a damn fool for a minute or two) to let a bad cramp pass as much, and I don’t have any of the other problems one has when one’s uterus is performing Olympic-calibre gymnastic routines.  I swear to god, in my pre-Cataflam years I sometimes expected the damn thing to pop out like in Alien and start dancing around like Michigan J. Frog.  

Sigh.  I’m venting again, aren’t I?  :-)  Ok.  I’ll stop.  My point is, they should have accepted what I was saying and acted as caretakers, not as assholes. I have a long line of doctors in my family, and so from experience I say to you three ladies:  You are bad doctors.  

So *there*.  Hmmph.


So tomorrow, I have like, general grossness occurring, and more general grossness to follow.  It looks like I have clogged ducts in my breasts (yeah, I know—TMI), but word so far is that since it’s both of them, the likelihood of it being anything malignant is slim-to-none.  My GP wanted a mammogram, but they said my breasts are still too thick (hey—you calling my breasts *fat*?!?), so they did a different procedure which is more sensitive anyway, and that came back normal.  Therefore, odd are it’s just your garden-variety clogged ducts.  

Now, what I’m squeamish about is this:  I don’t *like* the idea of surgery.  I am afraid of general anaesthesia.  The solution is to go in and surgically unclog the ducts, something that I don’t want to think about, except in very abstract terms.  I can deal, okay…but I don’t want general.  I can sit still…I just want local, or something.  Like I said, I have a high pain threshold.  But one of my father’s favourite lectures (after the State of the World Lecture and the Abuse of Antibiotics Lecture) is his Overuse of General Anaesthesia Lecture.  Followed of course by his Overuse of X-Ray Lecture.  And he’s in the running for World’s Worst Father, but he’s right about the antibiotics, the anaesthesia, the x-rays, and probably the state of the world, too.  So I don’t want any more general.  Now, how I’m going to make that happen I don’t know.  I didn’t want general for the removal of my cyst (he saved my ovary, by the way!  I have named her Millicent, and the other Melisande), but the surgeon said No Fucking Way.  No, literally—that’s what he said.  I didn’t want to find myself in a psych evaluation, so I just shut up.  Then I had to have general again for something I’ll maybe talk about later.  So in my mind, I’ve used two graces thus far; I’ll save the rest for when I’m old and decrepit and need a face lift.

The second thing that I am feeling uneasy about is this:  I kind of like my breasts; I think they are pretty nice.  I’m not bragging by any means; I’m not saying they are beautiful, or anything.  But they are mine, and I like them.  But I guess they’re going to be all scarred after this.  I mean, no one sees them anymore, and no one has ever really thought they were fabulous (other than that stupid general breast fixation some men have, which doesn’t count as *actually* loving *my* breasts…*anyone* could be there, and they’d be just as happy), but I have kind of grown attached to The Girls.  :-)  I have been trying to take the attitude that scars, like wrinkles, make us interesting, but…  I don’t know.  So I’m going to have interesting breasts, I guess.  Which ultimately doesn’t matter, ‘cos I’m the only one who sees them anyway; it’s just the change.  I can understand how women must feel after a mastectomy, and as petty as I am being I know I deserve to have something horrible happen to me for getting upset over this and not just being grateful for my health, which is actually pretty excellent overall.  And I’m being a little premature, sure, because tomorrow I just meet the surgeon and he’ll give me and my records a once-over and then we schedule the actual roto-rootering or whatever, but…  I am just thinking ahead a few weeks.  Forgive my vanity, and I mean that sincerely.  I am sure that I will mention it again, so I guess take comfort in the fact that I would never do anything but think it and write it here.  I would really feel too selfish and vain to say anything to anyone else, particularly this surgeon.  I am certain he has seen things devastating enough that my issues would not even rate as a minor speed bump, and I’d probably just piss him off.  And understandably so; if I’d seen all that he has surely seen, I’d probably be disgusted at some vain little girl whining about scars also.  Boo fucking hoo.  

By reputation, he is a very good surgeon.  He was my mother’s surgeon when she had breast cancer, and he did a fantastic job on her; he did her lumpectomy and lymphectomy, and she avoided an actual mastectomy because of his thoroughness, though she has a kind of pitting or largeish indentation…it’s hard to explain, and I haven’t totally scoped Mummer’s breasts out (we’re just not that kind of family) but she sort of showed me, and told me about it, and it sure beats death.  Mummers doesn’t care.  Or, if she does, she does an amazingly good job of hiding it which, considering her, is highly unlikely; she’s pretty verbal about things she dislikes, even if they have to build up and come out as a temper tantrum, and she’s certainly had long enough to have had at least one temper tantrum yet hasn’t.  So, invoking Occam’s Razor, she doesn’t care.  Even though she was *exceedingly* upset at first that she would have to get one, she gets a kick out of the fact that she has a tattoo (a tiny dot, to mark the area from the radiation treatments), ‘cos she thinks tattoos are disgusting.  :-)  Yeah, I have a weird Mommy; if we are out and she sees a heavily-tattooed man, she’ll almost invariably lean over and whisper, “Why don’t I go over and compare tattoos with him!”.  Sigh.  :-)  

And after Mom was diagnosed, my brother dashed off an email telling me (and Meg) to go get on Tamoxifen NOW.  I didn’t, and neither did Meg.  Apparently, clinical studies have demonstrated that my taking Tamoxifen for five years before I’m like, forty or something would lower my risk of breast cancer to at or below normal rates of occurrence, despite my *increased* risk now because my mother and one of her sisters had it.  Meg and I figure that we have time; forty is a long while off.  I will get around to it, and may end up doing it after this procedure if this surgeon (and/or my gyn & GP) is of the same mind.  I guess we will see.  

I know this has been bothering me, but I did not realise that it had been bothering me *this* much.  See?  Aren’t you glad I haven’t been blogging about this the whole time?  I just told Meg tonight, and I actually did not intend to.  I was not going to say anything; it just came out.  It is bothering me, but in the grand scheme of things, it is not a big deal.  Hah.  In the grand scheme of things, this is not even worthy of MENTION; this is all completely self-indulgent.  I just get like this sometimes.  It’s a part of my personality I wish I could just excise, but…often it’s thought or written before I can recognise it for what it is and stop it.  Then I think to myself, “just delete this and don’t post it,” but were I to do that, I would have a whole three entries in this thing.  Maybe.  And I censor (and censure!) myself in every other area of life except for here.  So I’m not going to delete it and not post it.  

I haven’t talked to really anyone about this; in a way, I am fortunate that I found this before it became…icky.  I mean, I’m not errr…geez; how to be not disgusting here…showing outward signs much yet.  There.  :-)  Oh, I couldn’t have put up with this for almost two years were I to be having outward signs…that’s just too icky.  When I discovered it that long ago, it then took me several months to mention it.  I couldn’t mention it to my GP at first, ‘cos I just have a hard time.  I cannot explain it…I feel like I am whining, or something.  Plus it’s…I don’t know.  Not embarrassing, but…personal.  I have a really hard time with things that, to my tiny brain, are too personal.  So it festered and worried me for months until my well woman last year, when I figured that since he was mangling the crap out of The Girls anyway (and I was so very fearful that the ummm…evidence I did have was going to make itself known, which would be just humiliating, but it was a consideration, ‘cos he gives the most aggressive breast exam I’ve ever had in my life), I decided to ask then.  He already thinks I am weird as fuck, though I can tell he likes me.  He just stopped (still holding my left breast…d’ya *have* to do that whilst thinking, Doc?) and gave me this look (he gives me that look at least once or twice every time I see him), and asked if I was asking for myself, or for someone else.  I told him for myself; I figured that since we were already bitchslapping The Girls to kingdom come anyway, I’d make conversation (my attempt at humour…I don’t think he gets some of my jokes).  So then he goes into the “how long has this been going on, and why didn’t you tell me” mode.  I really hate that.  I have my reasons, k?  They’re superty-secret reasons, too…k?  I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you…k?  My brain only gives me reasons on a Need To Know basis…k?  Shit…I DON’T KNOW.  Just *BECAUSE*.  

He was somewhat sceptical, so I showed him proof (god, the humiliation I endure sometimes seems *boundless*), and he said it was a papilloma (I think.  I know it translated into clogged duct(s)), and he told me to go do This, That, and The Other, which I just…didn’t.  Sorry.  That one scene was all the mortification I could undergo for right then.  So then I let it bother me for a few months, and I went to my GP for something else, and can you believe that my gyn had told my GP?!?  I know they are friends (it was my GP’s referral that led me to this gyn after the crazy ladies), but what the hell ever happened to confidentiality?  So, at Dr Gyn’s behest, my GP started harassing me (as much as he harasses anyone about anything; he’s a teddy bear) every time I went to see him; he told me Dr Gyn had made him promise, and even showed me where he’d written it on the front of my chart (not that I could read it…as a doctor *and* a lefty, he has the worst handwriting on Earth).  :-)  And I say that lovingly, but I know pharmacies that have his number (as well as, I’m sure, other offenders) on speed dial for ‘script translation services, and I’m really not exaggerating.  Almost every time I cash one of his prescriptions, they ask me what it’s for; I usually tell them it’s for “a lot of whatever’s getting the highest street value at the moment”.  :-P  


So I told my GP that I just wasn’t dealing with the whole Let’s Hack Up Ancodia’s Breasts Thing, and so he indulged me and let me do two rounds of Levaquin, to see if that made it go away.  At first I thought it had, and I just…failed to adequately update him when I discovered that it hadn’t.  Then he flat-out asked me, and since I try to reserve lying for special occasions when it’s necessary, I ‘fessed up.  And he’s been back to harassing me ever since.  That’s why I was reluctant to see him when I was so sick before.  

Okay, so I made the app’t with the surgeon.  Maybe everyone will be happy and leave me in peace once I am all hacked up and ugly.  And I can schedule my well woman exam with a clean conscience now.  I would be afraid to miss it, in case anything *was* wrong down there, plus I need another year of Cataflam.  I’m so glad it’s generic now—diclofenac potassium—‘cos it’s a hell of a lot cheaper, should I ever quit Eviljob and lose my insurance.  I have to consider things like this.  

I don’t want to do this.  I really just don’t.  I want it to just go away.  Sigh.  I will make him schedule my surgery for a Thursday or Friday, and get the weekend off Eviljob.  At least I’ll get something out of it.  I will go to Build-A-Bear as I did for my other two surgeries, and make a stuffed animal.  :-)  That will make me happy…ier.  


Wednesday, October 12, 2005

I'm not expecting to grow flowers in the desert

I have found the most remarkable cat treat!  Squooshable goes batshit for it; I’ve found it online, and if I can’t find a retailer nearby, I’ll just order online from now on:

Kitty Kissers

They have chicken liver (Squoosh’s favourite), beef liver, shrimp, and squid (I want to try this one for Romeo).  I bought one box at the Cracker Barrel in VA when I was there and missing Squoosh and he loved them so much that I went to the CB here and bought some, but CB does not regularly carry them.  :-(   But Squooshable gets so turned on by them that when he sees the box now, he starts purring!  Romeo and Weebie *like* the chicken liver (the only one I have tried), but they like other stuff, too—it doesn’t THRILL them like it does Squooshable.  But I’m betting that since Romeo is a seafood junkie, he’ll go for the squid and/or shrimp, and Weebie is more of a shrimp or beef girl; I don’t know about Weebie and squid, but I’ll try it.  

In other news, I’m on a Men Suck kick.  Don’t get me wrong…I love them; I like the way they smell, the way they taste, the way they are when they are behaving like fricking HUMANS—all of that.  Well, most of them.  Ok, *many* of them.  Sheesh.

I’ve been the girls-only route, and the half-‘n-half route, but in the end I’ve had to admit that—same as with religion—I’m boring:  I like boys.  I like them, and not in a necessarily boring way, either.  Ummm, yeah, ‘Codia’s been known to get a little weird.  But that’s all in the past, really.  Ok, not *really*.  :-)  But whatever.  Right now, they suck.  

This has been a long time coming, really.  Just a few months ago I came off a crush-from-a-distance high when I realised the guy was yet another loser.  Okay, maybe not a *loser* per se, but…an amoeba, migrating to whichever side of the Petri Dish is warmest.  And that’s just unattractive.  See?  I’ve grown.  Sadder but wiser, and all that.

Reading over one of Samantha’s recent posts, I just became plain ol’ angry.  I’m angry ‘cos (1) she had to go through all of that; (2) as I read the list, I was like, “Holy crap!  Me too!” on over half of them; (3) Who in the hell do these guys think they are?  I mean, *really*?!?  

And look—I know that there are psychotic girls out there.  I mean, I have male relatives, and friends that I have seen put through hell by crazy women, and I have read the blogs of some of these whacked bimbettes before I decided that if I continued to read blogs indiscriminately, I was going to do some serious faith-in-humanity losing.   It would be sexist of me to say that all men suck and women are all innocent.  I know that’s not true.  

But today we’re talking about boys, guys.  

Today I had a conversation with ‘Pants.  *Her* Mr Wonderful (scoff, scoff) is probably cheating on her with a 19-year old—and ‘Pants and Mr W are both 30.  Now I’m not that far away, and I think that someone in our age-neighbourhood who would date (or screw, or even flirt with in a sexualised manner) a 19-yo is a fucking pedophile.  How disgusting.  Her heart is broken, she’s laying down the law this weekend, and she’s giving him his walking papers if he says one word wrong.  As many problems as I have had with her in the past, my heart is breaking for her.  And where did he pick up this poor deranged child?  The freaking Internet.  

Now, in fairness, when I was 17, I “picked up” an older guy on a BBS (jesus…am I *that* old already?!?), but I was lucky—he was a genuinely nice person, and we had a good time.  I was a little fucked in the head and living dangerously, and I just lucked out and picked a safe one.  We hung out a lot, made out a few times, never actually did anything worthy of note, and I still talk to him once every few years whether he needs it, or not.  ;-)  Well, he’s busy; he lives nowhere near where I am now, has his own business, writes quasi-regularly for a computer magazine, and he updates stuff on his three websites (business, personal, alter-ego personal) often enough that when I wonder what he’s up to, I just wander over to one or all of them.  I’m unobtrusive like that.  :-)  But the moral of this story is that things are different now.  I can’t necessarily say that, were I 17 *today*, I would pick up someone over twice my age in a chatroom, or whatever.  I have to wonder what is wrong with this poor girl’s mind.

And Mr Wonderful is a pig.  That is the other moral of this story.  The guy I met left me undamaged, if not a little wiser in ways that weren’t exactly sexual.  ‘Pants’ Mr Wonderful is a walking disaster area, and I would lay money on the fact that he’s going to fuck this little girl up for life.  I became irritated at ‘Pants when we were trying to be friends the first time and she told me about some of the things Mr W would pressure her into trying.  I’m all for freak, but not when one person is reluctant, and Mr W was doing NOTHING to try to ease into ANYTHING, which is the hallmark of Someone Who Doesn’t Know What They Are Doing, Doesn’t Care To Learn, And Doesn’t Give A Fuck About You.  That just kills it for me; in Ancodialand, *everyone* has to consent fully, or it doesn’t happen.  But, then again, I’m not an amoral fucktard, like some Mr Wonderfuls I could mention.  

In all truth, that was probably when I started distancing myself from ‘Pants.  I can’t deal with that shit; I’ve just been through too much.  Been there, done that, and anyone who tries to make me go again is getting their ass kicked.  I cannot relate to this “I have no self-esteem, so whatever you say is ok, ‘cos I really need a fiancé” shit.  Ohhellno.

So I’m sad for ‘Pants, but I’m happy for her, too.  At least, as I told her tonight, this is happening *before* you two got married and had the 2.5 kids.  Before, it is an irritation; *after*, it is a tragedy.  I think ‘Pants understood where I was coming from.  Finally, after all this time.

And I’m upset for Ms Grammarian, who deserves psychotic people *never*…she’s just too kind and intelligent.  It actually really upsets me that someone who is so attentive to Life, and so…just plain nice has to go through this shit, too.  And I’m just…upset.  

Who in the hell do these guys think they are?  

And yes, I probably have a chip on my shoulder.  If I explained *why* I have a chip on my shoulder, it would probably be the longest post to ever be posted to Blogger, and it would upset me far too much.  Plus, it would be a kind of gunnysacking argument that I deplore—the kind where the person arguing implies that they can do no wrong, or hold no wrong opinions, by virtue of the fact that A happened, or someone did B to them, or whatever.  It is an appeal to emotionality, and I am just not about that.  Nothing I say, or have said, is intended to be an emotionally based attack.  I’m just saying that because of all of these things, I sometimes wake up in the morning distrusting men.  And I just wanted to vent, because sometimes when I think about all of the things that I have had happen, I really actually *do* question whether I’m just going to die old and alone, ‘cos there really is no one out there who is normal.  Maybe they really *are* all married or gay by now.  

But I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than ever—EVER—have to live with someone who doesn’t literally worship the ground I walk on, and treat me with kindness, respect and reverence every day, in every way.  It’s just not worth it.  Screw the brass ring; at this stage in the game, I want the entire fucking carousel.  I don’t want to live in fear; I don’t want to live in anger, shame, hurt, hate, jealousy…  I just don’t.  And I’m not going to.  If that makes me (as my oldest aunt says) a spinster (remember, my parents had me late), then so be it.  Gimme my spinning wheel.  

And really, in spite of everything, I don’t hate men.  Some *people* I hate, but that’s not gender-based.  And I know that there are good men out there, but good men are like socks; there’s tons of it about, and I never seem to get any.  :-)  

Oh, hell; if I didn’t have *one* Black Adder reference, someone might think it wasn’t really me.  

But I’m serious; I don’t hate men.  I actually spend far too much time *liking* them, and a lesser person would have turned into some kind of misandrist Feminazi.  But not me; maybe it’s because I’m too stupid to, but whatever.  I could really spend hours describing in epic detail how much I don’t dislike them, but…  It would probably never serve any purpose.  Really, at this point in time I’m not optimistic about the whole thing as far as my own prospects, so I’m probably the wrong person to be talking about this; for some reason, I seem to attract some very weird and mean people as far as love interests go.  I don’t know why, so I just stopped dating for a while, ‘cos I really just can’t deal with any more hurt, hate, pain, anger, and etc…

Plus I have work, and my other work, and The Program (kind of sounds like a John Grisham novel, doesn’t it?), and…everything.  In many ways, my life is going really, really well right now.  I don’t want to screw it up.  I don’t have *time* to play stupid games of “how much do you love me”, or “let me really fuck you up but good especially in some way you’re not going to want to talk about to anyone and see how well you handle everyday life the next day”.  Fact is, I’m afraid.  

And that’s why men suck; because they have the power to do this to us, and so many of them do.  And for the alleged Nice Guys who might read this and think that of course I don’t *want* a Nice Guy, ‘cos they are present in abundance; I’m intentionally dumping Nice Guys and only getting involved with assholes, I say bullshit.  Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.  Many of the Nice Guys I know (that are straight) are currently married, dating, or Otherwise Involved with psychotic bitches.  Sure, a few are with Nice Girls, but it seems that a lot of Nice Guys feel like they are in some way validated as human beings when they finally “win” a psychotic bitch.  Some of the Nice Guys I’ve had a shot at I guess didn’t seem to find what they were looking for here.  Who knows why; maybe I’m too reasonable, rational, sane, healthy, dutiful, out of debt, hardworking, ambitious, self-supporting, and at least moderately not dumb for their tastes.  Especially if they are looking for psychotic bitches.  Hmmm.

So I have quit.  I’m out of it.  As of a couple years ago.  The Plan is that I am going to just be Me, and be alone, and if something great happens, cool.  If it doesn’t, well…I kind of expect that.  No big deal.