I Almost Exploded Today, and also, My Cats are Weirdos

Remember how Princess the Whore unleashed a hibernating psychosis in Bobbi when she was trying to protect me (her property), and I was like I NEED HELP DOWN HERE, and no one would come, and the whole thing was really very upsetting?? Well, the psychosis is lingering. Bobbi is being such a drama queen, and she still hasn't forgotten what happened. I swear, aren't their brains like the size of an egg or something? Damn this cat could win at Memory for realsies, and she DEF knows how to hold a grudge! She HATES me and her little sister Hairy and is acting all weird. She's acting like I was caught fooling around with another cat, rather than trying to save her beautiful person. And she won't stop hissing at Hairy, and Hairy's like WTF? We used to be besties, you were like my PERSON, and now you're treating me like the dime store hooker I am. Why am I being shunned by my big sister? Why isn't my fur soft anymore? Am I a virgin? And also where did the kitchen go? And now I have to whore myself for love with Mommy and Daddy, since the GIANT ONE will no longer give of it freely.

So I've got a 2 year old in the terrible, turbulent trial that is the too-long lasting 2nd year, and I've got a dick and a slut for cats. Sweet.

Also, I was in a minor car accident today, and it was absolutely my fault. When I got out of the car to talk to the dude I hit, he was like, "Oh, wow, I have 40 gallons of propane gas in my trunk, it's a good thing we didn't explode," and I was like, "You're superlame for attempting a really inappropriate joke with such an OBVIOUSLY tender and delicate/perhaps unstable stranger you're with." Yeah, turns out he wasn't joking. He showed me the propane. So I guess I almost exploded today, too.

And these are the reasons today sucks.

Do You Remember

I saw you today, for the first time in over a year.
You gave me a big bear hug that seemed to swallow me, even though you only came to my chin.
Grandpa! I've missed you! Dude, you've shrunk.
He looked at me, smiled, and called me by my given name
that's barely familiar enough to even claim as my own.
(you're the only one who calls me that)
You seemed frailer to me, and well, older
and though you are in excellent shape, better than any other
88 year old I know,
I found myself looking at you and
wondering
where all the time went.
I wanted to talk to you, really talk to you
but
instead
my throat closed and I
found myself asking you about the rest of the family,
really boring and
menial
things.
I didn't know how to say what I really wanted to say:
do you remember when you used to buy Cinnamon Toast Crunch just for me and Brett when you knew we were coming to visit?
Do you remember that I used to call you Grandpa Hairy Arms?
Do you remember that you're the best story-teller I know?
Do you still have that tea set I used to play with? Do you remember I'd pour water in the miniature cups and break up saltines and call them crumpets?
Do you remember?
I do.
I remember your beautiful orchards heavy with walnuts.
I remember your wrap-around porch, and the way the frogs used to climb the kitchen window at night when it was so hot outside.
I remember the pancakes you used to make that were the size of dinner plates, and I remember that you got upset when we didn't eat at least two.
I remember when Grandma died, and I remember thinking you were so brave.
Do you remember singing us the songs you used to sing to her?
Do you remember, when I was a child, holding me in your arms, and I felt so safe?
I do.
Do you?
My eyes sting now, burn hot with shame and regret when I think that I said none of these things to you tonight. None of them.
And I realize
my life is a series
of regrets, missed opportunities,
one
after
another.
But I have tomorrow.
Yes, I have one more day with you.
And I will ask you
if you
remember.
I will help you
remember
all the reasons I
love you.

I Want to Leave a Flaming Bag of Poop on a Doorstep

I'm a sicky. Boo. Double boo! I've been sick for like a week, and Lil C is sick, and I have to actually be selfless and take care of him because I'm an adult and he shares half my genes so I'm obligated to and it was the Good Samaritan like thing to do. My face feels like it be on fire. Fever's blow.

So I totally went to Joanne's today to comprar another half yard of fabric for my curtains. The line was like a gazillion long and I had to fight with old ladies in creepy mom pants to get my fabric cut. Also, when I got home, I saw that I didn't even buy the right fabric, and I realized that I was, in fact, losing my mind. It was fun.

So, remember Princess, the aforementioned neighbor who was abandoned on her uncle's farm or whateva? Well the little banshee is NOT shy. She keeps wandering into the house because the doors are often open while it's being worked on to help dissipate the dust and such. So, in she saunters, and out we chase her. In again, out again oh how fun (that's what she said). Well, this afternoon she snuck in AGAIN, and booked it down in the basement. I ran after her because my kitties were down there and I knew that there was going to be a major bitch fest if they met. And they did. And it was BAD. I grabbed Princess just as Bobbi lumbered onto the scene. They both started like doing this hiss/growl thing that almost made me wet my pants. Princess started writhing in my hands and I got all busted up. Bobbi ran at her and leaped in the air, grabbed onto her, and dragged her out of my hands. Bobbi's a big girl, I had no idea she had the athletic prowess in her to do such a kung fu-esque thing. (GOOD JOB!) I started screaming I NEED HELP DOWN HERE while trying to not get killed while breaking the two girls up. Nobody heard me due to Paul McCartney blaring upstairs, lame lame lame town. Eventually Princess ran up the stairs with Bobbi chasing her. She eventually ran out the door and I followed her, muttering, trying to find her so that I could take her back to her family next door and tell them to KEEP THEIR DAMN CAT IN THE HOUSE, SHE'S UPSETTING THE DELICATE TEMPERAMENTS OF MY KITTY LOVERS.

I didn't find her, but when I do, oh I will go there and I will tell the neighbors what is going down. And if they don't listen and keep their cat on their own property, then I will poop in a brown bag and light it on fire and put it on their porch. And I will laugh and be gleeful.

I just want life to be easy. I want life to be devoid of old ladies in creepy mom pants and possessed cats who want to hurt my kitty lovers.

I want to be better. I want my child to be better. I want a kitchen.

I want to leaving a flaming bag of poop on a doorstep.

Instead

Instead of being here today
I'd rather be here

or here

or even here

anywhere yes anywhere instead of here

So, You're Stuck in a Bomb Shelter...

Picture this:

You hear explosions and whammos and crashes and shakes oh my. You run into your bomb shelter custom made by this season's winner of Top Design. You seal the door just in time as a cataclysmic whoosh bang shatter takes out the greater population of the world. You take in your surroundings around you, and realize you'll probably be in here until you die, or at least until next season's American Idol airs.

But alas! You are faced with quite the conundrum! What to eat? A little food fairy comes to you in your PTSD-riddled sleep, and tells you that until the end of Time, you will only be able to live off of ONE food while despairing away in your shelter. But the bonus? YOU get to choose it! Now, keep in mind the food fairy tells you, that this food must be non-perishable - or at least if it is, won't smell bad or kill you if you partake of it. So you get a deliberatin'.

You think and think and think some more. Perhaps an explosion of rich chocolate and peanut butter? Hmmm...you've already witnesses a pretty traumatizing explosion. You move on. What about canned spaghetti and meatballs? Um. That'll have to be a big N to the O on that one. What if you don't have power and have to eat it out of the can COLD? Nah. Death by radiation melting your eyeballs and privates would be better than that. OOh! I got it! Canned peaches! YESSSS. Wait. No. Pretty sure I wasn't birthed by pilgrims.

And then, folks, after TWO DAYS of ruminating on this question, it came upon me:

TRAIL MIX

Yes, trail mix.

Why, you ask? Because you get a mix of the sweet AND the salty. You can think, I'm getting pretty damn sick of nuts. I'm just going to pick out the M&M's today. Or, you can think, peanuts just aren't hittin' my spot right now. I think I'll just go with the cashews, because they taste COMPLETELY different. And also, if I were to get especially desperate and felt like I might be dying of scurvy, I could gag down the raisins. I get fat, (pun absolutely intended) protein, and I'm sure some other stuff too. Plus, I get the added bonus of not even having to use a can opener to open anything, because what if it rusts in like year 37 of hiding or breaks a nail? See? This slut be thinkin' ahead.

So, answer this question and leave it in my comments please. I need to know, for I've realized that I can peer into the deep crevasses of your soul by your answer. So answer truthfully.

But also wisely.

Also, who thinks that crevasses, when spelled, looks really awkward and dirty?

Another One Bites the Dust?

When I was six, I wanted to be an Olympic gymnast. I quit shortly thereafter when I realized I was a head or two taller than all the girls around me. I knew I could never make it.

When I was ten, I took private tennis lessons. That lasted a summer.

When I was twelve, I played soccer. For two years.

When I was thirteen, I tried my hand at drawing. Totally stopped that when I realized how much I sucked.

When I was fourteen, I played volleyball. Quit at sixteen when I was humiliated and degraded by my coach.

When I was sixteen, I began modeling. Had to quit because it nearly killed me.

When I was twenty, I tried to learn how to play the guitar. That lasted for literally two days when I didn’t like the calluses on my fingers.

I also discovered myspace. LOVED it. But then I found blogging and tossed the myspace.

When I was twenty-one I began training for a marathon. I was able to run fifteen consecutive miles before I injured my knee. And then I got prego, wasn’t allowed to run like that anymore. And I never started training again.

I was twenty-three when I gave in and decided to start a blog. It saved me in more ways that I can say.

I’m twenty-four.

I’m teaching myself to sew, am throwing myself into it as passionately as I did tennis and gymnastics and blogging.

Will I quit this, too? Blogging, I mean.

I’ve been blogging for almost exactly a year. It was my passion. But I don’t know if it still is.

Is blogging, like all the other attempted-hobbies-but-realized-I-kinda-suck-at-‘ems above, something I’ll just toss out when I get disinterested or feel like no one else is interested?

I don’t know anymore. I feel like I’m bored, I feel like my readers are bored. Who wants to read over and over that I have the tube, or that Cade’s adorable (okay, I can concede that nobody would be bored by that…:) or all other random and stupid things I toss out here? Seriously. See, my problem is that if I’m doing something, I have to either do it all, unequivocally completely, or not at all.

I don’t have very much time to blog anymore. Writing, unlike all the other passions or attempted-grandeurs above, has ALWAYS ALWAYS YES OH MY ALWAYS been my passion, my oxygen. But maybe not in the form of blogging anymore. I just don’t know. It doesn’t bring me the same joy anymore, I don’t look forward to or receive comments like I used to…now, instead of thinking, “Okay! Schwing batta batta I get to blog today!” I think, “Holy oh my moly. I live in a dusty gutted house of despair. I need to clean or organize. I need to rest. I need to EAT. I need every spare second to freaking finish my manuscript. I need to go to work. I need to spend more time with my family. I need to finish sewing the insanely difficult-but-oh-so-cool sewing project I’m working on for the house.” And, I do think, “I should blog today. But I can’t, or I won’t, because I’ve too much on my plate.”

But I have so much to do, so much others want me to do and expect of me. I feel like I need eighteen hands to do everything that everybody expects. I want to make everybody happy. And I can’t. I’m too tired.

But it scares me.

What if this, too, becomes another past entry on my long list of meager accomplishments?

What if another one bites the dust?

My Tummy No Likey the Tubey

Hold on, folks! I'm about to reveal a major mythbuster, here:

MYTH: If one has an NG/NJ feeding tube in, and they vomit, then they will throw up the tube as well.

Alas. I was a believer in this myself, seeing it happen to many a fellow eating disorderian.

FACT: You can totally ralph and keep the tube in, too.

AN ILLUSTRATION: I didn't feel well. Big B and I were en route to comprar some saltines. We were nearly to the gas station when I shrieked for him to pull over because I was so going to toss some cookies.

15 seconds later:
gag gag ralph vomit pause for breath spit vomit gag spit
afterward
my first thought: I feel better!
my second thought: Hey. The tube didn't come out! It's a Christmas miracle!

15 minutes later:
gag gag ralph vomit pause for breath vomit spit gag pause for breath vomit some more ralph curse the kitties for staring at me while I do something as personal as puke breathe ralph lose it toss some more cookies
afterward
my first thought: I feel better!
my second thought: Don't think about glazed donuts or else you'll throw upDon't think about glazed donuts or else you'll throw upDon't think about glazed donuts or else you'll throw up glazeddonutsglazeddonutsglazeddonuts SUCK
and then
heave gag vomit
my third thought: I better get Big B to clean this up.
my fourth thought: Hey. The tube didn't come out! It's a Christmas miracle! Two Christmas miracles in one night? A record!

Here's to hoping I will get THREE Christmas miracles in one night. My wish? That I will throw up no more...