Round 3 - Naps and Emergency Rooms and Where's My Bubble.

I haven't been around much since the holidays. To be fair, I haven't been around much in real life, either. But since people are starting to ask, I thought I'd give an update (because honestly, I'm fucking tired and I don't respond to most calls or texts or messages with anything but "ok" right now). This post is not edited for grossness: feel free to stop here with the assurance that after round 4 I should be feeling more like a human AND be less dangerously immuno-compromised.

So I've been sick with some ridiculously stupid virus since December 12th. Normal people get a cold, maybe if they're like me they get a little bronchitis afterward that hangs on an extra week or two, and move on. That is not what happened with me.

The current drug cocktail of chemo is the harsh sort: it attacks fast growing cells in the body. Let's define fast growing cells: hair. Nails. White blood cells (the little army of infection and virus killers that float along with your blood). So...the super fun poisoning I'm voluntarily doing to my body is effectively killing off my immune system each round, and each round is progressively worse. What does that mean?

Normal people have a white blood cell count of about 11,000. My white blood cell count yesterday was 800. For reference, I have to have a count of 5400 or higher to have treatment. To be fair, this wouldn't be something I'd notice other than being really fucking tired if they didn't take my blood every time I go to an appointment at Oncology. They're nice vampires, at least. Ultimately, this means 1) I can't see anyone who has even been EXPOSED to any illness. All you folk with adorable little germ spreaders at home are off limits until I'm done with round 4. 2) A fever or chills sends me immediately to the emergency room, do not pass go, do not (as I discovered a couple of weeks ago when the UC nurse said OH NO, we aren't handling that here, go to the ER right now) head to urgent care. 3) I'm tired. Like, nap after I take a shower because it takes too much energy tired, all the time. 

By the weekend after chemo my body is at it's lowest point immunity-wise. By the weekend before the next treatment (that'd be this coming Saturday/Sunday, for those of you keeping count) it's back up to acceptable levels again, thanks to the Neulasta shot I get right along with chemo. Neulasta makes my bones go into PRODUCE ALL THE WHITE BLOOD CELLS RIGHT NOW overdrive, which makes my legs/hips/chest ache, but hey, bone marrow is a good thing. The weekend after chemo is the worst: I'm sick, exhausted, have no appetite, and generally just trying to get through the day. And my feet are sore, like standing on concrete for 15 hours each day sore, for ABSOLUTELY NO REASON AT ALL. It's utterly ridiculous, and terribly annoying.

On top of all of this, MY cold turned into lying in bed for three days unable to move other than to the bathroom to be sick, followed by a super fun round of bronchitis which also makes me sick, followed most recently by a nasty sinus infection which ALSO makes me sick. Feel free to read sick as vomiting until I'd rather just die, thanks. Unfortunately, it's not chemo-related and anti-nausea meds don't work. A couple of weeks ago I went to the ER because I got so violently ill I scraped up my esophagus and was throwing up blood. FUN. Interestingly, walking into the ER and saying "I'm on chemo and I'm throwing up blood" gets you a room pretty much immediately. I don't recommend. I've lost 30 pounds since December 16th when chemo started. I got a very soft-spoken reprimand from the nutritionist at Oncology today for not having enough calories and I'm told I'm not spoda lose any more weight, please, until treatment is over (1 more round of this, 12 weeks of the next drug...so May). I take more pills in the morning than Grandma right now, and thank all the gods for antibiotics that kill sinus infections.

Honestly, I've been LUCKY with all of this. I don't have many of the most common awful side effects, and if I hadn't had the death-cold that lasted all the way through I likely would've been mostly ok. But there you go: lost my hair (kept my eyebrows so far: WOOT!), spent the last month on the couch or in bed or throwing up and yell/crying FUCK YOU in the bathroom a lot, watched too much TV, hid from everyone (including my niece and nephews) because I'm now a bubble-girl germaphobe who does NOT want to end up in the hospital.

But I'm almost done: next Monday is round 4 of 4 for the AC, and then I have a three week break to get my shit together before I start the 12 weeklies. Rumor has it the Taxil is easier on the body overall than the AC I'm on now. I'm hoping I can go back to work in March when that treatment starts, because the side effects are WAY less harsh and I should be more energetic. Taxil also doesn't kill off my immunity, which means I won't be banned from public places or groups anymore...which means I'll likely be more interested in visitors.

Cancer sucks. Intentionally poisoning my body now that the cancer's gone in hopes it doesn't come back also sucks. I'm supported where I need it, and if I don't answer you directly please don't take it personally. I'm probably napping again.

An Unexpected Unpleasant Side Quest

So, it's easier to just put this into a blog post than repeat things over and over for peeps who don't know yet. I haven't been around much the past few weeks for writing or anything else (other than horror movies and related distractions) because I'm in the middle of a thing.

It turns out, finding out I have breast cancer is a cognitive pause in brain function, followed by a weird hotdish of panic, practicality, research, and learning how to just not know what the fuck is going on.

Get your mammograms, peeps. This is not how I expected to spend my favorite season.

Facts as of today:

• I have "Invasive Ductal Carcinoma" which is the most common (80% of all breast cancers, according to the Komen website) form. It's very small, very early, and wouldn't have been found without going to a routine mammogram. 
• I've done a couple of tests and have a couple more coming up, but overall the treatment right now is a lumpectomy scheduled for early November, and most likely a round of radiation after. 
• Final determination for treatment will be decided by the pathology results after surgery, so chemo/hormone therapy could still happen, but as of today not likely. 
• I am expected to recover fully - this is non-aggressive (Grade 1) and I've never heard "you're young" so often from anyone since I turned 40, but apparently my age and the size/grade make a HUGE difference. 

This is a shitty path to take, but right now it's just another series of things I have to fit into my schedule. That's not to say it's no big deal: the past couple of weeks have been full of terror, but today is good.

Today I have a plan.
And I'm convinced by my medical team it'll be ok.
And I need a good name for the tumah (it IS a tumah, and if you haven't seen Kindergarten Cop you're probably too young to read any of this post) so I can say I'm kicking its specific cancerous ass.

Fucked Up Things I've Discovered (so far):

1. I am WAY TOO TALL for the stupid half-gown shirt things used at the breast center. Sigh. I am not a midriff-baring-shirt person...wtaf. 
2. Everything after the radiologist says "we see something, you need a biopsy asap, how's next Tuesday" sounds like the Peanuts adults mumbling. 
3. Breast biopsy needles look like an ear piercing gun's meaner older sibling, and sound equally as obnoxious. 
4. Breast biopsy procedures look suspiciously like a Xenomorph's second mouth taking super fast tiny Alien bites on the ultrasound machine. WELL OF COURSE I WATCHED IT...do you know me?
5. Breast MRIs are significantly more undignified than anything I've done outside a gyno office. Yes, I'm certain my indignity has only just begun, but you know...that was a new one for me. You sort of kneel/lie face down on an unholy offspring of a massage table and udder-milking setup, with all upper body weight on the sternum and ribcage between/under the boobs, because they have to hang into boxes for the scans. There is no full breath to be had (just re-reading that sentence made me take a HUGE breath in), and the 1/2-milker-box thing takes up any extra space in the MRI tube.So there is NO room to adjust. Related: I really need to lose some weight. Also related: SURPRISE I'm not claustrophobic.  
6. Turns out I can be in a seriously uncomfortable position without moving for 20 minutes out of sheer stubborn refusal to have to do this bullshit again (if you move during the longest scan, 9 minutes, they reschedule you for another day). 
7. I am capable of meditating while my ribs bruise.
8. Spa music and noise cancelling headphones don't get rid of the MRI noise. 
9. No amount of music can distract from feeling a troupe of fairies frantically dancing on my back during the final scan. Fucking weird. 
10. MRI dye doesn't give you superpowers. I'm sorely disappointed. 

And now, I'm off to snuggle one of my favorite babies AND have dinner and watch horror movies with some of my favorite family.

Today is good. 

Of Course My Secret Admirers Are Weird

A long time ago in a suburb not so far away from where I live now, I had a weird secret admirer leave me a mystery: and that's when Russell Crowe showed up in my grandparents' mailbox.

It's now been nearly 20 years and I still don't know who did it. 

Last week I got home from my new in-the-office-more job (this transition is hard enough I'm not writing about it) to an Amazon envelope on my front step. I order from Amazon a lot, so I didn't think it especially odd to forget I had a package coming. Also, occasionally a couple people have things shipped to my house instead of their own (when you work from home full time, it's safer to ship here). 

But no, the package was addressed to me at my full name, with no return address, no packing slip, and no indicator of the sender at all. 

It's a winter hat. A toasty warm knit winter hat that I like but probably wouldn't have ordered for myself. NO IDEA who it came from: I mean, who uses my full name with middle initial?

I checked my own account just in case I drunk shopped or something...nope. I asked family and friends, stuck the question on Facebook, asked family and friends AGAIN. 

No joy. 

So I apparently have either the same or a new secret admirer terribly concerned about my frigid brainpan. The weather in Minnesota on my phone app says "Feels like -30", which should actually read "feels like you pissed of Mother Nature so badly she's slapping your face with a thousand ice needles every time you go outside to let the dog dance in the snow instead of peeing like he's supposed to." 

My secret admirer wants to prevent my ears from icing over and breaking off, so I've got that going for me. 

It Must Be Wednesday - Yahoo Thinks I'm a Rich Frat Boy

Today's Spamalicious Hump Day offerings from Yahoo include eight offers of various sorts of encounter with chicks I don't know. 

I deleted two of them for offering explicit acts...not because I'm a prude: because I probably don't want people finding my blog as a search result for them. Sigh. 

Also, can I just say, Stiffler was 1999. 1999!! 18 years ago...shouldn't "MILF" have gone out of style by now? What the hell?  

Oh my god, I graduated college 18 years ago. I need more coffee for this shit. 

So, multi-aged various nationalities offering *ahem* hot evenings.
Dear Jenny M, no thanks but good luck with your boyfriend.
No, generalized nameless "naked girls", I sure don't remember you, and based on your email subject line you'd think I WOULD. Therefore, pretty sure you have the wrong girl here.

Extended Stay hotel (and apparently I own a timeshare somewhere: Ryan wants to buy it. Fuck you Ryan, I'm not giving up my sweet escape space for hot encounters with people I don't remember.)

Pizza.

See what I mean by wealthy frat boy as depicted in movies? The only offers missing are toga parties and beer.

Hmm. Maybe I should be flattered that Yahoo thinks I'm in my twenties?

Not The Theme I Was Looking For This Week

This isn't a real post. It's not even a Star Wars post. Mostly because I'm still not really up to writing a lot yet. But I did have a WTF moment, so: 

Yesterday I found a news headline warning Canadians NOT to try to shove the moose licking their cars, because 1000lb moose can be...fussy...about being shoved. 

And, also, it's fairly pointless AND likely to piss off said 1000lb car-licking moose. 

But apparently in Canada (and, not gonna lie, potentially in northern Minnesota) people are bafflingly willing to try to push a giant cranky deer out of the way, and have to have a warning issued to not be so goddamned stupid? 

I'm not kidding. It wasn't even on HuffPo: it was BBC. 

http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-news-from-elsewhere-38329779 

Anyway...today I discovered a website advertising "bargain moose" in my list of referring pages. 

What exactly constitutes a BARGAIN moose, as opposed to a full price moose? 

Is it the level of car-licking crankiness involved? 

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.

I'm Not Even That Caffeinated Today.

I'm taking a break from the book to blog, because what's better for a writing break than...more writing? I don't know how to explain that it IS different. So, while my bloodthirsty eagle soars over the steppe and considers human snacks (in my head, people, in my head), here are some random items of note, none of which are enough for a real post:

• Someone found my blog by googling "pithy snake" which I find both disturbing and intriguing. 
• I put out mouse traps because fall = the critters in the crawlspace attempting to invade. Baited with peanut butter. 
• Fucking ants ate ALL the goddamned peanut butter off both traps in such an efficient and interesting manner (seriously, it's like they had their own tiny highway or fire brigade bucket line) I just let them have it all. 
• So...Dear Lowes: I need rodent poison for the crawlspace, peanut butter for the traps in my house, and ant killer.
• The AC guy told me all about his divorce last week while he was waiting for his counterpart to come help him fix the compressor. AC guy is a new one - taxi drivers, plane passengers, library patrons, and all manner of random acquaintances are all on the list of "strangers who tell me all their personal stuff". I am amused. 
• AC guy totally paid for his listening session by going into the crawlspace to turn the outside water back on, despite having an expressed fear of spiders. He couldn't find the spigot, but did confirm creatures of the furry AND arachnid variety in abundance in the fucking crawlspace. 
• Dear Lowes: please add a shop vac (for mouse poop and spiderwebs), some sort of Shelob killer, and perhaps a person braver than I am to venture down there. 
• A couple people have asked in the past why I don't just go get a counseling degree and open a practice. I actually have an answer because I've considered it. Were I to get a degree it would be in trauma counseling, not relationship/marriage counseling. And in general, while I'll give advice if asked I try really hard to ONLY be an ear and let people figure out their shit on their own. I seem to be found when I'm needed by those who need an ear (let's be clear that in the cases to which I'm referring, it's not ME they're looking for, it's a sympathetic and/or non-judgmental human willing to listen), and fuck making a living off that - I'd be exhausted all the time. 
• In Spam mail I read the subject line too fast and could've sworn the email said "Dental Breast Implants", which I found to be a heartily disturbing mental image, and a seriously funny ad. Sadly, it was really for normal dental implants, no boobs involved. 
• In all honesty, I took a break from both the book AND the blog to watch this week's episode of Killjoys on SyFy. If you aren't watching this show, what the fuck is WRONG with you? You're missing absolute gold. And OH LOOKY THERE, the whole first season is streaming on Syfy's website. 

I have another couple thousand words to go today, so this is the end of my not-post. There is another goddamned cellar spider in the corner of the ceiling at the top of my stairs. Last time one of those dudes hung out there, a wolf spider the size of my palm came to eat him. No, thank you, 8 legged wonders of horror. I appreciate your function OUTSIDE the house. 

Vacuum, then write. 

PS: It's 5:30pm in August, and it's 66 degrees out. YES YES YES!

Thor, Chewy, Beelzebub

There are no puppies in my house anymore. Thor is now 11, which is in his early 80's in German Shepherd years. Chewy is nearly 10, which is mid-80's in Great Pyrenees years.


You'd think in their dotage they'd be less prone to random acts of asshattery, right?


Oh no, definitely not. And so, things I've yelled at the dogs this week:

• What the actual fuck, get your head out of the toilet. You look hungover. Chewy. SLEEPING in the bathroom with his head propped on the open toilet. He drooled on the seat. Not amused.
• DO NOT EAT CHARCOAL!
• Get back here! You're too old to chase bunnies, dumbass.
• Ok, who crapped a fucking brontosaurus? Yes, I mean a REAL toy brontosaurus, which I found next to a fresh pile in my yard while cleaning up after the boys. I'm 80% certain one of the neighborhood kids left it there. I'm not positive though.
• STOP HUMPING YOUR BROTHER! So, Chewy's back legs don't work so well anymore. Have you ever seen a 150 pound dog try to hump when his legs give out and he's essentially a really large, furry seal?
• I don't WANT to throw the ball again - sigh - ok. It's really hard to say no to an old dog who just wants to trot after a toy down the hallway.
• Please stop trying to eat the children. No, they weren't REALLY eating babies. I have newish neighbors with 5 and 7 year old girls who've decided they LOVE my dogs. I sort of adore that - Chewy is totally willing to lie in the grass and be a Barbiemobile. But, the drool gets excessive.
• STOP EATING POOP. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, JACKASS? At some point I bumped my watch and activated Siri, who only captured "ass" out of that entire yelled sentence. She responded "Did you accidentally summon me?"

And that's the story of how I inadvertently summoned a demon this week. 

But, What Kind of Person Deflowers COCONUTS?

You know, people REALLY overuse the term virgin.

Today, I got spam advertising 100% Organic Virgin Coconut Oil.

Sigh.

Let's ignore the fact that I can't really imagine how someone grows inorganic coconuts, since coconuts are plant life and therefore BY DEFINITION they are organic. Ok, so you want to argue "organic" in this case means grown without pesticides or whateverthefuck person-type interference? Fine, but have you ever actually opened a coconut? Yeah...hard to contaminate coconut water (and in fact, the difference between "organic" and "non-organic" is nil, per the NCBI). The term "organic" when it comes to this is purely a marketing ploy...falling for it is stupid.

But really...Virgin needs to STOP being used for food.

Because all I can think is...what sort of sick douche-nozzle fucks coconuts?

Hopefully not this guy.

That's right. I went there. You're welcome.

*Dear YouTube - thank Google for letting me find this clip of my personal favorite version.

"Duran Duran DOES NOT Sing The Song Of My People" (This post is Not Safe For Anyone*)

I seriously considered leaving this entire post blank**, because in this case the title really does say it all. Honestly, I laughed so hard at that one (which was dropped during what I thought was a totally normal conversation) I wheezed and cried a little.

Also? Since I generally anonymize my friends/family on this blog unless they say otherwise, you, sir, MIGHT need to be Duran Duran (DD?) here until I come up with something worse. If there is anything worse.

Then I remembered other ridiculous things said/heard lately, and realized it's been a while since I put into the interwebverse the oddities I get myself into.***

1) A friend (not DD...I'll need a code for him) sent me a picture of a statue of Jesus with the following caption: "Medusa 1, Jesus 0" I approve.

2) An ongoing discussion with DD about whether Aliens might've turned out differently had Newt been a teenage boy with a BDSM fetish. The logistics alone of breaking an alien to a collar is astounding, really, particularly since the only defense (as per the AVP movies) against corrosive alien blood is alien skin.

Yeah. THINK ABOUT THAT for a while. Facehugger condoms. A scarred up young man meeting the Marines and Ripley with a couple aliens on leashes.

Recently in one of my news feeds about writing I found a couple of magazines looking for horror/monster porn...seems apropos. (No, I'm not writing it. The discussion is enough).

And finally, 3)  While in a discussion with fellow degenerates (no codes yet: I'm working on it) about dietary choices that quickly devolved into something far worse, the question came up whether vegans are allowed to swallow during oral sex, or if that's a violation of the code.

Stop chortling, asshole, it's a real question!

I am extremely lucky to have a lovely lady in Oly (guess what YOUR new code name is?) who did NOT call me an asshole for asking and to my eternal gratitude and delight answered, "No, it's totally ok since people are consenting adults. But I bet some use that as an excuse not to."

I relayed the message, and immediately we three degenerates wondered about the sort of people who WOULD use veganism as an excuse to cop out of oral sex. And we came up with an alternative for those people to use instead: SPOY.

Vegan Soy Untextured Gluten Free Ejaculate Substitute

Comes in a tube...

*I am not sorry for anything in this post. Except maybe facehugger condoms.

**Yes, the labels I assigned are totally on purpose. Maybe I should be a little sorry for the people who search anything like alien porn and get this post.

Nope.

***No, I don't know what's wrong with me or my friends, but no one can say I don't have interesting conversations with people, and that's something.

PS: Google's spellcheck doesn't recognize the word "veganism" as real. For once, I can't help but agree. Also dear Google, I suppose THIS post lives up to your assumption that I am way too rude for you.

ADVENTURE is a Double-Edged Word

I haven't blogged much lately: truth be told I've been fighting off a depression of sorts for all of November. Most days it's been hard to muster the energy to be pleasant at work, so I haven't written much at all. 

That's not a request for attention: I get these once or twice a year, and I know what to do. I don't get suicidal: I get numb, as though I'm watching life go by from outside a frosty window or from beneath an iced over lake. Everything seems two steps removed from positively affecting me (although my internal demons are especially loud). 

It fixes itself with a bit of time and rest: I just have to wait it out and remember The Bloggess's mantra: depression lies. The most terrifying part is waiting for human-like feelings to come back (because what if they don't?). 

But because the Jess's-patience-bucket is full-to-overflowing with no more room for stupid, I withdraw from most peopleing time while I'm in the middle of this bullshit. 

Holidays, however, wait for no demons. 

This was the first year in 14 that I was uncoupled for Thanksgiving, because separated. I expect Christmas will be equally...different. And so, instead of hanging around for four days with the dogs watching bad TV, I went to the farm outside of Cloquet. Yes, the same Cloquet where Jessica Lange was born. 

No, I'm not named after her. 

Amusingly, Blogger's spellchecker doesn't recognize Cloquet. Not terribly surprising. 

The farm is a bit of land near a river where my Grandma, aunt, her partner, and the real owners (horses, ponies, dogs, cats, guineas, chickens, and now two skunk kits) live. After all, we're all on their schedules, and rightly so. The skunk kits are a stinky new addition to the barn, and likely won't be a permanent one. 

I've added a couple of pictures from the weekend's shenanigans...which helped in the feeling-sorta-human department: 

Found in the local grocery store next to "normal" cereal. Because in northern Minnesota, regularity is apparently so important there's special poop-inducing granola JUST FOR WEIRDOS:

SO many captions possible here, I just can't choose. 

I'm now 100% convinced the corners of the basement on the farm hide something vampiric. There isn't enough room to store a coven of human-sized vampires, but there's DEFINITELY room for gnome or brownie-sized bloodsuckers.

Since I found this on the windowsill, I'm guessing sun-aged blood is tastier?

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS*? IS THIS BLOOD?
IS THERE A SECRET STASH OF VAMPIRES AT THE FARM?

*(Grandma swears it's molasses...I did NOT smell or taste to be sure. 

Most people do the dishes looking out the window at the yard, the woods, into the neighbor's house (awkward)...

Grandma watches a spider protect the kitchen by catching ALL THE THINGS. I come by my weirdness naturally, people.

Charlotte, watching over the sink. 

OH.

On a different note, I discovered my renters (I don't know which ones) were apparently doing some sort of demonic rituals in my house while I was in Texas. They left this shit behind, up against the wall in the far corner of the top shelf in the laundry room. I think it's posessed.

It will be going to someone else for Christmas.

Fuck you, former renters.
No really. Fuck you and your creepy clown spy. 

 Evil disapproves*

Exactly. 

*Evil is at a stage where the word "no" said NEAR her creates insta-crying. As discovered when this picture was taken, after the N-word was uttered in casual conversation in her vicinity. It's adorable and hilarious, and laughing ONLY MAKES HER ANGRIER. 

Nope. I DON'T Know What's Wrong With Me Either

I'm too tired to write a real post, so I'm looking at old post titles and trying to guess what the hell I was talking about.

Feel free to play along in today's "what the actual fuck?" game:

I Scared The Clerks At Legoland - Just Call Me Darth Creepiness

The Desolate One: Ephelba and Mr. Bill's Spawn

Cosmic Lost Socks Will Now Be Washed, Fluffed, and Folded

Cold Medicine Induced Hallucinations

I think I may have spelled "hallucinations" incorrectly.
Huh. Blogger says nope. Well all right then.

I've been a miserable coughing shell of an actual human for the past three weeks or so, with a cold or allergies or a malicious and truly disgusting phlegm alien taking up unwelcome residence in my lungs. I'm tired. I'm on every cold drug known to man and and an allergy deterrent...and I'm still sucking cough drops like mad (none of which does me any good). This is not a plea for pity: this is an explanation for the possibly-drug-induced weirdness lately.

Blogger says I've had over 25,000 views in the last month, and yesterday for the first time ever I had over 1000. Because Blogger's stat tracker doesn't count traffic to the other pages of the blog, and 99% of the more-than-50 views are on my "about me" page and not on an actual post, I suspect it's a bot. Still, I did a double take today, having been too tired or sick to even look here in the past week. This could be cough-drop drunkenness, after all.

I flew to Houston to meet The Bloggess on her book tour at midnight on Thursday and home at 6am on Saturday because I'm fucking insane cheap and had limited PTO, but I didn't want to miss it. I'm sorry to all the people on the plane who might have thought I was sicker than I am (I coughed hard enough to break some capillaries in my cheeks, so I looked like I had the measles, which is SUPER ATTRACTIVE you guys...I DO NOT have the measles or anything else worse than a cold and allergies, and my cold was already in the non-communicable stage).

Friday night my super awesome friend Jodie and I sat in a very warm (90 degree) back parking lot in a mini-mall, next to a dumpster, behind a medium-sized metal chicken and various curler-headed red dress wearing fans. If you aren't a Bloggess fan that entire run-on sentence made absolutely no sense to you, and for that I'm sorry (not that it didn't make sense...I'm a sorry you aren't a Bloggess fan, because you're missing some serious excellence). I'm not kidding, I thought the chair might collapse under me. The crowd gave Jenny Lawson a standing ovation when she crawled out of the dumpster walked onstage. It was awesome. Her reading was awesome. And I finished my copy of Furiously Happy in two evenings. It's that good. Go get it. And if you meet her, don't be a dick and make her cry like I did (by accident!! When she found out I flew from MN to TX for the signing she teared up, and I said "Oh god, don't cry! I CAN'T BE THE ONE WHO MADE THE BLOGGESS CRY!").

Seriously...all those metal chickens angry with me? No, thank you.

Colds turn me into an 80 year old: I'm utterly wiped out by 6pm. In the last three weeks I think the only reason I saw darkness at all was because it's fall and the damn sun is disappearing. It's pathetic. All that sleep gives me ample opportunity for all the most horrific dreams to replay in cinematic glory in my brain.

I've been eaten by sharks twice (Ok...in all fairness that one may be my own fault. I HAVE been looking into doing a great white shark dive off the coast of San Francisco...but that's another post).

My eyeballs have been taken by spiders as web decorations. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, BRAIN??

The dogs have died in front of me in such varied and horrifying detail I wake up shaking and crying, and I break all the rules and bring Thor up on the bed (even though his panting shakes the whole fucking thing and makes me think of those creepy vibrating beds in movies and D minus hotels) just so I can be sure he's breathing.

I've fallen off cliffs into a black abyss with no bottom six times. I know this one sounds the least terrifying. It is not. This is the one that sticks with me for hours after I wake up, and on the really fun versions I'm joined by some sort of people-are-tasty-snacks type cave creature.

I think it was just my body's way of forcing me into preparations for October's Halloween extravaganza, but seriously...I'm so damn tired. 

Also, the spider eyeball thing was just over the top. Really. 

Filed under: UTTERLY worth the 6am flight.

In T-Minus (wait, did I just write the equivalent of T minus minus? Whatever: you know what I meant) three days + one business day melting in Houston...

I get to see The Bloggess!

Live and in person (which may mean under a table, which I completely understand and support).

I can't wait to see how many Rorys are floating around in the crowd. Wait...Crowd surfing Rory...hmm...this should happen.

If you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, I say go forth and read both of her books immediately. Or get lost in her blog for a couple of days. Well worth the time.

Oh shit. Does this mean I'll be reading Furiously Happy on the plane on my way home Saturday?

Dear fellow passengers at 6:40am: I will not apologize for the snortling. I promise when I start to wheeze and cough I'll put it down and knock myself out with a Dramamine for the rest of the flight.

I Broke My Funny Bone

Actually, I think I severely sprained my writing-anything-amusing bone. That should not be confused with a writing boner, which is really a different genre entirely.

I started a new job last week, and while I really like the team and the culture (and hello, benefits) I do miss setting my own schedule. The rebel in me chafes a bit on principle.

The point is: the past week or so has been pretty close to the first week of school when I was a kid. It takes me an adjustment period, and during that time I sleep like absolute shit. And therefore start nodding off around 8pm...because I'm a super exciting party...(yawn).

Tonight I stupidly decided the long hike would be good, since it's been a while, I was home by 5, and I'm apparently a sucker when my idiot brain says "seriously, this'll be great for us!"

The long hike is 3.5 miles in a park with demonically steep hills about every 200 yards. The first few are actually sort of helpful: imagine a large, out of tune orchestra playing bits of SOMETHING all together so you can't focus on one thing. If I don't have a way to expunge the surface garbage of news headlines and how gross I think a vegan recipe for mac and cheese would taste, it's harder to get to the good stuff.

I have a couple choices for feng-shui-ing my brain. First: journaling. I learned the Natalie Goldberg "wild mind" method in high school creative writing class, and that shit still works to get the Lucky Charms demented Leprechaun weird images out. Meditation works too. Sometimes opening my yap and spilling rainbow flavored verbal diarrhea works, but that's just...well, it's rude.

I mean, no one wants to be pooped on. DO NOT BURST MY HAPPY BUBBLE: I'M STICKING WITH THAT ASSERTION.

Exercise works because I can pretty literally sweat out all the toxic brain bits. Hiking works better than anything else because running makes me want to puke and swimming, while I do love it, puts me in real danger of inhaling chlorine water mid-evil-thought and drowning. I suppose there are worse ways to go...and now I'm thinking about poop again. Sigh. I'm so damned ladylike.

Plus, hiking is more of an adventure. Tonight I heard two owls hooting at each other, scared the bejesus out of a deer (the bejesus was really scared out of both of us, and I'm pretty sure the bejesii went skipping off in another direction together), thought bears might be heading my way but it turned out to be lumbering mountain bikers, and had an entire flock of crows laugh at me for a good 1/4 mile.

They actually perched in the tree above me, looked down, and cackled. That is not the exhaustion talking. I was fairly amused.

It's clearly been a while since I hiked, because I didn't get to the relieved state of a cleared mind until the second mile. The hills usually help: a fat girl huffing and puffing up a godawfully endless steep hill gets to a don't look up, the top is too far away and you'll just quit. Just put one foot in front of the other and be fucking careful not to sprain your ankle again because NOBODY will come all the way out here and roll your ass back to the car stage. I appreciate every terrible hill in a twisted sort of self-help-inspiration way. They force me to focus on the moment. They force me to keep going because I'm too damn stubborn to go back down and it's just one more step, then one more, then one more. And suddenly it's the top and I can look back down while I catch my breath and be sort of surprised I got so far.

Tonight, the first three hills gave me Dory's irritating "just keep swimming" song instead of clarity. I know I'm evil for saying so, but I really didn't enjoy that movie. Therefore, I'm CERTAIN I've not brain-dumped the bullshit in a while.

See? There is no funny in here today, only crass bathroom humor and sleepiness.

Yahoo Spam Thinks I'm a Cheating Alcoholic

You know, it seems odd to begin with that a separated woman gets emails inviting her to join "married but looking" cheating websites geared towards husbands, particularly when Ashley Madison just got hacked. Thanks Yahoo, but no, I'm not looking for a Asian girl or a fuck buddy named Adriana (who can't POSSIBLY be 18 since I've gotten spam from her for about six years now). In related news, I also don't have erectile dysfunction, so no need for Viagra or "Ta-Da Phil" tabs (Cialis, people...the medical name is "tadalafil", which makes me think TA DA PHIL!). 

Now I'm also getting repeat emails from someplace called Sober Dawn, advertising a prayerful enlightening escape from alcohol and drugs. And from AlcoholRehab. 

And from someplace called Burial Insurance. 

Yes, I think all three of these are related. 

I keep my yahoo email for exactly this reason: it's the one that gets sold when I join a rewards program or order something online. And...I'm sick enough to be amused at the regular cycle of religious dating sites, credit repair sites, and cheating/sex sites. 

I wonder if I can get Ashley Madison on the National Organization for Women's spam list...

It's Dorian. Dorian Cruise.

Last week I watched Mission Impossible: Tom Cruise Never Gets Old.

Let me preface this post by saying I love the MI movies, and not just for Simon Pegg and Jeremy Renner. I love them because I can usually see foreshadowing clearly, and so not many plots are surprising. In MI, of course the good guys will win in the end, but damn if they don't take the most ridiculous and unexpected twists along the way that make it fun.

Anyway...

After much thought about Tom Cruise and how he looks almost exactly the same as he did in the first one, I've come to a conclusion.

Obviously, the benefits of breaking into the upper strata of Scientology include a Dorian Gray-esque simulacrum which ages on your behalf.

Is it a Dobby chained in the basement? A painting in a secret room of one of his mansions? A Ring of Power? Super secret cloning technology (in which case, is he part velociraptor)?

I'm sure I'll never know.

And you can thank Mission Impossible for this entire line of ridiculousness.

PS: If you are lost on my references here, please read the following. Do not watch the movies until you've read the books...that's passing go, people, and DO NOT PASS GO.

A Picture of Dorian Gray
Harry Potter
The Lord of the Rings
Jurassic Park

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.

Serendipity? This is not a real post.

You guys,

Someone found my blog by searching "barfy foot massage."

If you don't recall, I wrote once about exactly that here.

Also, I checked when I was in Houston this week: it's still there. I still don't have the balls to walk in there: I'm not ashamed to say vomit smell makes me gag.

I miss my girls in Houston, but I'm infernally happy to be home.