Copier Blog - The Early Days

In my search to find my old resume on my computer, I ran across a document I saved that is a compilation of e-mails I sent out at work about our over-worked copier. That damn copier was breaking down all the time and people were constantly telling me about it, so I would send updates out to the call center and let them know what was going on.  They seemed to enjoy the emails, which only encouraged me to do more.  I think this is about the time everyone was encouraging me to start a blog, so they seem relevant.   I don't think I've shared them before, but after doing this blog for a while now, who knows, maybe I have already.  Anyway, here is a look back at how it all started.


Daily Blog about the copier...

3/12/09 Thursday, 3:47pm Larry arrived and brought new parts for the copier. Hurrah. Upon arriving and finding notes taped to the machine about other possible problems, Larry put on his thinking cap.  He thought to himself, "hey, I am going to look at this new toner bottle and compare it to the old toner bottle...oh, lookie here, there is an extra piece..." And then he hypothesized about how it got there and came up with a theory.  He shared it with me and here is what he said:
Blah blah blah, toner bottle, blah, blah, blah, rollers, blah blah blah, I narrowed it down to the fuzzy logic circuit (I'm not making this up, that is what he said), blah blah blah blah, and then I noticed this clicking sound...blah, blah, blah blah...."  I nodded like a little bobble-head doll and then said, "ok, sounds like you have it under control."

 Larry reported to my desk just minutes later that it was all fixed and should be good to go. He advised me to "enjoy the sunny afternoon" and as quickly as he appeared...he was gone.  I saw him from my window, walking out in the parking lot...just a little taller, a little more pride in his step, but with a slight limp, like, perhaps he had kicked a machine one time too many.  Anyway, good day for our copier...good day for Larry.

Friday, 3/13/09 8:00AM  Julianne innocently walks in to make copies for her training class today.  She feels confident in knowing Larry the copy guy was here.  The machine has a clean bill of health, after all.  With all the confidence she can muster, she asks for 40 correlated copies.  Just two pages, just one staple each.  Her heart fills with glee as she sees copies shooting out onto the tray...and then it happens. "beep-beep" The machine has a jam.  Julianne goes to work, opening doors, pulling out paper, after all, she has done this countless times before.  The error message goes away.  She pleads with the copier to just finish her copies.  This isn't her day...this Friday the 13th.  It just isn't going to happen.  She throws her arms up in dispair and leaves the room, with only a partial job done.  She makes a mental note to tell Cassondra what she thinks about Larry after her training class.  In Larry's defense...the machine does have toner.

8:30AM Cassondra (unaware of the morning's events) arrives on the scene to make copies only to find the machine in a disasterous state.  Paper was spread throughout the machine like a cancer, jams everywhere. Cassondra makes a mental note to find the assailant and give them a stern talking to. 

10:26AM Julianne confesses her crime.

11:38AM Larry calls to see how things are going.  Cassondra relays the message about the jamming and the instability of the machine...silence on the line...you could almost hear the wheels in his head turning and he replied, "but the toner problem is gone, right?"

There is a certain comfort in knowing that even in the toughest of economies and high unemployment that our copy machine has single-handedly given Larry  job security. 
      

It's Monday.  March 16th.  My copier was complaint free between the hours of 8:00AM and 2:35pm.  It's a new record. 

2:36PM - Julianne comes over to my desk.  She had the same look a cat has on it's face when it has already eaten a canary, but has every intention of pleading innocent....never mind the cat hair on the cage door.  It appears there is a new problem with the copier.  Julianne claims she has not mistreated the machine.  She claims she was simply trying to make copies and then there was a jam.  The alleged jam then led to a situation where a new error message surfaced...one we have never seen before.  The machine now claims there is a cover door open...when clearly, there is not.

2:38PM - Teresa and Rob witnessed the complaint.  Rob retreated into his office for safety purposes...laughing about a conspiracy between Larry the copy guy and Julianne.  Teresa, Julianne and myself inspected the machine...opened all doors...the error message would not clear. I was perplexed...but not defeated.  In a moment of genius, I pushed on the door that houses the toner....that's right...the evil toner.  Upon pushing on the door and holding pressure, the error message cleared.  With my shoulders slumping, feeling a little defeated, I left Julianne alone to hold tension on the toner cover door while she made 100 copies.

2:46PM - I left word for Larry.  Looks like we need another service call. 

That was the last entry I saved.  To let you all know, the copy machine eventually died.  We had to get a new one. Not long after the new one arrived, we also got a new copy repair guy.  I have not seen Larry the Copy Guy in years.  I do not know what happened to him, but I pray his toner didn't go bad.

Too Hot, Penis Bite, Dead Bird

 We have arrived at Thursday.  I figure, I've made it this far, I may as well finish out the week at the 'ol Glass Palace.  I arrived there this morning, a bit later than usual and sat in my truck, staring at the building, lurking behind the trees with a dark sky in the background.  I didn't want to go in.  I knew what the day would bring, "Cassondra, it's too hot at my desk, can you ask them to turn the heat down?"  "Cassondra, the light above my desk is too bright, can you have them come and turn one off?"  "Cassondra, you are never gonna believe what is in stall number one..."  These are the menial tasks that would be on top of all my usual tasks.  While it is flattering that people come to me, because they know I will take care of their needs, it also gets old.  I've been feeling a range of emotions lately and I wonder how much of the Glass Palace is contributing to my dark mood.  Am I just burnt out after 16 years of living the dream?  I mean, it's a pretty good gig, overall.  I'm not going to complain about the paycheck or the commute or my schedule.  I pretty much self-manage my job, so it has it's perks, but I really could go without the bathroom drama.

I finally decided to venture in.  As I walked in, one of my co-workers was telling me about a job she had heard about.  Well, this is a great way to start the day, thinking about working somewhere else.  Was the universe telling me something?  Is it time to get away from the Glass Palace?  Something to consider, I suppose.  I finally got to my desk and settled in when one of the peeps came up to my desk and advised me that she and her cube mates were way too hot and could I put a ticket in to get the heat turned down.  Check, #1 off the list - temperature control.  I put the ticket in to get her hot flashes under control and proceeded to go through my emails.  It was kind of difficult to concentrate, though, because Slim Jim was going on and on and ON about a bug bite he had.  I yelled over the wall, "Are you going to be complaining ALL day this loudly? I have some expired Neosporin if you want it..."  He said he was really in a bind because it was really painful.  Come to find out, the bug bite was on his, ahem...boy parts...more specifically, the major boy PART (if you're still not clear, I'm talking about his freaking penis).  As I heard this news I made this face, like I had just seen wall-art drawn with poop in stall number one.   Look, I don't know how you get bug bites on your privates, but hey, some things, I don't NEED to know.  How to handle this is not in my admin manual.

I clearly needed to get away from my desk and the nearby penis crisis, so I took a walk to deliver vending machine refunds.  I say Mama Chris and she advised me that she was totally not telling me that she saw a dead bird on the walk-way coming in.  She wanted me to know that she was also not asking me to do anything about this dead bird that I didn't really need to hear about.  She would report it on her own.  Wow.  Someone is taking matters into their own hands.  I stood there for just a moment, in awe.  It was like I was in a third dimension.  All I could think of was, that stupid bird probably flew right into the glass building and killed itself.  Just like I do everyday, except for me, the killing is happening slowly, over time.  I finished my rounds and returned to my desk.  The phone rings.  It's Building Dude.  He has received the dead bird email and wants to know where the bird is.  I didn't tell him about the freaking dead bird, I haven't seen the dead bird.  I advised him I didn't know.  "Okay, I'll go check it out."  I sent Mama Chris a message letting her know the bird tragedy was being addressed, but that he didn't know where it was.  She cut and pasted from the email she sent him, which described the exact location of the carcass.  She replied, "Does he need a map?"  Apparently so.  Perhaps I am unknowingly being trained to be the Building Dude's replacement.  Maybe all clearance for this type of thing now goes through me?  Clearly, I'm that important.

About then, my friend, Stilletto Barbie sent me an instant message.  We shared a few back and forth messages and then she asked how my new anti-depressant meds were going.  Asked if I felt spacey.  I wrote back and told her that I think I am having some problems as last night I was throwing a temper tantrum in the barn because I couldn't connect the two hoses I had so I could water my flowers.  I mean, I was very angry and didn't understand how I had two ends that looked identical and how was I supposed to screw them together? Shark Bait came out and asked me what my problem was.  I explained how the hoses could not be hooked together.  He looked at me oddly and said, "yes they can," and proceeded to connect them, right in front of me.  What the hell is a matter with me? I know how to screw hoses together?!  Anyway, all Stilletto Barbie saw on her message screen was that I had lost the ability to screw.  In her mind, I was having sexual side-effects of monumental proportion.  Luckily, she found the rest of the message buried somewhere below.  Good Lord, this is how my day is going.

Another exciting part of my day is that I get to start sending emails out every hour, on the hour, showing who in the center has not yet sold a certain product we offer.  I know that no one has time to read these emails, nor do they want to, so I decide to spice them up in my own way.  You know, little rhymes, little pictures, etc.  People started emailing me back razzing me about having to send the emails.  Cross Fit Crazy came out and said, "You're doing an amazing job on those emails!"  I looked at him, "Any monkey can do it..."  He looked wounded, "but they don't read the ones I send."  I responded, "yeah, because yours are boring."  I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure my mid-year review is not going to be stellar.

As I sat there contemplating my next catchy little phrase for the next hour, I get a message, "Um, I hate to bother you, but I jammed the copier and I don't know how to unjam it..."  Okay, I got this.  I go in there and it's jammed good.  Like, one piece of paper is crunched and krinkled so hard, I damn near had to disassemble the machine.  But, I am a trained professional, I got this.  Upon saving the machine from this tragic event, it asks if I want to continue copying.  Let's see what is on there...oh, look, it is a guide on how to knit ruffle pants and then also a hamburger ordering sheet.  I don't exactly know what goes on inside this building sometimes, but I'm pretty sure this is a first for ruffle pants being created in-house.

I walked over to Mama Chris, "Ruffle pants?  Really?"  She took her paper back sheepishly and said, "Here, have a Kit Kat!"  She had Kit-Kat bites.  I could use a break.  I could use to break me off a piece of that Kit. Kat. Bar.  And, so, I did.  Once again, I returned to my desk to see what other disaster was about to unfold.  I reached down and wiped my glasses on my shirt and then put them back on.  What the hell?  They had smudges all over them...what?  I look down at my shirt and I had a little glob of chocolate from that Kit Kat bite. One little spot, but that is the spot that I chose to "clean" my glasses with.  Seriously.  Sigh.  Crime just doesn't pay.

My day was finally coming to a close and I sat there wondering if this is really all there is to a "Day in the Life of Cassondra."  The more I think about change, it scares me, but it also makes me wonder what else is out there.  Sixteen years is a long time at a company.  I asked one of the other people I work with that has also been here a long time, "Do you think you will die here, or would you jump at the first job that came along?"  He looked at me and said, "I'd jump in a heartbeat."  I know I always joked with Ambular and Valerina and we all agreed, we would stay here until this pony broke it's leg and then we would get a new pony.  Well, maybe this pony is one of those sickly ponies with a limp, but an iron lung and a fierce will to live.  I don't want to ride a sick pony.  But, is the pony sick, or am I sick?  I have much to ponder.  I think it's time to take the pony's temperature and see if it should be put out of it's misery.

Anyway, tomorrow is finally Friday and Cross Fit Crazy is out of the office all day.  Maybe I can get some work done if wildlife avoids our building, people come scantily clothed wearing a good deoderant with no hopes of comfort and people keep craft time at home.  And you people don't think I can be optimistic.  HA!  If those last couple sentences weren't optimistic, I don't know what is.  All I know is, it just about took everything out of me.  I'm exhausted.  Nighty-nite.

Ice Cream Bar Terrorists & LHJ

Tuesday.  Not a Monday.  Not "hump day."  Not almost Friday.  Most definitely not Friday.  Tuesday is just a day of the week that we have to get through.  The mission today was simple.  Go to work,  get some shit done and get the the gym on my lunch.  Don't lose your temper and stay out of the drama.  Achievable, by even my high standards of hoping today doesn't totally suck.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan until about 8:30am, when all hell broke loose in my stomach.  I don't know what was wrong, but it was definitely...WRONG.  No, I didn't shit myself, shit on the floor, on the wall, on the toilet seat, etc. even though this would have been my moment to shine.  I didn't even take time to paint a poop pony on the bathroom wall.  I'm just saying, I didn't feel well and things progressed to a semi-emergency state.  As I was in the midst of the emergency, I thought to myself, what could have caused this?  And then I think I found the culprit.  Sunday, after "date night" with Shark Bait, I was jonsing for ice cream.  We stopped and Shark Bait got me a Magnum ice cream bar.  I was so excited.  I carefully cracked and ate the chocolatey covering first so all that was left was the vanilla ice cream.  Now I could make all sorts of obscene gestures with the ice cream bar while Shark Bait was driving.  It's kind of my thing.  It's juvenile, but whatever.  Anyway, when I got to the vanilla, it was really grainy.  There was no reason for it to be grainy.  Good God.  I was being poisoned, I know it.  It was some sort of terrorist ice cream bar.  I told Shark Bait, "I'm pretty sure I'm going to die from this.  It make take a couple of days for the fever and blisters to show up, but I'm certain, I've just been terrorized by terrorists that want all fat people to die.  Hell, all people that love ice cream to die.  Shark Bait assured me this was not the case.  I started to think about dying and how the last joy I had was eating that fucking ice cream bar that didn't even taste good.  Hey terrorists, if you are going to target fat people, freaking upgrade your toxic formula. Make it delicious.  Make me want more.  What? Are you on a budget? I didn't know bio-warfare had a spending ceiling.  Anyway, I did wake up Monday, and did note, by the way, that I had survived my first night before the real symptoms showed up.  I'm too pretty for boils and welts on my face, but, it's my fate, what can I do?  As I sat there, in my emergency state, I was sure this was stage one of my ice cream poisoning.

That's a long paragraph to say, I think the ice cream made me sick.

I got back to my desk, feeling lucky to be alive and that I hadn't shit my pants (which would have been nylons since I'm wearing a dress today...that would have been epic).  Not sure which of those things brought me more joy, being alive or not shitting my pants...wow, did I just have a "senior moment?"  Is that what it is going to be like at the old folks home?  I'm walking around with the walking farts and it is a success story I lived through it and don't need a diaper change? But I digress.  Upon arriving at my desk, I see I am being approached by what can only be the new batch of interns.  We have high school interns now, in addition to the college interns.  Now, I would love to be super mean about this, but we all know my voice can only be so loud these days.  Let's say I was irritated.  I don't have time for interns.  They all want to do observations on our on-line reps and they need my help to get set up.  Fine.  I get them all settled and then another one shows up...and then another one.  It's like I'm at the freaking mall.  One of them comes over when she is done and says, "do you know where my laptop is?  I'm supposed to pick one up."  I said, "I don't know anything about a laptop, I don't have any for you."  She says, "What should I do?"  In my most supportive, helpful voice I said, "I suggest you go find whomever it is you work for and ask them."  I do give her credit for persistence.  She continued, "He said it's down here."  I gave her two blinks and a dismissal as I went back to work, "Well, I don't have them, so I don't know what to tell you..."  Even the interns that work in OTHER DEPARTMENTS think I am their mother.  No.  I'm not accepting any more puppies into my litter right now.  This bitch has dried up.  One of them even ran off with one of my headsets, so I sent an email to one of the gals that had brought them down earlier.  She says, "what was the intern's name?"  I wrote back, "I don't know.  Collectively, they are "the interns."  I don't expect to spend enough time with them to learn their names.  It was one of them.  Tall guy. Glasses."  She agreed to question them later.  Thank God.  I don't have time for this.  I hope they are potty trained.

My day progressed with several incidents that made me want to scream, but I am not at liberty to speak of such things.  One of the things I will talk about that took up a large amount of time is that we have a file that is in a special drive.  All of the supervisors and myself have access.  If you are in there and have the file open, no one else can get into it to make changes.  I went around and tortured each supervisor individually, which normally, I would enjoy, but this was making me crazy.  I finally realized it was Cross Fit Crazy.  I pointed at him and said, "YOU, get in your office, you are in that file!"  He's like all breezy about it, "yeah, I had to check the schedules this morning."  I proceeded to unleash the beast on him.  I am chewing him up one side and down the other and he says, "You look really pretty today."  These tactics don't work on me when I am on a rant. I told him to stop trying to sway me from my rant. "No, you really do...really pretty....I mean it."  It was like I had my compliment force-field activated.  Nothing could penetrate this rant.  Nothing.  I simply looked at him and said, "Get. Out. Of. The. File." He smiles and tries to be all breezy again.  No. Not havin' it.  Today is not his day.  Tomorrow isn't looking good either.  I cannot be buttered up.  Unless he started throwing ice cream at me.  Now THAT would have distracted me.  He is going to need to get smarter about this.

That mission completed, I went out to hang up some posters.  I'm minding my own business when a person approaches me, "Hey, I thought of you this morning...I was in the bathroom, in stall number one and you know how you have signs telling people to dispose of things properly?  Well, someone had a big, bloody tampon in the toilet...I thought you'd like to know that."  Instantly irritated, I looked at her and said,"Gee, thanks for sharing that with me, that's a great story."  She says, "Well, I thought you'd find it humorous."  I continued what I was doing and said snottily, "Yeah, because I just love it when everyone tells me about every gross thing that happens in stall number one.  So glad you thought of me."  And walked away.  I hear her behind me, "Well, we love you..."  THIS is love?  I guess I'm confused about what love is.  I need to go have a deep conversation with Forest Gump or something.

After that incident, I returned to my area and just sat there shaking my head.  I said to Dish Guy, "Have you ever had a morning where - " He stopped me mid sentence, "Yes."  Okay then, we are on the same page.  And then it happened, as it often does, people were loitering around my desk and it came up that I should write a sitcom or book about this place.  I advised them, that would surely lead to my demise as the admin, but we decided to pick stars that would play us in the movie or TV show anyway.  I'm not sure who will play me.  I mean, Melissa McCarthy would do a really good job, I think. Additionally, I decided, if it is a book that turns into a movie, the working title will be The Day I Shot Myself in the Head.  Maybe I was inspired by the Outlander movie stand-up that had been left in front of my desk that had been staring me down.  Or, maybe I was inspired by the need to put myself out of my misery today.  I don't know. 

As we closed out the conversation about the movie casting, Sick Python Arms delivered the mail.  It's a Ladies Home Journal.  Now, I'm going to tell you right now, I'm freaked out.  First, several months back, out of the blue, Ladies Home Journal started sending me their magazine at my house on a regular basis.  I never ordered it, no one ordered it for me.  I figured it was a promotional deal, but they kept coming.  I haven't seen one lately at home, so figured they gave up on me and stopped.  Now, here it is AT WORK, addressed to ME.  What the hell?  How did the LHJ people find me here?  How did they know?  Is someone stalking me?  What is happening?  Why are they sending me their magazine?  Is it from our CEO? Are there subliminal messages?  Is it bugged? Like, on those little tear out cards that keep you from successfully turning the fucking page and keeping the previous page down, those things, stuffed between pages....are there tracking devices or bugs so they can hear my conversations at home and now at work?  Do they just really want me to know about make-up, relationship and health tips?  Are they trying to beautify this ugly world we live in?  What is happening?  I felt violated, like maybe I needed an escort to my truck.  What if some "magazine server" dude said, "Are you Angry Pony?  Here's your magazine" and then runs like hell?  There is no safe place.  No place to hide. If only I knew what their angle was.  I must remain alert and aware of my surroundings.  I mean, at least until I die from the ice cream bar that the terrorists planted the toxic biological warfare in. I guess it  wouldn't hurt to read a magazine while I wait to die.  At least I won't die on a Tuesday.

Strangely Calm

Today was a strange day.  I had a calmness about me that I have not had in over a month.  I don't know why.  I have two theories.  One, it was a "trifecta" night: shark week was over, I blogged and...well, I'm just going to say it...Shark Bait figured out #11 (if you saw my Facebook post, you understand, if you didn't, well, you can probably still figure it out).  Or, secondly, I'm bipolar.  Anyway, this morning I am calm.  I am even wearing one of my dresses that allows my chubby knees and back-of-the-knee fat to show, and, like Honey Badger, I didn't give a shit.  I owned it.  I'm not saying I wasn't obsessed about it all day, I'm just saying I allowed it to happen.

I arrived at work and was immediately faced with someone up in my business.  I was calm.  He asked me if I had a new haircut.  I stared at him, "Nope."  He said, "are you wearing it different?"  I responded again, "Nope," and smiled sweetly (with a hint of "are you freaking crazy?")  I finished my conversation with him and just moments later, someone that shall remain nameless said, "Hey, do you have any double D batteries?"  I stopped, turned slowly and said, "Double D batteries?  Um...I don't think they make those..."  He was immediately embarrassed.  "I mean the small ones...I want the A's....the double A's."  I said, I'm sure I have some here somewhere.  He was still dying a thousand deaths, "I can't believe I said that."  I was like, "Look, I've said a lot of stupid shit, I wouldn't worry about it."  He retreated to his desk and I promised to bring him the hooters, I mean, batteries in a minute.   I wish this person didn't already have a blog name, because if they didn't, their name would now be "Double D." I was dying laughing inside, but on the outside, I was calm.

After the battery debacle, I tended to the vending machine refunds waiting for me.  Some I could read, others I could not.  I sent out an email to the building letting them know that they needed to write their names in a way that a half-blind admin could decipher.  I delivered my message with my usual flair for the dramatic.  I got a couple of emails back saying how they loved my emails.  One person suggested that his work group enjoyed my emails and that I should consider writing a blog or doing a podcast.  Yeah, I may just consider the blog part.  The podcast I am sure would get me fired.  The next email was from someone in a different department telling me how I needed to get the vending machine room upgraded to a full-service fresh food area.  What?  Oh, I'm sorry, did I mention anywhere in my email that I gave a shit about that? NO, I sent an email about refunds.  Now suddenly, I'm building a better tomorrow in the break room.  Get off my ass, already! Then someone I don't know, in a different department, in which I know nothing about sends me an email that says, "hey, did you get my vacation cash out form? Has that been approved yet?"  Mystified, I said, "um, I don't believe I have jurisdiction over that request...are you trying to give me more work?"  This person replied, "Oh, no, I know it is MY job, I just wasn't sure if you had gotten it yet?"  Let me say this, if you are in a department and you don't know who your admin is, you are probably screwed.  Did I just become the admin to the whole building?  Sweet Jesus.  I should just be glad she didn't tell me that she had shit in stall number one in her bathroom. 

All of this left me mystified.  I don't really know how it all happened, but now, whenever someone leaves their lights on in the parking lot, loses something, finds something, etc. they come to me and ask me to send an email about it.  Any one of these people are capable of using the same distro list that I use to reach the masses.  I don't mind doing it, really, but I don't understand how when I do these "announcements" that it leads to me approving their vacation cash-out, revamping the break room, supplying suggestions on how to use the coffee machine, educating people on the poisonous mushrooms outside and reporting the caterpillar situation.  And then, there was the follow-up instant message, "I brought in some homemade smoked cheese if you want some."

And, I'm still calm. 

The day continued on and Stilletto Barbie and Sassy Pants came to see me in my natural habitat.   I was kind of coerced into a hug situation.  For just a moment, Stilletto hugged me and I hugged her back.  I went to pull away and she said, "I'm not done yet."  And so we hugged some more.  Seemed a little unorthodox, but she said she was told she is a good hugger.  I think she was trying to show me the way of her people.  People that are open to Cross Fit Crazy's fuzziness.  This event was captured on film and posted to FB by Sassy Pants, so there is documented proof that I hug people...in daylight...in public...without alcohol, drugs or as a result of hearing bad news.  And, that unlike the Preying Mantis, I do not devour my "hug mate" upon completion of aforementioned hug.  I'm as safe as any ride at Disneyland.

I managed to finish out my work day with a sense of calmness.  I was actually disappointed because I have been a crying, angry mess for two weeks (or longer, okay, I admit it) and now it was time for therapy Thursday and I was calm.  Son of a bitch.  I walked into the Rug Doctor's office and said, "Well, I've got news, I'm bi-polar."  She seemed surprised by that, but we talked it out and in the end, turns out, I'm likely not bipolar, but, I am still a mess.  Rug Doctor was all excited as she said, "I have a new mantra for you!" and she wrote on her little white board by her chair, "Not my circus, not my monkey."  I laughed and said, "I've had that posted to my wall on FB about 5 times this week.  It's like you are all trying to tell me something."  We went on to discuss many things about my issues and it turns out, the problem is, out of all the voices in my head, the depression, anxiety, fear, anger an "fuck-it" voices are all screaming so loud that I can't hear my rational voice. I'm focusing on negative self-esteem talk and not self-compassion.  It would seem I have a long way to go to get those other voices to shut the fuck up so the only rational one in the group can get a word in edge-wise.  My trip to the Drug Doctor tomorrow should help that little problem-o.

So, for now, I'm still calm, still in my post shark week, post blogging and post #11 state.  I think I"ll call it a night and see if I can remain calm tomorrow.  I did blog again tonight and Shark Bait is still awake... maybe that will help, too. 

In A Funk So Low...

I'm feeling very angry-frustrated-sad these days.  I'm in a funk so low that even if you "played that funky music, white boy" I wouldn't be able to get down in that funk any further. ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qe1ScoePqVA for your reference.)  And just so you know, I can hear all of my friends and The Rug Doctor saying, "be kind to yourself."  Ugh.  I can hear them say, "look how far you've come."  I can hear them, "I'm sorry you are having a tough time, it will get better."  And, yes, I hear them say, "be patient, it will work out, you'll get there."  I wish I couldn't hear them.  Because then, I could fully wallow in this funk without guilt.  Guilt that I should be feeling differently.  Guilt that I'm not expressing my gratitude for being blessed with life, a job, a roof over my head, etc.  Why do people, and Pinterest, always have to go there?  Like, I'm a bad person for having these dark thoughts.  I'm a bad person because I have the ability to reach down, deep inside and feel what I'm feeling.  I can feel like I'm a failure.  And not just with weight-loss, but with many things.  I can feel like I hate my own guts.  I can feel like I'm never going to get anywhere.  I can feel like I'm never going to be able to conquer this monster within that holds me back.  I can feel like I just want to give up.  At the same time, I'm so angry that I want to give up, that I can give up, but that a part of me will not let it happen.  Is it any wonder I am a hot mess?

I'm so angry that I allow myself to feel like I have a legit chance at achieving my goals and then I continue to struggle EVERY FUCKING DAY.  I'm so angry that people encourage me and make me feel like I have some sort of special talent and I start to believe it and then I see a bazillion other people out there that are  better writers, that are more entertaining, more funny, etc.  People that have made it, or people that maybe haven't "made it," but still do what they love and they are good at it.  I tell myself I can't.  And then I get mad because I said the "I can't" thing.  It's such a disgrace, because now, all those stupid meme's on Pinterest are right.  If I say, "I can't," well, I won't.  You have to tell yourself that YOU CAN.  You have to tell yourself that you believe in yourself.   But what if you don't anymore?  What if, at the end of the day, you have realized there are a whole bunch of people, let's call it a "buttload" of people, to be really safe on the overall number, that are getting it done?  They are losing weight.  They are making their dreams come true.  They are living the life they want to live.  Those buttloads of people are proving that I am inferior.  I am a failure.  How do I change that voice?  She is so dark, so powerful, so in charge. I hate her.  I Hate. Her. Guts.  And, I can't get rid of her.  She's like a fungus...toe fungus...that kind that turns your nails yellow and can't be cured.  She's like asbestos.  I need people in hazmat suits to extract her because she is so vile, she slowly kills all that try to gently extract her.  She's like cat shit on your shoe.  You are never going to get that smell out.  You are going to have to throw the shoe away.  She is like a tattoo of an ex-boyfriend's name that you put all across your back, like a banner attesting to your eternal love (which, I haven't done, for the record).  No matter what you do to erase it, to remove it, to hide it, it's there.  It will always be there. There's no cream for that. No more than there is a cream for curing cellulite. Especially not Jergins Firming lotion.  It can't hide the years of this stretched out body.

I sit at my desk at work, wallowing in the hate.  Do I really hate my job?  I don't know, but right now I am unchallenged, under-utilized and bored.  I feel where there was once trust and fun, there is now a coldness and a disconnect.  I am an island.  I come in, do my job, go home.  While I am there, I know I am appreciated, because, without me, how else would the lights overhead get turned off when they are too bright, how else does the heat  get turned up or down when you are either sporting rigid nips or when you are sweating down your butt crack?  How else does the building manager get notified if there is a suspicious smell?  How else does the janitor get notified that some daft cow pissed all over the seat, took a dump in the corner or finger painted it on the wall?  Who else would bring them the sweet smelling soaps?  Who?  My GOD, how on earth would that place survive.  Sure, there are a billion other things I do, but right now, all I can think about is the daily bullshit that makes me feel like a mom at daycare.  I'm so tired.  But, even more tired that I don't know what my dreams are and seemingly have the inability to change.  The Rug Doctor would tell me that change will happen.  Nothing stays the same.  Situations change.  I think I will challenge her on this tomorrow at Therapy Thursday.  What if things change, only to revert back to their prior form?  It's like when you activate Wonder Twin powers.  You can morph into the form of a sheet of ice or something, I can't remember what exactly the Wonder Twins did, but they did this knuckle bump thing and then they were awesome.  They always returned back to their original form.  Just like me.  Me and my dark, self-loathing guts.  We always come back. The bitch will not move out.  She might take a short hiatus to work on her skill.  Lay low, get some new ammo together, bide her time.  And then, there she is, knuckle-bumping my lips against a Magnum ice cream bar.  Wonder Twin powers...ACTIVATE! Form of Cellulite!  She's like the Friday the 13th saga.  You can't kill a bitch that is already dead inside.

Anyway, that is a lot of drama to say, the Pony is sad.  The Pony is hating herself right now and she doesn't know what to do.  She doesn't know how to fix this.  Why in the hell did I start talking third person? Good Lord, how many freaking personalities are in here?  I've lost count.

What I do know is, I need a big-time water-fountain moment like my good pal, Cher (link below for those of you that need the reference, see it to the end, it's only two minutes of your time).  Lights and everything. I need it badly and I need it soon.  Maybe when I see the doctor on Friday, he can prescribe some good drugs.  Maybe I will not only have my fountain moment, but I will ride a unicorn through it and have some Skittles. 

So, for those of you riding out the storm, please hang in there.  I hope I find some answers soon.  I'm sure I owe at least some, if not all of you, an apology for something.  Reading my blog alone earns you an apology.



I'm going to close with my "Cher Moment" for those that are unfamiliar with Clueless.  And if you are not a Clueless fan.  Shame on YOU.  I'm totally buggin' about it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CwTXojMq4KE

Slow Blinking Eyes...

Any morning you walk out to your truck and you find bird shit on your door handle, turn around, go back in the house and go back to bed.  There is no purpose for you leaving your residence on such a day.  The Sparrow of Discontent tried to warn me.  I did not heed the glob of sliding shit on my door handle.  I will not make this mistake again.

Today was supposed to be a fresh start kind of day.  Last night I asked Shark Bait to hide the bathroom scale.  I was going to stop obsessing and just try to be healthy.  I was going back to the gym at work and I was going to make  better choices.  I was going to try and even-out the mood swings and stay calm. This was the plan. 

Everything started out okay. I did not miss weighing myself.  In, fact, it felt a little freeing.  I made my morning protein shake, I made a reasonable lunch and proceeded upstairs to wardrobe.  This is kind of where things started to piss me off.  I went through several wardrobe changes, only to revert back to the first thing I had put on in the first place.  I think my parting words to myself in the mirror were, "Fuck it, who cares, just own it."  Inspiring words, indeed.  I should find a picture of a little girl playing in a stream, add that caption on there and pin it on Pinterest. 

I already told you about the birdshit of warning on my truck and the drive in was pretty uneventful, minus the car on fire on the side of the road and that one guy seriously pissing me off (yep, just one today).  As I walked in to the Glass Palace, I could feel the anger welling up inside of me.  I wasn't even there yet and I was angry.  Valerina comes over to say good morning and I am in a full fledged rage over someone pinging me.  And then, I turned on her.  NO ONE was safe.  I think one tangent went something like this, "I am so sick of people asking me how I am or how it's going or how my weekend was!  I'm SICK OF IT.  I don't want to talk about my weekend.  Why do I have to talk about it?  Why do I have to be asked Every Fucking Day?  It's so much pressure.  My hips hurt, my shoulders hurt, I can't fucking sleep, that's how I am, but no one wants to hear THAT story.  Why do they ask?"  Valerina retreated to the safety of her area.  I continued to yell at the words my screen.  Cross Fit came out to say good morning.  "How was your weekend?"  Fine.  "How are you today?" Fine.  "How are you feeling? Still having pain?"  Everything hurts.  It was one of those feel good conversations.

I managed not to take any prisoners and mustered up the courage to go back to the gym after almost two full weeks of not going.  I suited up and went out to work on the elliptical machine.  Ass Kicker came over to ask how I was doing.  I went over all my injuries and he replayed in his head all we had done.  I could see it was wearing on him that he felt guilty.  It isn't his fault my body is a mess. We were taking my body places it hadn't seen before.  I was getting strong.  Yeah, it hurt, but I was proud of my accomplishments.  I was like his prize pupil and I was trying so hard and he was working me harder and harder.  It was good.  I managed to eek out about 15 minutes on the elliptical and my hips were starting to ache.  I went in the cardio room and stretched out as Ass Kicker greeted his other project, Fresh Meat.  Fresh Meat was a lot healthier than me.  Her body has a lot more ability than mine.  I instantly felt sad.  I felt like a race horse put out to pasture.
I finished and went into the locker room, trying not to cry.  What a pathetic workout.  I only sweated a little.  I was a warrior.  Now, I am a broken warrior.  I sat on the bench with plenty of time to spare before the Gym Barbies came in.  I wanted to just cry. Cry so hard about my disability. Cry so hard about failure once again.  The tears were right there, but I refused to let them out.  I just kept moving.  Got my nylons on without incident, got dressed.  Hardly had to fix my hair and make-up.  I left feeling a sense of sadness.  This place that had become so important to me now felt like when you visit your high school the year after you graduate.  You used to own it, but now you are an outsider.  I walked down the long hallway and headed back to work.  I would not cry.  I could not allow myself to cry.  If I started, I would not stop.

All afternoon I felt the rage inside building.  I had to keep reigning myself in.  At one point Cross Fit and friends were having a discussion about what we should call the morale committee.  It should have a catchy name, like Sunshine Committee, he said.  I whipped my head around and said, "Oh my God, I hate it.  You are not naming it that. I am so sick of crap like that.  Stop trying to blow sunshine up my ass."  They laughed and said, "There's the Cassondra we love."  Seriously, they should not encourage my behavior, because I had much more to say about it.  I did, however, manage to control myself.

I finally left work and attempted to leave the parking lot.  I'm trying to make a right turn out of the lot, seems easy, but there is a stop light just up the street a short distance and people come flying around it.  I finally get my opening and go and this mother trucking Honda comes around the corner with some fucking battle axe of a hag with her rug rat in the back seat and they come flying up on me.  I was already committed, I had to go.  She pulls up on me and hits her little toy horn, "meep, meep." Fuck off, Battle Axe.  I don't need this.  I then make it to the on-ramp of the freeway.  It's one of those merge lanes where you are tyring to get on the freeway and people on the freeway are trying to get into your lane so they can get off at the next exit.  They are literally merging on top of me before it is even legal to get over.  I finally take a chance and move over and the toe-jamb-licking-mother-trucking-roadkill-eating-asshat decides to also merge over right in front of me going the speed of a snail navigating through a salt field.  I'm screaming, "Fucking DRIVE Asshole!"  I can't get over to the next lane because traffic is going too fast and I am basically coasting.  He has an open lane ahead of him.  He should accelerate and then he will be able to move over.  BUT NO, he can't see past his sideways fucking ball cap.  I have lost my mind at this point.  I'm sure I had a crazed look in my eyes.  I don't have time to wait for unborn children to be born and grow up before I get to move over into the middle fucking lane.  I see an opening.  It's gonna piss the upcoming traffic off, but I don't care.  I have nothing to lose.  I romped on that gas pedal harder than a housewife romps on the washing machine while reading 50 Shades of Grey.  I don't even know how many RPM's were coursing through that little Dodge Dakota's engine, but it was making a sound I know I had never heard before.  It was race day and I was freaking Dale Jr.  I reached over with my right hand, trying to find a gear to shift, because this bitch was going to go zero to 60 right fucking now.  I'm sure that little truck felt raped.  I pounded her hard.  I was in my lane and I shot past the mouth breather. If he thought I was paving the way for him, he was wrong.  I took one lane, and then I took another.  My chest was pounding and I could feel fury in my veins.  I needed an open road.  I had the need...the need for speed.  Alas, that was not to be as we came to a standstill at the next bend. 

As I slowed down, I thought to myself, I need to calm down.  I need to breathe.  Sadly, I couldn't  breathe thanks to my new Yankee  Candle air freshener that sat in a warm truck all day.  Sandy Beaches my ass, this was some sort of chemicals going straight to my lungs and into my guts.  I was probably going to die on the way home.  And for a moment, I thought, "oh well." 

I was able to get my breathing back to normal, and did make it safely home.  As I sit here, I am calm, but for how long? It's almost time for bed.  Time to fight with my hips, my shoulders, breathing and weird dreams. I did make an appointment with a new doctor today to talk about anti-depressants again, but I don't see him until the 20th.  What is the liklihood I will not commit a crime or injure myself or others?  I don't want to suggest gambling, but if you work at the Glass Palace, you might start a pool. 

It probably didn't help that I saw this movie outtakes clip the other day and I can't stop watching it and I can't stop fantasizing about re-enacting this in real life.  I leave you with this, if you have not already seen it.  If you have seen it, watch it again, it shows a glimpse into my soul.

Don't even think about slow blinking with me...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TrRS0hIOwrM

The Girl The Felt Too Much

Another round of Therapy Thursday, on the books.  It's never good when I get there and find padding in the elevator.  It's like they are expecting me.  Like, when the doors open on the top floor, two men wearing oven mitts, a bee-keeper outfit, a lasso and a straight jacket will be waiting.  This is what I picture.  And yes, sometimes I hear circus music, too.

I sat in the waiting room and scrolled through Facebook.  A lot of bad news.  A shooting, pony drama for my sister and other people we know, people frustrated with other mean people.  I had already been very teary the last couple of days and this didn't help.  It's not good when you are crying before you even go in for therapy.  I started out by telling the Rug Doctor that it had been a rough couple of weeks with doctor visits, etc.  I then told her about the dream I had last night.  I dreamed that I was herding sheep, a big herd on this grassy hillside.  The sheep were unruly and running all over in the river, in the bog, up the hill.  And, there was shit everywhere, but not sheep shit, it was like goose shit. And it was EVERYWHERE.  I tried to walk through it without stepping in it, but I couldn't avoid it. My good dog, Spanky, was there, too. I needed to go to the bathroom, so I headed to the main structure on this property.  It wasn't my house, or work, I don't know what it was.  The bathrooms were totally ghetto and I didn't feel safe in there.  Then I woke up.  The Rug Doctor said, "I hope you see how crystal clear that is."  I just looked at her.  I had a few theories.  She went on and said something to the effect of, "You are surrounded by shit.  It's at work, in your personal life, within yourself and you can't get away from it, no matter how hard you try, it's everywhere.  Spanky is there as a reminder that some shit you don't mind, because you know it comes with what you love, and the bathrooms, well, you can't even deal with your own shit because of all the shit."

The Rug Doctor went on to talk about how it is hard for empathetic, caring people that are care-givers, they take everything on.  Really, that is why I have to be Angry Pony behind the keyboard.  While I enjoy being there for my friends and family, I absorb the stress and become angry about the injustices of life.  That anger has to go somewhere.  I'm pissed off, not only for me, but for others when life is unfair and it becomes easier to focus on the injustices of it all. The irony of seeking happiness as Angry Pony is not lost on me. Grasping the positive and moving forward seems impossible. There is no Pinterest self-induced positive bullshit here.  Don't come looking for it, because you won't find it.

We talked about other things that have been weighing heavily on my mind and how my mood has been making life more challenging.  The number of times I press the snooze alarm, the length of time it takes me to leave the house, my reluctance to face the day, being late for work...throwing my badge at the file cabinet and making my boss scurry past my desk like a mouse in a house fire. (It does kind of make me laugh when his entire body is within the safety of the office and his head is stretched out around the corner to talk to me. He's like a turtle ready to retreat into it's shell.) I shared with her that the beginning of each day feels like an obligation to do the right thing, say the right thing, make the right choices, ensure everyone takes care of business, whether that is at work or at home.  I have to think about what I'm going to eat, how my body feels, can I make it to the gym?  Each day a chance at failure and each day that becomes a failure is then relived the following morning as I get on the scale or avoid the scale all-together.  My avoidance could be a viewed as a positive thing, but it is avoidance.  Not wanting to know the damage. It's a lot of pressure.  Pressure I put on myself.  I must make my life better.  It is the mantra that haunts me, sometimes drives me, but that also holds me back.  It's a cycle I seem unable to escape.  The Rug Doctor said, "Do you remember when I gave you permission to hate the gym, really hate it and be okay with that and not go?  And within a couple of months, you decided on your own, on your own terms to go to the gym.  I think maybe we need to apply that here with all the shit you are dealing with."  I considered what she said and replied, "If I understand you correctly, what I heard you say is, it's okay for me to hate getting up and going to work...is that correct? Because there is a note you can write to make that okay..."  She laughed and said, no, that wasn't exactly what she meant, but hey, if I can get away with that, it couldn't hurt.  I think they call that...FMLA paperwork, but I can't be sure...

Anyway, we touched on the fact that I had stopped my meds and maybe that was a bad idea.  She's not saying I should, she's not saying I shouldn't, but maybe, just maybe some drugs could keep me from crying all day and having epic pug dog meltdowns.  This means I have to find a doctor I like.  Doctor Lite is officially fired.  I hate her guts, sense of style, bad hair and her inability to be the doctor I needed her to be, like a good one.  It's either that or street drugs.  No yammering on about my history and how I feel, just someone that does a pass off on the street corner and doesn't ask me any questions.  So, I will now except names from my followers, provide me names of good doctors and good drug dealers.  I'm open to suggestion.

I left my appointment exhausted and emotional.  My phone rang and it was Valerina.  She says, "Did Cross Fit Crazy text you?"  There was excitement in her voice.  Immediately I was on alert, "Why, what happened now, what's wrong?"  She was like, "What?  No, it's good news..."  I told her not to scare me like that, you can't call me and  and ask "guess what happened?"  I don't get good news like, "guess what happened, you won the lottery!" "Guess what happened?  They invented a drug that makes you lose weight  guaranteed and it's free! AND, here is a lifetime supply AND you will lose all your weight in 2 weeks."  Nope, I don't get those calls.  So, I showed her, she asked me how it went and I started crying.  Yep, that's how I keep my friends calling back time after time.  However, as I sit here and write this, I know that all my friends have a high tolerance for drama, so I'm pretty sure if I haven't scared them off yet, they probably aren't going anywhere.  That thought comforts the Pony.  No matter how much of a hot mess I am, they are unwavering.  Maybe tonight I can think about that thought and dream about unicorns or something.  I do have a few Percoset left, that should help get the party started...bring on the unicorns...g'night all....

Shark Bait...Forgive Me

Today, I have done something so extreme, so unpredictable, so...possibly unforgivable.  Shark Bait may never forgive me and that is why I am  blogging about it.  If our relationship should dissolve as a result of my actions today, I want my side documented.  I want it all out in the open.  I want people to know what really happened.

Let me start from the beginning, so that you can truly understand what led me to this moment of indiscretion.  When I first met Shark Bait, he used Charmin Ultra Soft toilet paper.  It was amazingly soft, but it had a tendency to leave a little of the toilet paper behind.  It was like wiping your ass with a dog that was shedding, if you ask me.  Over time, as our relationship progressed, I convinced Shark Bait that perhaps we should consider Charmin Ultra Strong.  It is still soft and durable, but it doesn't leave all the residue behind.  I explained that I understood how precious his little ass is, but that maybe, just maybe, we could make a change. He was skeptical at first, but he finally came around and agreed that, indeed, the Charmin Ultra Strong was the way to go.  We even attempted to use Angel Soft, but again, we were not happy.  Charmin Ultra Strong was the only one for us. 

I don't want to discount the roll that Charmin has played in our lives. I mean, it was there for us in the beginning when we were wiping dog shit out from between our toes in the middle of the night.  Shark Bait would leave Chip loose at night and Chip would leave us surprises in the carpet.  A midnight run to the bathroom was like a blind excursion into a mine field.  Charmin was there to help.  Charmin was there during the Great Shit Race of 2006 when I got the stomach flu and spent several days in the bathroom. And then Shark Bait's Dad came over and also got the flu that same week.  We would both run for that one little bathroom in hopes we didn't have to share the seat.  The toilet paper was abundant, supportive and soft.  And finally, when my butt could take no more violence from my intestines, baby wipes took over the job.  But Charmin didn't mind.  Charmin waited for the time we could be together again. Charmin was there after my surgery when I couldn't fart with confidence and shit my pants...twice. Charmin is still there for Shark Bait every day as he spends time in the bathroom reading novels and losing all feelings in his legs.  Charmin is there when he smurfs the seat.  Charmin has seen me through so many shark weeks.  Charmin has been there through allergies, make-up crisis, epic Pug Dog meltdowns.  It's really like a family member.  Sure, it's kind of expensive, but so worth it.  We get the mega-rolls since we are short on storage here at the cabin and we go out of our way to get it if one store doesn't have it.  It's kind of a big deal.  But, it is kind of spendy and we can't get it at Costco when we can get everything else.  I've been wanting to change for a while, but have not been brave enough to do it.

I think you all know where I am going with this.  You're right. Damn it, you're right.  Today, I cheated on Shark Bait.  I had left work early to go get an MRI done on my shoulder. I finished and really didn't want to go back to work, so I took some personal time and ran some errands.  I found myself in Costco, alone.  There was no crowd since it was mid-afternoon, mid-week.  Shark Bait wasn't roaming and looking at a bunch of stuff we didn't need.  I was at one with the shopping experience.  I strolled around, leisurely.  I didn't have to take out any toddlers, old ladies or pushy people on a mission.  In the back of my mind, I considered what I was about to do.  Would I have the courage?  I knew we only had one role of toilet paper left at home.  I didn't want to have to make another stop.  I mean, it is a mega roll, we can make it a few days, but what if something catastrophic happens and we have a new intestinal nightmare?  We can't leave it to chance.  I pushed my cart to the toilet paper section.  The thing about Costco is that it only carries a couple of brands.  It carries Charmin Ultra Soft, but not Charmin Ultra Strong.  I was about to make a life changing decision. It was quiet.  I was alone.  I looked at the price for 48 roles.  I was instantly seduced.  How could I not take advantage of the Kirkland brand?  There it was, in all it's glory, a package priced so right, it hurt.  It was more than I would be able to use in a long time.  What if I got the toilet paper and it was horrible?  What if it was a mistake?  I would have enough toilet paper to last a lifetime.  Shark Bait would never forgive me, never fully trust me again.  I mean, we've never talked about bringing a new kind of toilet paper into our lives.  This was a bold move.  I stood there unsure, but also excited at the same time.  This could be the start of something new.  But, it could also change our lives forever.  Finally, in a moment of weakness, but also bravery, I grabbed the package and put it in the cart.  It felt good, but weird. I've never just changed brands on him like this before.  Would he be strong enough to see the cost savings?  Would he be open to change?  Would he be okay? Most importantly, would it get the shit off our ass? How would I break it to Shark Bait? What if he was disappointed in me?  What if he went out and bought his own Charmin and I had to use all the Kirkland toilet paper on my own?  As I sit here writing this, I just don't know what the night will bring.  Maybe I won't tell him and see if he notices...

Anyway, I have stored just a fraction of the roles in the bathroom.  I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with the others.  I squeezed the rolls as I put them in the cabinet.  It doesn't feel the same. I know we were never supposed to squeeze the Charmin, but I'm not going to lie, sometimes we did, even if by accident.  I'm already nervous.  I just want everyone to know, I was just trying to do one-stop shopping, I was just trying to save us money.  I didn't mean for this to happen today, but it just did.  Please don't judge me.  I'm just a girl, who met a boy, that really likes luxurious toilet paper.  I didn't know this day would come, but now that it has, I must face the consequences. 

Ut-oh...Shark Bait just texted me about what we need, he's at the grocery store...awkward....Wish me luck!

More Questions Than Answers...

Do you ever see those time-lapse videos where you watch the seasons change, or go from day into night in a matter of seconds?  Well, that is kind of how my moods go sometimes.  I've had a few moments lately that have been a bit of a wild ride.  I think Ass-Kicker broke me and that is what started it all (well recently anyway, I've always been crazy, historically speaking). 

Just a week ago, I was in the shower trying to wash my hair when I experienced a pain so powerful that shot down from my shoulder to my arm, that I had to drop it down quickly.  I had to finish my hair and shower with one arm.  I was crying out in pain and so Shark Bait came in to see if I was okay.  I was standing in the shower, tears running down my face, snot running out of my nose faster than I could eat it and I whimpered, "I can't use my arm, my shoulder hurts so bad I can't take it.  I'm so tired of being broken..."  And that is when the heavy sobbing and "snorking" started.  Shark Bait asked what he could do.  I got out of the shower and he tried to help me dry off.  He's rubbing my hair kind of like he rubs the dogs after a bath.  This was a bit much. No wonder the dogs growl and then grab the towel.  I mean, I know he doesn't have hair, but this was not the way to go about drying mine.  I continued to cry, and then sniffing, which really was more of a snork.  So, I'm crying pretty hard, making noises unbecoming of a lady, or a human, for that matter, and then it got really bad.  "Oh my God, I sound like a pug dog....I'm a pug dog!!!"  I was doing a cry-laugh combo and sniffing/snorking and I couldn't stop.  Shark Bait is laughing, but isn't sure if he should be, because he isn't sure which emotion is over-riding the other.  I went on, with all the drama that an academy award winning actress could muster, "I'm just...<hiccup>...<snork>...a pug dog...a stupid, broken, pug dog...what if I get fleas?  I won't even be able to reach my ass to scratch it...and then I'll get hot spots.  How am I supposed to care for myself?"  The drama continued for some time as I made it upstairs and flailed onto the bed and continued to laugh-cry and contemplate life as a pug dog.  It was probably the most epic melt-down I've ever had.

I finally regained composure and Shark Bait took me to the walk-in clinic.  I saw Dr. McDreamy and he gave me a prescription for Percoset.  I started to cry and told him I just wanted to be healthy, I just wanted to work out and get strong and healthy.  He looked at me and said, "Every athlete has setbacks, this is just a setback, don't give up."  Now, I've been called a lot of things, but never an athlete.  I didn't know what to make of it.  Are Sumo wrestler's athletes?  Maybe that is what he was getting at.... Anyway, I knew I would go home, take some pills, and have a unicorn ride and that would get me through until the swelling could be controlled.  I spent the next couple of days pretty well out of it.  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...but mostly the best.

As the week progressed, the swelling in my shoulder seemed to get under control. Now it was time to focus on my hips.  I had waited for a month to see the specialist about my hips.  I go in and he does the flexibility and mobility tests.  Hurt like a Mo-Fo, for the record.  He says to me, "We need to get those hips x-ray'd.  I need to be honest with you, I'm not looking forward to what I am going to see.  I believe you have severe arthritis in your hips and you are so young to have a hip replacement.  I don't think it is cancer."  WHAT?! Cancer?  I hadn't even thought of that? Holy shit!  I sat there acting all calm on the outside, but was freaking out on the inside.  I'm supposed to email him when I get the x-ray done and he will check it out and let me know what the next step is.  I'd like to say I'm remaining optimistic, but I think we know better.

As I left the appointment, I called Shark Bait and told him the news.  Remember that time-lapse mood swing I mentioned before?  Yeah, I went from telling him we were waiting to see what the x-rays said to me selling my horses, never riding again, being in a wheel chair, losing all my limbs and waiting to die as Blob White.  It wasn't pretty. 

So, that is where I am.  I can't really workout until we know what is going on in my hips and then I see the Orthopedic doctor tomorrow about my shoulder.  I'm a hot freaking mess.  I should just have them  change all my stuff out to bionic parts.  Or, just cut off all my limbs and I'll be Blob White, or in the blogging world, Blob the Blogger. Angry Blob.  Blob Pony.  You can call me Blob for short.  I'll be short.  I'll look like a potato. Shark Bait can carry me around in a back pack.  I'll wear Depends, although, I don't know how I will keep them on since I won't have legs.  The pee will just ooze out the leg holes and don't get me started about where the poop will go. He'll have to put me in a Hefty trash bag so he can just pull me out, rinse and then put me in a fresh sack.  They have those ones that come with Febreeze now.  I'll have to train my boobs to act as arms, but I suspect they will be incapable.  All those years of having Victoria Secret do all the work for them.  Lazy sacks of cellulite that they are.  Go ahead, cut those off too. Who needs them?  Not like I'm going to be seducing Shark Bait as the Blob.

So, I'm not saying that is going to happen, but I'm not saying it isn't.  We don't know.  Life is a crap shoot.  But, it is weighing heavy on my mind.  You might say I'm on edge.  So, when people attack me in the morning over stupid things, or don't read emails that I've sent that explain them, it makes me kind of crazy.  When I see things that don't make any sense at all, like the Out of Order sign in the bathroom, I just don't know if I can go on.  I mean, seriously, ladies, if the toilet seat is busted on the toilet, do you really need an Out of Order sign to keep you out?  Did they really need to lock it?  Was someone going to go in there and sit on the broken seat?  Would they not notice that a large section of the seat was broken or missing?  Would they end up with a chunk of toilet seat wedged up their crack?  Is the sign necessary?!  Based on some of the stuff that I see on a daily basis, I guess I know the answer.  In my heart I know it is necessary.

I just don't understand life, why is it so hard?  I just want to be healthy.  I just want to go into stall number one and not find that the Fire Hydrant Vagina Bandit has been there.  I just want one day to go by without having to hear about how the water is a reddish brown color in the toilets, or how they are plugged and ready to blow.  I don't want to hear that Balloon Boy is the envy of the entire Glass Palace because I bestowed upon him a big-ass balloon and why would I give him such a balloon? Maybe I wanted Balloon Boy to have it.  Maybe I went rogue with the helium, which is in short supply.  Maybe I did, so what?  When I'm a blob, I won't be able to work the tank anymore.  Give me this one thing.  This one pleasure before life removes all my limbs.  I don't want to hear about the caterpillars outside sucking the very life from all the trees.  For the love of GOD, what the fuck am I supposed to do about the mother trucking caterpillars.  Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a scientist!!! (or however that goes, I'm not a Trekie).  And, yet, people want me to care for all things related to the Glass Palace and the grounds that surround it.  Look, I can't make people park in the right spot, or park straight, or keep them from picking poisonous mushrooms, or making poo animals on the bathroom stalls.  I can't stop the air vent from being too hot one day and too cold the next.  I can't stop people from asking stupid questions.  I can't stop the radio from playing that fucking song called "Happy."  I can't.  My powers are limited. 

Okay, I kind of got side-tracked there.  What was the question?  More importantly, what is the answer?  Oh yeah, why is life so hard?  The answer is, because it is.  It's like when you are little and you get picked on and you say, "I know you are, but what am I?" in that snotty voice and you just keep repeating it every time you are assaulted by the bully with another mean name.  Life is like that, "I know life's hard...but who am I?"  And you never have a better answer than the bully who wants to beat you down. You just keep saying it hoping the bully will stop and you can go back to trying to figure out how the skinny girls get on the monkey bars and flip upside down and you want to try it, but you can't get your fat ass up there, so you just play hop scotch, hopefully in peace, without Heidi Vodegle coming and kicking your shins.  You just want life to stop throwing out bad things so you can just enjoy it in peace.  I think I just talked myself into an analogy corner where life is the bully.  Is life a bully?  It is supposed to be a blessing.  You know how I know?  Pinterest.  Pinterest tells me that Life isn't about the storm, but rather, how you survive it.  Life isn't about the closed door, it's about the open window.  Life isn't about the bull, it's about the shit you get on you when you ride the bull.  Wait, that last one I never saw on there, but it should be.  I'm going to get that put on an e-card.  STAT.

Anyhoosle,  I think I'm starting to get into some scary territory.  I'd better stop, because I can destruct that shit on Pinterest all night long.  Hey, if you've got the time, I've got the time.  Actually, I don't. I have to get up early to go see a new doctor that tells me all the things that are wrong with my shoulder. And before you start telling me to think positive, I want you to consider what a pug dog has to go through to itch a spot on the top of it's ass.  It isn't easy, and I've seen the drama unfold.  No one wants to be a snorking pug dog in misery rubbing it's sore ass on the couch to only be told to "knock it off."  You think being a pug dog is easy, but it isn't.  Go ahead, try and lick the spot between your shoulder blades, bitches.  Think positive about that.

I will say this ONE positive thing:  Last week I did see a lot of really cute pink onesies for baby  girls.  If I end up being Blobette White, my wardrobe is going to be fan-freaking-tastic.  I'm not too proud to wear a pony bib.