The End of the Red Devil and Other Random Events

A couple of weeks ago I had the last infusion of AC and last week I started my 12 weeks of Taxol. Doxorubicin (the A of the AC...don't ask me why, medical jargon makes zero sense to me most of the time) is the one often called the Red Devil, because it has dangerous side effects and has to be administered by the nurse directly into the port, vs through an IV drip. I'm thoroughly happy to be done with them: the last recovery period was longest so far (I wasn't well from Friday after chemo through Thursday the following week). 

But I had a week in between and I almost felt like a normal human for a bit! Took my little bald brainpan on holiday over Valentine's day to Duluth. I took pictures of the lake for the Banshee book, toured Glensheen for the first time (yes, I know...I grew up in Duluth and should've been there a lot over the years, but I never made it), had a margarita. The updates about the Banshee book will likely end up on my other blog, since it's writing related, but suffice to say I found an excellent book on the hauntings of Lake Superior, which included some Anishinaabe stories suspiciously close to dryads and mermaids. I am STOKED: I don't even have to explain in the novel why there are supernatural things living in/around the lake...they were already there. Mwahahaha. 

Yes, I'm a wild and exciting person.

Then I got ready for my last 3 months of chemo. So this stuff isn't supposed to be as bad: it's a lower dosage, the side effects don't generally include nausea, and over the next month or two I'm supposed to actually feel better as the AC effects wear off completely. Of course, Taxol has its own set of indignities. 

1) I have to take 5 steroid pills 12 hours before treatment, and 5 MORE 6 hours before, because there can be unpleasant side effects during infusion. If you don't know, that's a buttload of steroids. Turns out I have no problem sleeping with all those steroids overnight, but I may need to pull out my stupid scuba snorkel. Night sweats are no joke, and if THAT'S what hot flashes are like I might as well just invest in a swimming pool bed now. What the actual hell. Luckily I only have to do this on the night before/day of treatment. Last week my Nurse Practitioner at Oncology said I'm not allowed to have my IV outside in my underwear. Mean. 

On the other hand, I AM MOTIVATED this morning.

2) The nurses give you a big dose of Benadryl as one of the pre-infusion meds. Benadryl makes me sleepy. This is important: 

3) They also put a customer-service bell (the sort you'd see on a store counter) to hit if I start to feel any sort of weirdness during my IV drip. Remember how they gave me a big dose of knock-out-allergy-med first? So...hopefully if I'm asleep and my face swells up whomever is with me can hit the bell. 

4) Turns out muscle aches are the most painful side effect this time (well, so far). The rest of the neuropathy (tingling and numbness in hands/feet) is cumulative...I hope the muscle/joint aches aren't, because Thursday last week I couldn't really get out of bed or sleep well: too many evil chemo-trolls beating my legs with big sticks. 

5) Unfortunately, I continue to be a fucking weirdo with chemo. I felt mostly fine over the weekend, much better than I did the weekend after AC treatments, but Friday night while at a friend's for dinner I had some sort of weird pass-out-type episodes, the second of which had me waking up on their kitchen floor with upset people and dogs and a 911 call. Yeah. I made it to 42 before I had to be carried out of someone's house by paramedics and cops (good for them for not dropping my big ass) and take a ridiculously expensive ride in an ambulance. 100% do not recommend. Especially since the ER said all my tests are fine and they have no idea why it happened (and therefore, I have no way to know if it'll happen again). 

I'm fine now, there were a couple of warning signs I'm watching out for, and I have an appointment with Oncology before treatment today to find out if anything changes, but I'd like to say THIS WAS NOT ON THE GODDAMNED LIST OF SIDE EFFECTS. What the hell...somebody tell my brainpan that I'm supposed to follow the damn program like every other good little breast cancer patient. No more new bullshit: I have books to finish. 

It's awfully hot in here...can I do treatment in my underwear in the parking lot today? 

Reasons I Shouldn't Personally Hit The Snooze Button

Disclaimer: I am not judging your ability or inability to hit said snooze button.

1) It's not actually a button anymore. Seriously..it's a random space in the middle of a touch screen on a device I'm more likely to throw across the room when the stupid noise starts than fumble my ham-hands to the correct fingertip spot on the screen. There are many other button sized things I can do with my fingers first thing in the morning* without triggering cognitive spark in my brain: the snooze button takes actual effort. And yet I do it anyway, because fuck getting up on time. 

2) Yeah yeah, I KNOW it makes me groggy. If I didn't roll over and say "fuck everything" when I woke up, and heaved myself up to a semi-upright impression of any primate I might actually wake up eventually. I'm tired all the time lately, and some of that is likely my hour of hitting snooze, because I fall all the way back to sleep in those 9 minute intervals.

3) Dreaming is a grab bag of fun. Speaking of those 9 minute intervals: I dream heavily during my between-button-fumbles. Sometimes the dream is just put on pause when I have to shut my phone up, and I can drop right back into it. 

Do you have any idea how horrifying that can be? This morning I dreamt I was charged with house/babysitting for friends of mine after their baby is born. No, I don't know why the fuck anyone would go on vacation immediately after, or leave said newborn with ME of all people: it was a dream, it made no sense. And for some reason assassins were trying to get in and kill me (there are way too many windows/doors in that house, FYI). I'm betting it's the same ones who failed to kill me in real life by sending me a fancy new winter hat and forgetting the skin-contact toxins, so NEENER I can wear my hat all winter long and my face won't melt off.

Um. Anyway.

I spent an hour this morning jumping in and out of a weird bad-guys-chasing-me-fight-back-ow-hide-fight-back-ow-HAHAYOUDIEMOTHERFUCKER-hide cycle punctuated by pauses to say "goddammit, not yet" and smacking the top of my phone again.

I should probably mention the secret passages I discovered in my dream in case the current residents don't know about them, shouldn't I?

Disclaimer the second: This is not a post about productivity or being a "look what I did before you even got up today" person. OMG I'm jealous of all of you who are those people, and I only want to kill you for the first two minutes I'm trying to claw my way into consciousness every day, I promise.

*I heard that snicker, and I appreciate the thought, but I meant the shampoo container's cap, the toothpaste, the button to grind coffee beans...etc. etc. etc.

This post is nothing but random crap and makes no sense.

I think I need a do-over for the past couple of months.
A mulligan.
A reboot.

I haven't written anything real since August. I haven't even really done any decent blog posts; my current journal has gathered more dust than ink lately; the book isn't done.

The book isn't done.

The motherfucking book isn't done. Sigh.

I had every intention of finishing by the end of NaNoWriMo, since I didn't hit my deadline of Halloween. Yeah. I don't see hitting 60k+ words by next week. And instead, my internal helpful Smeagol, happy to encourage and help as long as I feed him regularly, has become all Gollum-y.

Intentions are meaningless. Nasty writerses.

I'm listening to various Disturbed  and Five Finger Death Punch  youtube videos as I write this...seems fitting. For me, and I suppose and the general air of anger permeating pretty much everything right now...which I'm not touching in this post but am thinking about.  

I'd love to blame this on politics, or my recent potential medical scare (all is well, it was just an unpleasant week, and to those who gave me social distractions or direct knowing support, thanks. You helped, even if you didn't know it.), or watching the decline of my elderly dogs. But the truth is less clear, and no-one's feet deserve the credit or blame except mine. I'm muddy inside, all churning and dammed up (that's not quite the same as DAMNED up, although I suppose some doubts and fears can be described as demons...which really just reminds me that The Bloggess recently posted something about demons and tiny merkins. Feel free to look up both the post AND the meaning of "merkin". Have fun.)

I have roughly 17,000 ideas floating around in my brain at this moment. Sitting down and actually getting one out seems to be just infuriatingly complicated when ALL THE CHARACTERS are pounding at my skull at the same time, and I can't focus on a single story long enough to finish.

INFURIATING.

On a side note, You Tube just switched to Fever Ray's "If I had a heart", the theme song for Vikings. And so I stopped to watch the video.

And my favorite scenes from the entire series are in the 2nd verse, where Ragnar catches a glimpse of Odin wandering the battlefield among all the ravens as he chooses the slain, and Valkyries soar in the stormclouds above.

I'm not giving up. I'm not even complaining...I'm pissed off and frustrated, not sad.  I just need more discipline, or a break in the deluge lately, or the ability to switch off everything else. Or maybe I'm heading for the Hatter's tea party. I don't know. But I'm not done.

Except with this post, because holy shit you bothered to get all the way HERE when I'm angry AND flailing with words? Go you! And I'm sorry.

Adventures in Depression Pissed Off-Ed-Ness

Ah depressive angry insomnia, hello. It's been a long time. You're unwelcome, but since you're here...I'd like to take this midnight opportunity to rant, if I may.

 In the past couple of weeks I've NOT punched at least three people delivering the same flippant message under various guises: the perky cheerleader type, the concerned counselor type, the self-help blunt type. Do you know I've gotten to the point in these episodes that I don't bother explaining why that's not helpful? I actually just nod or say ok and change the subject, because I suppose I presume it's both a discomfort and a lack of experiential reference on their part.

Have you ever gone swimming in the deep end of the pool? Out in the middle of a lake? A couple miles off shore in the ocean? Ever find yourself suddenly exhausted and floundering, over your head?

Imagine that sensation in the pit of your stomach, your arms aching, legs so tired you can barely keep your chin out of the water, head tipped back to get as much air as possible in case a wave shoots water up your nose.

Now, imagine doing that in the dark.
In the sea.
In a raging storm.

The wind is blowing water into your eyes, howling around you. Waves tower over you, and you can't get your bearings between the crushing rounds shoving your head under. You've swallowed so much icy saltwater you gag every time the water smashes your face, and you feel nauseated even as you try to keep your head tilted to the sky for as much air as you can gulp between hits. You have NO IDEA which direction shore might be, and you're too tired to actually swim there anyway. Something huge just bumped into your legs under the surface. Is it flotsam in the storm, or a shark? Do you try to swim in some direction and hope you find anything to hold onto, or do you tread water and wait for the storm to pass? Or do you let yourself sink into the seductively quiet underside of the waves and whatever's circling beneath?

Now, imagine someone floats by on a raft and says "come on dude, just change your attitude and you'll be fine" or "you just have to put energy in" or "can't you just feel better?"...

Yeah. I want to punch them.

I mean, obviously I want to be this way, right? I already KNOW it's inconvenient and worrisome to those who love me, unfun in pretty much every way for however long it lasts, and uncomfortable for those who don't know what to say. Of course I choose to do this on occasion. It must be for the attention...you know, the same attention I refuse to accept and generally push away to protect those I really don't want to infect with a pirate's Black Spot of being a troublesome burden.

The truth is, it's a cycle I have to just ride out, and the severity isn't usually so bad (a good night's sleep and I'm often fine). Exhaustion and stress make it exponentially worse, and when it's really awful it's very similar to the panic of being too far from shore and too tired to swim back in (uh, yes, that happened to me once, and let me tell you the panic that hits when you suddenly realize the clear water is actually about 60 feet deep and there are fucking SHARKS in the ocean is goddamned terrifying).

Annoyingly (mostly for those who love me), my own hang-ups prevent my acceptance of a lot of help (which I absolutely recognize is a douchey thing of me to do to people, but there you go).

Hell, the single thing I really need when at the lowest, the most terrible and dark drowning stage, is the one thing I can't and won't accept from anyone because holy shit that's a level of vulnerable I now avoid like the plague. Yes, I'm my own catch-22.

Recognizing it isn't the same as just changing my fucking mind about being IN it. Sometimes, the storm just has to be endured. If you're lucky, someone offers to be a sandbar or driftwood or even a rock: a place to rest for a little while.

If not, you tread water and hope the thing in there with you is a whale, not a shark.

It Matters. You Matter.

I tell myself some version of "it doesn't matter" upwards of a thousand times a day.

Not all of that is a bad thing:

It doesn't matter that I'm so sleepy: get up. 
It doesn't matter that I don't feel much like working today: do it anyway. 
It doesn't matter that the dogs made a huge mess: it's their job. 
It doesn't matter that the neighbor kids run through the back yard. 
It doesn't matter that I don't want to work out: I'll feel better if I do, so get going.

The positive mantra is all about learning to let go of irritations that really don't make a difference to health or happiness in the scheme of your life. But as a coping mechanism against disappointments, or hurts, or failures, or depressions, that phrase is both sneaky and insidious.

It's all friendly and casual on the surface, which is exactly why it's so fucking dangerous. Someone stood you up without reaching out at all and you feel unappreciated? It doesn't matter: no big deal, you'll catch them next time. A promise you'd counted on was broken? It doesn't matter. All your hard work has resulted in failure so far? It doesn't matter. That which is vitally important to you is dismissed by someone you respect? Doesn't matter.

I actually catch myself saying out loud "it doesn't matter, I CAN'T LET IT MATTER" to myself on a repetitive loop: too many occasions to be healthy. The devil is in the intent, here, because It Doesn't Matter is a terrible two-faced assassin who smiles charmingly to your face while jamming the knife in further, twisting the meaning internally to "I don't matter."

In dismissing the things that deeply affect my well being, I am saying over and over that I don't matter. Words have power: telling myself I don't matter by brushing off what's important to me just because it may not be important to someone else is both self destructive and unhealthy. And silly, if I'm being honest. But, to quote Pretty Woman, the bad stuff is easier to believe. Yes, I just quoted that Julia Roberts hooker movie. Suck it.

Hmm. I wonder if some version of "suck it" is the key here. Not a sexual innuendo version...today is not a gutter-mind day on this blog, people.

"It matters. I'm hurt/angry/disappointed. I MATTER. Suck it up anyway and keep going" seems a whole lot healthier and...hmm...empowering, I suppose, versus the constant mantra of "it doesn't matter, it's not important" even when something is too big to even talk about.

If you follow The Bloggess at all, you know depression lies with lying lips and fiery pants. While it's not easy to remind yourself of that in the thick of the fog, I have noticed that when I'm better I stop paying attention to the lies. I don't STOP the lies. See the distinction? I've gotten into a bad habit of dismissing myself, my thoughts, my feelings, things that are vital to ME. I've allowed it to continue when I'm not in a low moment by pretending it makes me stronger by not letting hurts get to me. By saying it doesn't matter, and I should just keep going.

It's not true, and by pushing all the things that matter to me in a deep hole in my brainpan I've only created an icky pool of gross that overflows occasionally, flooding me with muck. It needs to be thoroughly scrubbed out and refilled with something actually good for me.

Like chocolate.
Or fun stabby weapons.
Or a harem of Gerard Butler, The Rock, and a few others...

Um, anyway.

The point is: it matters. What I'm passionate about matters. Who I care about matters.

I matter.

And so do you. Don't forget it.

This Is a Real Post. I am not funny...today.

I originally titled this "not a real post" but it occurs to me this sort of...confession, I suppose, is more "real" than the snarky commentary posts. Someone asked me once why I write anything personal and put it out there for consumption, the argument being that it's intended to elicit emotional response. I maintain it's a way for me to be open in a way I'm often not able to in person. Shrug. I don't need a response. I don't really need anyone to read it. I post these sometimes because I've been helped in the past by people sharing their struggles, and I need to pay that forward.

I caught part of the Kardashian show today (it wasn't on purpose: I was making grilled cheese and didn't realize the show I'd been watching ended...Don't judge me!). Anyway...I came to a fairly uncomfortable conclusion.

I don't understand ambitious people. I really don't: I don't understand entrepreneurs of any kind (and yes, the Kardashian clan has made money off of their modeling, sex tape, and basic socialite reality TV, but there's no arguing they are a successful brand). It's not the work: I can work. It's not about the glitzy life or the big money: I'm not jealous watching anyone's life on Reality TV (or social media). It's the "making" opportunities, the energy for constant "doing" that I don't understand in my guts. I've always been a planner, not a doer. It's getting me nowhere. Let me explain.

I have a book to finish. A book I really think I can write (when I manage to hogtie and gag the internal editor in a basement room of my mind). A book that is me taking a step toward getting out of a job I don't love, a step toward making income that could potentially help us not worry so much about money all the time. A book that I'd write to get it out even if I was guaranteed it will never make money or even be published, because I have to write it. I have a plan. I have an outline. I have characters. I have a plot...but I perpetually find other things to do instead of writing, knowing (and feeling guilty) I'm putting it off.

I trap myself in my own inertia.

The amount of weight I need to lose to be healthy is somewhat overwhelming, even if I think of it in 10 pound increments. Or 5 pounds, or even just 2. More importantly, I need to eat better and exercise more to FEEL better. I know this, and so I make a plan. An easy plan: 30 minutes a day, eating more fruit and veggies (which I LIKE: it's not a hardship).

So far, I've actually done the opposite of everything on said plan.

I have a home to unpack, a desk to set up, cleaning to finish. Cleaning to start.

Those little guilts are the terrible, insidious worms that crawl within the depressions that hit me. Like the proverbial thousand cuts, all they irritate and build and distract until I'm overwhelmed and bleeding out, energy-less and unable to actually DO any of the activities that would make me feel better. 

Today, I didn't leave the couch except to take care of the dogs, wash my sheets (so I'm comfy in bed later) and get unhealthy fast food for dinner. I didn't work on the short story or the book. I KNEW I was sinking and couldn't do anything to stop it. Or, I just didn't do anything to stop it.

Recently I won something really cool. Something so cool I didn't actually believe my name was called. I didn't speak up, didn't claim the prize I'd won, because I found myself physically unable to respond AT ALL. I couldn't raise my hand, couldn't get a word out of my mouth, and it was all for NO FUCKING REASON AT ALL. I stood in the crowd, anonymously allowing an opportunity a lot of people would fight over to go to the next name called. WHY? I don't know. I couldn't really explain it to Husband (who wasn't in the room and couldn't speak up for me, which I'm sure he would've done had he been there). He was disappointed in me: I saw it. I was disappointed in myself.  I still am.

I don't know why I sabotage myself: it's the most fucked up sort of self-harming destructive behavior I do: it's like I'm rebelling against anything positive even though I WANT those positive chances. And every time I squander one, or waste time, or find I've lost a day to stupid shit I wonder just how many chances I'll be allowed. And I feel guilty and ashamed for being frozen, and inertia is followed by depression.

It's a goddamned cycle of ishy.

Sometimes it feels like I'm stuck in a giant, sucking spiral...Charybdis inexorably spinning me faster and deeper into the black nothing at the bottom, waiting to swallow me whole.

I'm unbalanced and short sighted and scared, and it's just so damn tiring. I WANT to understand ambitious people. I WANT to understand entrepreneurs. I WANT to be successful at my own goals. It's frustrating as hell to battle this crap, and I know it'll be better soon (maybe not tomorrow, but within the next few days...usually these pass within a few days as my energy returns over a weekend) and I'll work on the book again and get my house in order and get back on the daily walking thing.

But just for tonight, I wish I understood.

Excuse Me, I'll Be Hiding Until This Is Over...

Mercury is in Retrograde.
This Friday is the 13th.
AND A FULL MOON over the weekend.

People, I greatly enjoy astrology for entertainment, but I'm telling you...something is rotten in the month of June.

With all the crap going on with the rental house (let me just say WOW, in the most horrified sort of tone, to the extent of hosery involved in using a management company's pet maintenance people for estimates) that is THIS CLOSE to being resolved in way that 1) gets things done in a way that will leave me grocery money and 2) let's me pay someone I know and like, supporting HIS business instead of a big company, I'll be lying low until this superstorm of astrological asshattery is over.

We still have stuff to unpack anyway...lying low is the ideal state for the time being.

I'm not kidding you guys, here's the weird ishyness for the week:

1) The city inspector put something on the list of required fixes given to the rental company that was DIFFERENT than mine.

2) Said list included things like repairing the paint on the oven hood (which by the way appears to have been steel-wool-scrubbed to take paint off by the cleaning guy, since it was NOT that way when we left), adding STRING TO THE LIGHT PULLS in the closets, and screwing the back patio step to the structure. Snort. That last one is owned by the association: they're fixing it.

3) Husband started a new job this week. Husband ended a new job today. For very, very good reasons: it was just a bad deal all around. But still, hope springs, hope dashed.

4) My truck's overhead map light/garage opener switch/moon roof switch panel decided to unclip itself from the roof of the truck. I'm not kidding, it happened overnight: perfectly fine Sunday afternoon, hanging by a single clip and the wiring on Monday morning.

5) Just about every normally-scheduled bill we have is extra this month for some reason or another. Mostly because we just moved and the first bill for utilities and such include fees.

I know in the long run things will work out, but holy crap these past two weeks have been an exercise in keeping my sanity through frustrations on almost every front. I think it's clear what has to happen here.

Margaritas. There will be many, as soon as these repair shenanigans are handled.

And a good long nap for my crankypantsness.

Entertaining Empathy For a Change

I have a funny post pending for tomorrow. Today is something else I need to discuss. Today I am not funny. I read a lot of online news and such (it's slow at work right now), and the past few days I've been pretty disgusted. 

Do you know there was a fatal car crash in Houston today? A woman with two small boys, ages 4 and 6, hit a tree. She was killed, her boys were injured. While waiting for help to arrive, bystanders saw people STEALING THE GROCERIES FROM THE FRONT SEAT OF HER CAR. With a dead woman and injured children still in the car. I'm horrified at the thieves AND at the bystanders.

In Dallas yesterday, a car hit the median and flipped over. By the time the police arrived, they could do nothing but watch the car burn with two people inside and hope to god the passengers were dead already for mercy's sake. The officer who spoke about it was ashen-faced and teary-eyed. Bystanders videotaped the whole incident on their cell phones. No one attempted to help before the car started on fire.

I can't even begin to discuss the #YesAllWomen comments I've seen from both sides. I understand the anger, I empathize with many of the stories relayed through the movement. I'm disgusted by the troll commentary. I've lived similar situations and dealt with the ingrained sexism in our culture. But I also see that common sense is being set aside. I'm a realist who appreciates the idealism of social movements but understands the predators, criminals, and assholes out there will never allow an ideal state to occur. I'm a feminist who believes firmly in equality and respect between the sexes should be the way of the world, but who also knows how to (and regularly DO) adjust my behavior, dress, and attentiveness based on my situation and surroundings. That's not giving in to sexist society: that's consciously taking responsibility for my own safety, which I believe is a necessary outlook for women and men. I've seen too much backlash against men as a gender, which doesn't' allow for any attempt at mutual understanding. To the girl who bitchily tried to force a male ER nurse from his table at lunchtime yesterday, loudly proclaiming his wish to eat his lunch at the table he was at first was sexist and he should move "BECAUSE I'M A WOMAN AND I WANT IT," I wish I'd been there. I would've slapped you across the face, you entitled idiot. Women like you are just as sexist as the sexism you protest, and you aren't helping equality at fucking all.

Do you know what the #YesAllWomen movement has in common with the current uproar about the US trading Gitmo prisoners for a POW who may or may not have been a deserter? I assure you, there IS a commonality here.

COMPASSION. EMPATHY. SYMPATHY. RESPECT. Specifically, the utter LACK of compassion, empathy or sympathy displayed by individual and the "mob" right now.

This is more than a common courtesy issue: this is a significant public inability or refusal to bother thinking, even for a single instant, how the person being attacked might feel.

Yes, that absolutely applies to both #YesAllWomen and the backlash against it. It also applies to the fight women face in places like Afghanistan and India where the threat of attack, rape, and death is a very real and constant thing. It applies in places like Saudi Arabia where women are legally considered children. It applies in the Sudan where men and women can be killed for being the wrong religion. It applies in Uganda where a gay couple can be murdered legally for who they love. Anytime a society sees a group of people as sub-human, property, or less-than-equal in any way that society gives permission to cruelty. Period.

So what about this POW all over the news? I saw today President Obama will not apologize for bringing him home. Good. He shouldn't. He did the right thing. I don't give a hoot whether you voted for President Obama or not: the man enforced a basic Military value, a basic American value even, in bringing home a soldier languishing for FIVE YEARS in terrorist custody.

And yet, that man's hometown has been attacked by an incensed mob for planning a welcome-home party. A welcome home party the town has held annually since the Sergeant was captured as a "bring him home" party, which is now cancelled. That man's parents have been attacked in the media, called terrorist sympathizers, called traitors and worse. Why?  Because the dad said he wouldn't shave his beard until his son was home. Because his dad tried through Twitter to get the Taliban to release his son. Because they loved their son, who was held against his will by deadly people in a situation that could result in long-term torture or his death. What parent wouldn't fight to get their kid back?

I don't give a flying fuck whether that kid was attempting to desert or just out for a pee when he got captured. I don't know how he was captured. I don't know what was going on in his unit or during his tour. Experts are currently battling it out publicly whether he "deserved" to come home and if he's responsible for other soldiers' deaths. That's a military matter for the military court to determine: NOT the court of armchair quarterbacks squawking over each other for ratings and political clout. It's really so disheartening and disgusting. I didn't live through five years of captivity by the enemy. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HE WENT THROUGH. Ultimately, the media is so intent on demonizing this man and his family they've utterly lost the point of the whole situation. Criminal or not, he belongs in his home country, even if that's for review of his former actions. It's up to his military to determine wrongdoing and mete out punishment or not: that has no bearing on whether a US soldier should be left to rot in a POW prison. Period.

And you know what, Fox News Media people and other trolls? It's ok to let those parents celebrate the fact that their son is alive and back on US soil. It's ok for them to be happy his ordeal at the hands of the enemy is over. It's ok for them to celebrate their son is alive. And if it's discovered later that he should serve time for desertion or anything else, at least he's back in the US.

I firmly believe if you want to follow the "be the change you want to see in the world" you are responsible for fostering the improvements. Call it paying something forward. Call it protecting someone from bullying, or calling out someone (respectfully) on their shitty behavior when it happens and saying that's not acceptable. I'm a huge introvert. I avoid people often and generally prefer not to be bothered. If I'm able to think about what it might be like in someone else's shoes and have basic respect for people as human beings, it's not that goddamned difficult.

Will it backfire on you sometimes? Absofuckinglutely. Does that matter? Not even a little bit. What if that one moment of kindness stops someone from killing themselves that day? What if it stops a kid from feeling alone and rejected?

Will kindness and compassion stop homicidal rampages, or rapes, or child killers or molestations? No. As a realist, of course I know it won't. There will always be evil and suffering in the world: nature is balance, and that means there's good AND bad out there. But ineffectual mob attacks, online and in-person bullying, unharnessed lashing-out anger, and selfish indifference to those around you only perpetuates the bad, and that is creating negative change in your surroundings.

Nothing improves a relationship, a community, any group of people faster than kindness and respect. Period.

I challenge you to do a single act of kindness for someone today. I don't care if it's buying the person's coffee behind you in the Starbucks drive through or mowing a neighbor's lawn. I don't care if it's reaching out to a friend to say hello and that you miss them. I don't care if it's cleaning the house so your spouse or parent doesn't have to. Small acts of kindness add up and are easily repeated. If we're going to spread an emotion like a virus the way trolls and media spread nastiness, make it an effort to spread compassion and respect.

Compassion. Empathy. Sympathy. All definitions from www.dictionary.com.

com·pas·sion

/kəmˈpæʃən/ Show Spelled [kuhm-pash-uhn]   

noun

1. a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

em·pa·thy

/ˈɛmpəθi/ Show Spelled [em-puh-thee]   

noun

1. the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.

sym·pa·thy

/ˈsɪmpəθi/ Show Spelled [sim-puh-thee]  

1. harmony of or agreement in feeling, as between persons or on the part of one person with respect to another.

2. the harmony of feeling naturally existing between persons of like tastes or opinion or of congenial dispositions.

3. the fact or power of sharing the feelings of another, especially in sorrow or trouble; fellow feeling, compassion, or commiseration.

Random Crap (or I'm too cranky and lazy to think up a clever title).

I'm having sort of a horrid week. Car accident (and a shop that seems...well, stupid. Is it SO HARD to call the number I gave you, the ONLY number I gave you? Apparenltly it is: they called an out-of-service number instead, because ridiculous), arguments, washing machine that leaks...I've about had it.

Therefore I give you random acts of silly, because I needed somewhat of a pick-me-up today.

Fest "Bench Art" because drunk people have too much time and not enough ideas after hours on a Saturday night.

I don't know who created this on FB (if you have a source, please share).

MMMMMM! BRAINSZZZZ

It's Han's first birthday this week. I appreciate his early propensity for witch books and zombie brain eating. I expect the cake-smoosh party to be most excellent.

It's Not You. And I'm Not Breaking Up. This is not a funny post. Feel free to ignore it.

I am a cyclical depression hermit. (Do not confuse that with a  Cycling hermit, because truly I loathe bikes, unicycles, pretty much all pedaling-type exercise with the fire of a thousand suns).

Yesterday in a discussion with Husband about the depression I've been fighting off and on for a while now, he said something that hit home.

"There are people who WANT to be your friend, who want to get to know the real you, who WANT to connect. YOU shut them out and push them away."

He's likely quite right: when I'm in a down cycle I avoid all the people. I don't trust easily. I don't call. I don't write. Hell I barely leave the house, which the dogs love but likely isn't good for me on multiple levels.

I've written about this before, but I suppose I haven't explicitly said that in the past year some really shitty things have happened both to me and around me that sucked up so much of our time and energy that I've been more prone to depressions simply from lack of any sort of reserves. Therefore, I've withdrawn from everyone.

It's not you. It's me. I know, that phrase sucks...but I'm not breaking up.

I debate and debate about how explicit I should be or want to be in this blog (and elsewhere), because 1) it's goddamn fucking HARD to expose things and 2) who the fuck wants to read this depressing shit? 

But in the interest of friends and potential friends not feeling ignored or slighted, here it is: 99% of the time I feel utterly worthless and completely unloveable. There are both internal and external factors that contribute to my personal form of emotional wreck-ness and this post IS NOT, I REPEAT: IS NOT any sort of plea for sympathy, empathy, or help. It really isn't. I'm working on things. I'm trying to get my act together. Sometimes I have a burst of energy and say "fuck off" to those lying bastard inner demons, and I can be who I want to be. That's happened less often the past few years, and you should know I'm working like mad on changing it.

This post is to reassure those of you who might be in the category Husband voiced, because I DO want to hang. I DO want relationships. I just don't have the wherewithal or oomph to do the work required, because I've been trying hard to get my own shit back in order.  While Husband insists certain peeps we know really want to have a better/deeper friendship with me if I give them a chance, I've also had some recent (ie past few years) spectacularly damaging betrayals by "friends." Most recently, one who made every effort to get to know those hidden psychological bits of me, only to cause damage when I proved to be...hmm...insufficiently "fixed," and the friendship ended. Too much work, that's me.

I have to consciously fight some pretty dark core beliefs about friendship and relationships and myself that have NOTHING to do with your efforts or the quality of our relationship. I am working on learning to open up again. I apparently have the progress of a goddamned sloth in this area, and for that I really do apologize. It sucks for me, too. Truly and sincerely, it's NOT YOU. And when I finally come out of this and act like the normal, semi-confident, funny smartass I used to be, hopefully some of you will still be there. If not, I get it dude, and I cast no blame: acquaintance status is ok with me too.

Fit by 40: Navy Seal Style

So I just turned 36, and am now officially looking at 40. In all my 36 years I can't say I've ever been in any sort of decent physical shape. That's not me whining about my looks or fishing for compliments: that's me being honest. I've always carried at least 20 extra pounds and have tried every damn diet possible...for a day or two. More importantly, I'm a pretty lazy individual: I teach Belly Dance sometimes and sporadically walk, but I'm not in shape. Hell, I stopped kickboxing because I can't make it through a class yet (I'll be going back as soon as I can do 30 minutes of hard cardio, like running, without passing out...nearly there).

So, why not make myself a serious challenge with specific goals, instead of the ever-nebulous "I want to be healthier" attitude? I figure I have four years to hit my goal, which is:

To be able to pass the minimum physical fitness standards for entrance into the Navy Seals.

No, I don't want to be a Seal (also, I'm WAY too old...and, you know, not in the military). But I'd LOVE to be able to say I could pass the PT exam before I'm 40.

This is the last post I'll put on No Pithy Phrase about it, because NPP isn't a workout journal and I don't want it to turn into one. But to keep myself honest I will be trying to blog about it some (I find the stupid workout trackers on my phone/daily planners/etc don't work for shit to keep me going). Those posts will end up here: SassLoss. Feel free to read and comment at will.

I am unamusing. You can skip this post.

I think I lost a close friend last week. Not in a sock drawer or to circus. Not to any nefarious creature or mob hit: just lost him. Stubbornness may have been involved.

And temper. I'm sure you're shocked and astounded that my temper would successfully push someone away. I am decidedly not shocked. Nor astounded. But I'm sad.

The loss aches. The list of people who truly know almost everything about me isn't long. The people with whom I feel comfortable being "me" without any pretense or mask...well, I can count that list on my fingers. I've been feeling not-enough for some time now, like I'm a fixer-upper with attic bats and cobwebs who could be a great best friend/love/wife/coworker if I could just be a little...better.

If I could be less of a "girl" and never let my emotions get the best of me. (God that is so unbelievably sexist and idiotic. As though men aren't just as irrationally emotional...hiding it and suppressing it doesn't mean feelings aren't there. Belittling and dismissing women for their emotional connection is just...ridiculous.)

If I could always be the rational one and stay in control. If I could keep myself separated enough to never get hurt again.

And the danger of that is to feel nothing. And in feeling nothing, you begin to care less and less about how those around you feel. And loneliness becomes all-encompassing, and your relationships suffer or fall apart.  And depression weasels in, ready to pull you into the pit.

I've been thinking obsessing some about this for days, mostly because I don't do cut-off-all-communication very well. Finally I finished the argument in an email that will never be sent, because it had to come out somewhere. Sigh. It took a while to put the twisted, convoluted mess of anger, regret and sadness into conscious thought.

I've felt...easy to walk away from, easy to disregard...for a while.

And then a most excellent blogger I follow (This Is How The Apocalypse Starts) posted a link to THIS (another fabulous blogger I now follow). I read it. I re-read it. I cried that unstoppable sobbing, gut-wrenching, snot-producing unpretty cry that leaves you exhausted but emotionally clean afterward. And then I read it again, and shared it everywhere I could.

Because I'm a little broken. I have bouts of depression that leave me watching tearjerker movies and balling for no reason. I randomly giggle until I actually wheeze, unable to breathe. I can be a responsible mid-30's person in one moment, an enchanted 5 year old the next, and a dirty-minded 14 year old the next. I'm overweight and too-often lazy. I'm terrible at saying "no" when it comes to money, energy and time. I have long patience on most things that drive people nuts and absolutely no fuse at ALL between happy and utterly incensed if you push certain triggers. I feel AND I think on a spectrum that varies, and I won't apologize for it. My emotions are an integrated part of my psychological makeup. I live with them day in and day out. They color my dreams. They flare and fade a thousand times a day, and most of the time I don't act upon them.

If that makes me "not enough" well, that's really not my problem, because perfection isn't my goal. Putting on the "right" face to interact with people who are supposed to be close to me isn't my goal.

Authenticity, in all its messy/joyful/miserable/awful/ecstatic glory: that's my goal.

These are not the turtles you're looking for. Move along.

Someone found my blog by searching "gerard butler and the house of unicorns" which I can only assume is some sort of pre-"hitting-it-big" porn.

Hmm. Excuse me while I surf the interwebz.


In other news, motorcycle accidents suck. Insurance companies suck. Lawsuits suck. And for some reason. lawyers seem to think they're entitled to information that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with anything. Like, what color were my socks six years prior to the accident, and do I still HAVE said socks? Why not? What effect did wearing/not wearing the socks on the night of the accident (in which I was not involved) have on said accident? And have I TALKED about the socks since then? To anyone?

Yes. It's that stupid. I'm unimpressed and this whole thing makes my head ache (if I thank the gods for ibuprofen and caffinated soda to help deal the headache caused by idiotic requests, do I need to report THAT to the lawyers?).

Last weekend we saw The Dropkick Murphys in concert. If you don't know who I'm talking about (WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU??), here:

You're welcome.

So, they were headlining at a casino "resort" (I use that term extremely loosely considering the attitude of the employees at the casino hotel, the general repair of said hotel, and the drastic uncomfortableness of the beds) in Northern Minnesota for an annual beer festival. Tickets were cheap so we were excited to go, and I swear other than the concert itself I was SO FUCKING ENTERTAINED by the crowd mix. You had your stereotypical casino-goers, your redneck parents who bring their 10-year-olds to the casino (for a beer fest...and punk concert), your hipsters (complete with ridiculous beards, flannel shirts, skinny jeans and attitude), college kids just there to swig as much beer as possible from shot glass sized cups, and your Murphys fans (tattoos, the occasional crazy hair color, kilts, piercings...and us).  

Oh. And the khaki-and-fanny pack-wearing crowd who were CLEARLY there for the prior year's headlining musical act: Trampled by Turtles. Yes. That's what I said. No, I'm not linking a video for you. You're on your own there, people.  

Since Husband still has a cane after his accident, we snagged a chair and hung out at the back of the ballroom (the rest of the crowd did not have chairs, although I'm fairly certain the hipsters didn't participate in the usual mosh pit so it's likely there wasn't much of one). The opening band was hard punk: the Trampled by Turtles fans next to us (also hiding at the back of the rowdy crowd) were horrified and confused, but they stuck it out, waiting for what they seemed to think was an Irish folk band.   They stood with arms crossed and cranky faces for three whole songs before the lot of them left, disgruntled.

Seriously, ALMOST as amusing as the amateur drinkers throwing up in trash cans and drunk dancers accidentally kicking people around them. I fucking LOVE the Murphys.

OH...and congratulations to Rowdy Ronda Rousey for KICKING ASS in her big UFC fight Saturday night. Which, of course, was on PPV the same time as the concert, so I couldn't see both. Dammitall. Now...to get her and Gina Carano in the octagon together.

No this had nothing to do with the rest of today's post, but NOTHING in today's post made any cohesive sense anyway, so I'm not sorry.

Updated: Feminism: No, Really

fem·i·nism/ˈfɛm əˌnɪz əm/  [fem-uh-niz-uh m]
noun
1. the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.
2. ( sometimes initial capital letter ) an organized movement for the attainment of such rights for women.
3. feminine character.

Recently my friend Superbetsy blogged, in a wonderfully snarky way, about cosplay at various geeky conventions. A commenter took issue with the subject as "unfeminist" and irrationally attacked the post based on...well, stupid. Phenomenally, remarkably, blindly stupid. She went on and on about how basic female grooming (plucking eyebrows, shaving legs, wearing makeup, etc) only fed the patriarchal inequality in this country.

Fucking REALLY? You judgemental, inexperienced, self-righteous IDIOT.

Instead of standing together, "feminists" of this ilk attack any woman who enjoys being female...never mind that same female may make significantly more money than her spouse, volunteer at a shelter, and help other women build themselves up. "Feminists" like the commenter put the same "ist" into feminism that goes with "race," "sex," "age," or any other reason to exclude a group with bigotry.

All over the world, women are subjected to various sorts of domestic violence. Women are sold as sex slaves. Women are prevented from receiving education, medical care, dignity, and in many cases life.

• In India, a woman was gang raped to the extent her attackers RIPPED OUT PIECES OF HER INTESTINE. Yeah. That didn't make US news outlets, but that's why she's still in critical condition. She was on a supposedly safe bus. With her boyfriend.
• In Afghanistan, a pre-teen was shot by the Taliban for the horrific crime of her "dishonorable" desire to GET AN EDUCATION.
• In the United States:
• a college student daring to speak up for the right to control her own reproductive system is called a slut publicly by media and politicians in an attempt to shame her into silence.
• The same politicians try to say rape isn't real if a woman gets pregnant, that pregnancy can't happen if it was REALLY rape.
• A girlfriend and mother is killed by her cheating boyfriend for the uppity crime of saying he can't fuck other women and be with her. He then killed himself, and there are SHRINES of mourning for HIM. Because he was an NFL player...and a selfish murderer who deprived his daughter of her mother over a goddamn argument.

Yeah. Let's talk about what feminism really is, shall we?

Feminism isn't about whether or not wearing makeup, plucking your eyebrows, wearing high heels, trying to attract a member of the same or opposite sex makes you more or less a woman. It's about equality, and enjoying that I'm a woman doesn't change my belief that the sexes should be treated equally and women shouldn't have to face degradation, torture, and violence just for having a vagina. Feminism means if a woman chooses to fill a traditional role she has the right to do so, just as if a woman chooses to get an advanced education and become an entrepreneur she has the right to do that too.

I'm not concerned whether my looks, my choice in footwear, clothes or grooming feed a patriarchal society. I'm concerned about important things that will CHANGE society, like making safety, dignity, respect, equality, education, and opportunity available for women AND men.

Is it idealistic? Of course it is: that's a long road all over the world. But it instantly pisses me off to hear self-righteous bitches judge other women for their choices while there are so many out there that don't HAVE those choices.  Because the "ist" in feminist can all to easily forget that if equality is what we're after, men are equal to us, too.

Updated: in Italy, the Church says it's YOUR fault for your husband beating you. If you cooked/cleaned/wore differnt clothes and were totally dependent on your husband, he wouldn't beat you. Between this article and the Pope's recent assertions that people who "choose" to be gay are denying their humanity (thereby implying GLBT people are less human), I wonder if the Vatican isn't purposefully trying to alienate people. Italians, by the way, are livid over this "if you acted better he wouldn't beat you" crap.

Back to Hell, Demon!

I was observed recently as being...inconsistent...between who I appear to be and who I am. It's a fair observation given by one of the slight handful of people in the world who know the real me, and 100% true in the context of the conversation. This post will likely be long and self-indulgent attempt to reconcile a few of the inconsistencies with bare, painful truth. Feel free to stop reading this and go back to a funny post here.

I AM inconsistent: I present a certain face with certain qualities I admire to the world: strength, self-confidence, surety, humor...all the qualities I think are valued by others. All the things I'd like to be all the time. On rare occasions when I'm feeling particularly good I AM the way I present. On those days I'm funny, clever, happy with myself and my accomplishments so far and enthusiastically passionate about life. In all honesty, those days are treasured rarities in my universe that I'm trying to learn to allow more often. I'd prefer they be the norm, after all.
Most of the time I use my public face as a combination of shield and bolster. It's actually fairly exhausting. Emotional energy is a well, and eventually that well runs low, the flow becomes silty and clogged, and I slow down. I am a person who refreshes the well with periods of relaxing alone-time (books, Lifetime TV, walks, repeated viewings of Gladiator...you know, silly mindless things) not by being with others. I'm actually pretty envious of all you folk who get energized and excited about parties and social situations. I NEED that bit of time every week to sustain. 

The real person underneath is...sigh...well hidden. This causes an issue if I let anyone in past a certain point, because ultimately that person discovers I've been untruthful about who I really am all along, and that's probably unfair. How can I be enough and loved just as I am if you can't see what I REALLY am until it's too late? Ah, conundrums that feed the demons.

It's something I've been working on for a long time, actually, when I have enough in my emotional well to work on myself. Sometimes, the well just fucking dries up. I've worked on myself enough to USUALLY be able to head the bastard off at the pass before he weasels his way into my brain like a fucking Khan earworm. Sometimes I fail.

Today I've failed. Since it's the Holidays and that's likely a part of the depression heavily holding me down, I envision it as this:


Holiday cheer my ASS. I'm coming for you...



Last night the same someone said "I wish I could go back and find the bastard(s) who made you feel so worthless and ..." well, the graphically violent nature of the comment probably doesn't need to be repeated. It was one of those things most people would likely be horrified and offended by, but was an utterly sweet thing to say to me.

I know where my self-loathing comes from. I know where the unworthiness comes from. I also know the reason I'm still here after those feelings hit me in wave after wave is something my dad said to me once when I was really young: suicide is the most selfish thing you can do to those who love you. All the bullying, all the nastiness, all the isolation that fed my genetic pre-disposition to depression is tempered by that statement, because I've always been more concerned with others' feelings than my own. It's another point of contention between me and the few insiders who know me best (I don't take care of myself if someone else needs me, which is stupid and harmful). My point is: I'm not in suicidal danger. I'm just not taking sufficient care of myself to avoid the hit right now.

The Bloggess posts often about depression, how it lies and how hard it is to live with repeated bouts. I so utterly agree, but I don't have any answers about how to successfully beat the bastard down either. Knowing WHY he arrives doesn't always give me enough to defeat him. The past few months have been so utterly emotionally exhausting I haven't been able to refill my well, which left me open to that sneaky bastard. And so I force myself to get out of bed and drive to work and hope I can stop any pressing tears (yeah, Scandahoovians don't cry without red, splotchy faces and puffy eyes) and bury myself in work for the day.   Only today is a no-meeting-not-much-to-do day and the conversation I had last night was intense enough that I can't push it aside until I'm home. Today, I'm trying to STOP thinking about all the evil lying shit depression says in my head and concentrate on rediscovering what makes me feel valuable, worthy, fulfilled, passionate and happy.  

My friend Superbetsy sent me this about depression today: The bloggess calls depression a lying bastard. When it tries to take me down, I lie right back to it. I put on a shit ton of makeup and sing loudly and look at pictures of puppies. If it can tell us falsehoods, we can do the same. BECAUSE IM A GREAT SINGER, DAMMIT!

This post isn't any sort of request for validation, compliments, or anything of the sort. I've written about this many times before privately and it's done nothing: maybe taking the risk of putting it out here will make some difference in my heart. If not, at least any reader also battling that bastard will know they're not alone in the fight.

If it's NOT "The Count of Monte Cristo" I have no freaking idea.

"We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it... Anyone can love 'because.' That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something 'despite.' To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect." -Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear


You should probably ignore this post. To be honest, I'm not certain I'm going to publish this post.

I don't recall which classic story ended in the perpetrator getting walled into a room forever. I thought it was The Count of Monte Cristo, but I'm likely incorrect. I just have a vivid mental image of him screaming through the tiny remaining open space as the final brick slides into place.  

That's where I am right now. Only I'm bricking myself into my own prison.  

Amidst all the horrific stress and terror of the past month, I've been desperately pushing down/aside/away other things that have cracked my foundations and left me on precarious footing. I locked it all away for a time, ignoring everything for weeks under the wave of fear and worry associated with the accident. Now that Husband is doing significantly better and I no longer wonder if he'll live, I'm getting to the point that if I DON'T let something out that last brick will slide into place. And I'll be trapped in self-imposed isolation.

Ultimately, the main drama will be resolved somehow or another, and it doesn't really matter what it was (because it will eventually be dealt with). What matters for this post is this: I'm a person with many acquaintances and very few real friends (by friends I don't mean people who consider me their friend: I mean people I'm willing to trust and lean on when I need them).

I don't trust easily or well, and I don't let many past those outer periphery "I know you and generally like you some" edges. When I discover someone isn't actually trustworthy in my moral code, fair or not, I purposefully withdraw from everyone. I bury everything deep under a pasted-on a positive attitude and keep going on the outside.

On the inside I'm slapped by shock, followed by incendiary overwhelming anger, followed by humiliation and despair...who hold red-hot pokers in their evil little hands and beat me as long as I let them. Those devious bastards insert and foster dark thoughts and invite anger back to the party, particularly when I'm alone at 3am.

And now I'm sorely tempted not to trust anyone again. I'm caught between "you never should've anyway" and "if you don't open up now and again you'll be alone."

I'm aware of the over-dramatic nature of my anxiety, pain and depression. I'm even aware that my moral code is harsher than most and likely an unfair standard, particularly in certain situations. I find this to be somewhat of a failing in my character, that opening up isn't often worth the risk to my heart. It's a part of me that's been under construction for quite some time as I try to keep myself from alienating people in general and be more...positive...about humans.

Husband keeps telling me how proud he is of me for dealing with everything that's going on and keeping it together, but all of that is an utter sham. I'm not and don't deserve any sort of praise here. I'm a brick or two away from being completely walled-in and emotionally frozen. I'm not suicidal. I'm just broken. I don't know what to do about it.

I put the quote about love at the top of this post to remind myself what I want to work toward: loving despite and including flaws. Even when I'm talking about my own.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say Out Loud...

...until I had dogs.

• THOR! STOP humping your brother!
• Who peed on the bathroom floor?
• Dude...it's a buttless, headless monkey (much beloved/abused stuffed animal)...gross.
• Chewy, I know you have to eviscerate stuffed animals, but do you HAVE to get the guts all over the floor?
• Chewy, seriously, poop THEN wander around. You look retarded.
• DON'T STEP IN IT!! GODDAMMIT!!!
• NO HUMPING!
• Thunder is not the sky barking at you. Shut up.
• That leaf is not out to get you. Shut up.
• No, you can't rip that squirrel apart. Stay in the house.
• Oh my god, stop bitching. Your bath isn't that bad.
• Don't sniff (insert any guest's name here)'s crotch!
• Seriously, go wipe your mouth, you ishy drool machine.
• NOT ON MY LEG!!
• What the hell?? Who peed on the kitchen floor?? What's WRONG with you?
• Dude...I wouldn't do that. He's gonna bite your face off. (To Chewy while he's tormenting Thor).
• Sigh. Told you so. Come here, let's see if you still have both eyes. (To Chewy, after Thor lost his temper).
• Belly rubs!
• Don't swallow that plastic/fuzz/paper/shoe!
• Stop licking your feet!
• Put your head out the window and shush (to Thor, in the car)
• Thor, why do you rip the ears off of every chew toy?
• Get off my foot, you fat cow.
• Oh dear, what have you done? (This is anytime I come home to two cowering, remorseful, hiding dogs instead of wagging-happy dogs).
• Don't eat barf!
• Did you DROOL in my shoe? You bastard!
• DROP THAT SOCK!
• Aww, snuggle-puppy

UPDATED: My husband commented on Facebook (NOT my blog: bad form dude, bad form) with the following:

You forgot "stop licking your brothers junk" and "no you can't have the bottle yet, it's not empty".

Touche Sir, I indeed forgot those two. Along the same lines: "put that away, nobody wants to see your junk."

Sigh.

As a follow up to a previous post, "Honor" requires MARRYING YOUR RAPIST in Afghanistan. And despite international outcry for her treatment, the victim is seriously considering doing so to "save the family name."

I'm not judging her: I'm judging her FAMILY. First, a family member rapes her and SHE'S sentenced to jail. For what exactly? For "sex outside marriage" even though she had no choice in the matter. Now she's being violated again: family is supposed to protect you, not force you to marry someone who assulted you for the good of the family's name. What the hell does their NAME have to do with any of this? She endured a horrific ordeal at the hands of someone who should've been trustworthy, and was failed by her kin and country over and over.

I wish this woman could find the courage to tell them all to fuck off and leave the country: at this point Amnesty International or another refugee service could get her out. Unfortunately as is the case with so many women brought up under oppressive social mores and abusive conditions, she'll likely stay and raise her daughter in the same culture that forces her to marry a man who raped her.

In my head, I know that this is a cultural practice that has gone on in many societies for centuries all over the world.

In my heart, I'm so utterly discouraged and saddened by the calculated subjugation of half the human race simply because "it's always been that way." I'll never understand what the hell is so terrifying to these abusive, ignorant, idiots about respecting the equality of women.

My Dog is Barking!

And other distractions...but today I'm getting a good couple of hours in if it kills me! On the bright side only a couple of months until I have my office back...aah a door that closes!

Interesting...

So the auto fill when I put the "I" in the title bar for this post put "Interesting guy looking for interesting girl." Um, yeah...

and for some reason the AC adaptor for this laptop keeps loosening without any sort of notice, so suddnely the screen goes on powersaver mode and dims a little. This laptop: it's a TOSHIBA in case anyone's intersted, was the worst thing I've ever purchased from Best buy. Next time it's going to be a Dell, Gateway or Mac for me. I've lost pages of work on this thing because it will randomly freeze or the screen will suddenly go black. Not overheated, not out of power, just random blackness. AAARRRGHHHH!!!

I'm still in the stage when I can't imagine actually accomplishing the writing of a novel. Every time I start writing I get bogged down by that negative voice in my head that insinuates evil whispers about how terrible I am and how I should just stick to my boring 8-4:30 job in an office, because that's all I'm good for. Maybe it is...I don't know. Am I writing this because I'm a writer or because I'm not satisfied with my job? Will I be satisfied with a "career" if I can manage to make the switch to professional writer?

Will I be satisfied with anything, or am I one of those idiots who just can't see the good in anything because NOTHING will be enough? Sometimes I wonder if I was a stupid debutant in a former life and part of me misses the idle rich style...even though if I WAS wealthy in this life I would be anything but idle. Either way, I keep blocking myself from really believing I have any shot at writing, because if I truly had talent wouldn't I have been able to do SOMETHING by now?