You're Not a Bitch, You're "Bitchy"

Due to the holiday, I had "Therapy Thursday" today.  Before going in, Stiletto Barbie and myself discussed the usual going's on in our lives and ended up doing what any normal person does when they are trying to diagnose something, we went on Google.  We didn't really find what we were looking for, but we did discover that I, and possibly Stiletto Barbie, suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  Now, I don't have all the symptoms, but I have some of them, maybe a couple, which pretty much is the same thing as actually having it.  Armed with this new knowledge, I went to therapy in hopes I was on the verge of a breakthrough.  I would share this discovery with The Rug Doctor.  I mean, I'm pretty sure she already knows, but I think it's good if I come out and tell her that I know that she knows.

We started therapy as we normally do, with the niceties, "how's it going...?"  I told her, "Well, I have been a real bitch lately and have no empathy for anyone or anything.  I have done an exhaustive (at least 5 minutes worth) internet search via Google and believe I know why.  I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  And, Stiletto Barbie may have it, too, we don't know for sure.  At first we were upset about it, but then, we were okay with it, which kind of goes along with the symptoms...but you probably already figured it out, but didn't tell us, which we are kind of pissed about, but also don't care.  Again, symptomatic."  As with all my theories, The Rug Doctor entertained my little excursion into self-diagnosis.  She said that most people have a few symptoms of any number of disorders or diseases and that I, nor Stiletto Barbie, had BPD.  She cited examples of BPD and went on to say that if I was examining whether I had it or not then I definitely didn't have it.  Fine.  There goes today's breakthrough moment.

We went on to discuss my bitchiness and loss of empathy, which, again, if I was concerned about my level of empathy, I probably had more empathetic behavior going on than I was giving myself credit for.  And, empathy and bitchiness do have a certain co-existence that goes hand in hand.  What we had to do was to get the bitch in the drivers seat to maybe relinquish control of the throttle to slow down the metaphoric vehicular assault I was committing with my mouth.  And, furthermore, I shouldn't refer to myself as a bitch.  Bitchy behavior, perhaps, but labeling myself as a bitch is going too far.  I just sat there and blinked at her.  I think there is a certain number of people that may strip her of her  license if they find out she said that.  I then showed her the picture of Maleficent that my face was pasted into that my co-worker, Zumba Barbie, did.

It is possible, I've been walking on the dark side. And, that people have noticed. Shark Bait is likely to agree. I've chewed on him more than a coyote chews on a deer carcass and with all the same ferocity.  (Is ferocity a word?  I'd better go look that up...please hold...yay! it is!) Not that he hasn't deserved a bit of it, but perhaps not ALL of it. I told the Rug Doctor about Shark Bait's "Bathroom Blindness," for example.  She asked what that was.  I said, "That is the inability to detect any dirt, mildew or undesirable toilet bowl stains with the naked eye.  You are completely blind to anything that needs to be cleaned in the bathroom.  You can't see where you flicked your tooth brush at the mirror, the orangey stain in the shower from hard water or anything that needs tending in the toilet...like smudges or rings. Don't make me get graphic. That is Bathroom Blindness and we don't need Google to help us diagnose who, and who does not, have it.  I know.  Just ask."  Turns out she has someone in her house that suffers as well, she just didn't realize there was a medical term for it.  Now she knows.  At any rate, after lengthy discussion about why I may be letting the bitch drive at high speeds, we decided (and by "we" I mean The Rug Doctor) that perhaps I needed to get the bitch to take mini breaks.  Maybe bring the empathy back up a notch and take the bitchiness down a notch.  I said, "So, like if I say, 'I"m sorry you're a dumbass.' That is a compromise?"  She said, "yes!"  She said that people like the snarky bitchiness, maybe just not the one that makes them feel like they were hit by a Mack truck.  You know, I did just get recognized last week for my snarkiness in a department-wide email.  It was from our VP and he said, and I quote:
"The only award missing is for Cassondra. "The Most" Clever, Snarky, Well Organized, Avoid Taking Credit, Fun Loving, Behind the Scenes get it done....the list could go on and on!"  
I've never been recognized for snarkiness before, not on a professional level. I mean, this is BIG.  So, I guess people do like it at some level. This is something to consider.  She said that because I was feeling bad about being so bitchy, that was a form of empathy, so hope was not lost.  She felt like I could take some baby steps in this pursuit of regulating the beast(s) which I know as the Angry Pony(ies) that lie within. I'll get with the group inside my head and see if we can work something out.  I'll see if I can get this done before Shark Bait gets home tonight and we have the day off together tomorrow.

Anyway, I don't know if we made any real progress today, but we did decide I should write a book called, "How to NOT Be A Dumbass."  After doing an exhaustive Google search (probably for about two minutes), I only found one little one-pager on the subject, but no books.  It seems I may have the material for my first publication. Maybe in 2015 I'll become an author or something.  I'm sure as hell not getting skinny, so I may as well try something else.  At the current rate I get projects done, look for it to come out in early 2025.

On that note, try not to be a dumbass to someone you love and on the flipside, try also not to be a bitch to anyone you love.  Let's say good-bye to 2014 peacefully.  I'm probably going to write another blog tonight and eat some cookies.  That should keep me out of trouble.

Who steals from Santa?

Today was a Monday that lived up to it's name.  Just coming off of a fun getaway weekend and now reality was waiting to kick my ass.  Mother. Trucker.

The day wasted no time sucking.  I walked through the door at work and the "security" guard assaults me with questions about how I want to set up for our open house we are having this week.  First of all, it's none of his freaking business.  Second of all, he's an asshat.  He thinks he's all large and in charge and really, he is a menace.  I told him I would handle it myself, later.  Get off me, you know?  I get down to my desk and there, sitting right up front and center is a stack of packets and info that will be used for the open house this week.  I made copies of all of these things last week. It took a lot of work, updating the packets and mostly fighting with the copier.  I mean, we got intimate.  There was yelling, there were tantrums, extra pages added to packets, folded pages in the packets, missing pages.  I mean, shit got real.  But, I got it done.  This morning I walk in and there are post-its on the packets where it needs to be re-done.  Meaning, I have to throw all those copies away and start over.  I hadn't even taken my coat off or put my stuff down before marching in to the interim boss's office.  I lost my mind.  The good thing about interim boss, is that she seems unafraid of my rants.  She just smiles back and blinks.  How can I be mad at that?  It would be like shooting a baby deer with a B.B. gun...like a Red Ryder gun.  The kind you'll shoot your eye out with.  There's no sport in that.  Feeling like I needed to get a handle on things, I retreated to my desk.

I took my coat off and booted up my PC.  Going through all my emails did not cheer me up.  And then the instant messages started.  "Do you have magnets?"  "Do you have some batteries?" "Where are the envelopes?  Does the return address go here in the corner?"  "Hey CassAndra, can you have someone write this order?"  "Hey, can we go over some stuff for the open house tomorrow?"  "Our fax machine is out of toner..."  "Hey, can we order a cake?  How much would that be?"  Sweet Jesus.  I just wanted to get the damn packets done so I could get ready for our "Santa Party" at 1pm.  Had to get ready for that.  Totally forgot I had to put the damn Santa outfit on again today.  I will remain calm.  I will get this shit done and take care of all these needy people at the same time.

Fast forward to 1pm.  There I am, laying in wait in the auditorium dressed as Santa.  I sat there next to the tree and lights that I had put up listening to Christmas music.  I was starting to pit out just a little and that freaking beard was itching my face.  How did this happen to me?  I don't know...no, I do know, interim boss.  This is her doing.  Oh well, I was going to spread Christmas cheer if it killed me...and possibly others.
Finally, the supervisors came in and saw the magic of the room and the very essence of the Christmas spirit (the angry part that you usually see at the mall, or some poor bastard ringing a bell for hours outside a store). Anyway, the name of the game was that everyone got to pick a gift, open it and then everyone says "oooo....aaahhhhh" and then the next person chooses a gift.  The next person can take the first person's gift or get a new one from the tree.  As luck would have it, I was included in the game.  I was #3, which was cool because I knew what I wanted.  I helped do the shopping (not realizing at the time I got to participate) and while all the gifts were good, there was one I wanted.  Luckily, there it was, waiting for me at my turn.  It was perfect, it was three different games.  The games were, Smart Asses, Dirty Minds and Head Games.  Squee!  Merry Christmas to me.  My joy would be short-lived.  The next person up, D.I.K. (Daily Incident King), came and took my gift.  Are you freaking kidding me?  I was DRESSED AS SANTA!!! WHO STEALS FROM SANTA???!!!  That dirtbag!  It's like he just killed Christmas.  I realize he was just playing by the rules of the game, but I was Santa...and I'm the admin...I'm dressed as fucking Santa for YOU PEOPLE and he steals my gift!  A gift that I clearly wanted.  I bet he would sell his kid's soul for a Kit Kat bar.  I bet he doesn't leave Santa cookies on Christmas Eve.  I bet he already told his kids that Santa isn't real.  I bet he takes pocket change out of the Salvation Army kettle.  I bet he wears Santa's elves as slippers.  I bet he eats venison for Christmas dinner...and puts a shiny nose on it.  I bet if Frosty the Snowman were in his yard, he'd get his blow torch out and watch him melt for fun...and make s'mores.  I bet he gets giddy during the part of the Grinch that Stole Christmas where the Grinch steals everything.  But you know what, DIK, you know what?  Those little Who's are going to sing and they are going to melt your little heart, but it's going to be too late because Santa will have written you off FOREVER.  You will be on the Naughty list for the REST OF YOUR LIFE.  You can't outrun this travesty, this injustice to the human spirit, this ripple in time.  You have angered not only Santa, but the Admin, which, frankly, is a far greater crime than any holiday stolen from the clutches of a hard working girl who just wanted a game called Smart Asses. 

It is noteworthy to say that no one else stole anyone else's gift.  That just goes to show you the cunning, killer instinct of this supervisor.  He seems like the good guy, but he just single-handedly stole Christmas from an admin.  An admin dressed as Santa.  Just think about that.  Let that set in.  Feel it. It feels horrible, doesn't it?

Anyway, after the injustice of it all, I took off the Santa suit and my black tights were covered in red velvet fuzz.  I looked like a cheap, washed-up showgirl.  Today was not my day.  At least a lint roller could take away the mark of good 'ol St. Nick.  The pain of having Christmas stolen, it could take years.  Thank God I have therapy this Thursday.  I hope the Rug Doctor can help me through these tough times.

Do you mind if I sh*t myself?

The other night, I was sitting there on the couch next to my beloved Shark Bait.  I needed to go to the bathroom, so I went through the labor intensive process of putting the foot rest down, getting the dog out from under the blanket that was on my lap, relocating the dog, etc.  By the time I was done, I was exhausted. I sat there, on the edge of the couch for just a moment and looked at Shark Bait.  There he was, totally engrossed in some sort of alien version of Candy Crush.  He was totally oblivious to my situation. I thought to myself, I bet I could sit here and shit my pants and Shark Bait would be completely unphased.  I sat there for another moment, just staring at him, my mind thinking about our relationship.  I finally stated my thought out loud.  He ignored me.  I said, "you're not listening to me."  He then gave me his full attention and said, "what?"  I repeated my theory about shitting myself.  He just looked back down at his Kindle and went back to eliminating aliens.  I pressed him further for a response.  He grunted, "doubtful." 

One of two things had just occurred.  I have either worn him out with off-the-wall scenarios, or we had reached "that place" where nothing I could do would phase him.  Like, romance and surprise, GONE. I sat there just staring at him, thinking about where we were as a couple.  There really wasn't much territory that we have not covered.  I mean, I have never spawned a child from my loins, but I have undergone a couple of surgeries that have produced some major side-effects.  I have had the stomach flu ( pre-marriage, so he not only survived that, but stuck around for the encore of marriage).  Also notable, I am a woman and thusly do cycle every 28 days, so, you know, things come up.  I don't hedge around it, I come right out and tell him that I am shedding my uterine wall, I have cramps like a mo-fo and that I just lost a clot the size of a small puppy.  Doesn't even phase him, he just says, "sorry, Baby."  And, I'm not even going to pretend I've never walked out of the bathroom after a battle of sphincter vs. nature's will and said, "Shark Bait, I think I just pooped something the size of a baby's arm, you could actually drive a semi-truck up my butt right now...without lube."  Okay, so that is gross, but that is the kind of relationship we have.  How did that happen?  I have no idea.

I mean, it's great we have this comfort level, right?  Or is it?  I mean, we do close the bathroom door, but really, we are a one bathroom residence and always have been at each location we have lived at, so if I need in there while he is going to the bathroom, I'm goin in.  And, vice versa.  I'm not saying I want to be in there, but if we are in a hurry, getting ready for work, or whatever, then, things happen.  I'm not going to freak out about it.  I mean, if things get graphic, I leave.  There are certain things I just don't want to witness. If what he ate yesterday is biting his ass today, I don't need to be there.  And, if I'm in there, reading the Do's and Don'ts section in Glamour magazine, I'd like some privacy.  How else am I going to know that leaving the bathroom door open with your man ruins intimacy?  I actually might have read that in Cosmo, but I can't be sure.  I think the bathroom situation is one of those issues that people are pretty much okay with or on the other end of the spectrum where they are like, no way, girls don't fart and never poo, or they just whisper in their panties.  I'm here to tell you, we've passed that road.  Human bodily functions just aren't a big deal.  I mean, if Shark Bait pulls a crop dust situation in the store, I'll leave him in a heartbeat.  I'll  get two rows over and I suddenly I will not know him.  And, if he tries to dutch oven me under the covers, I'll punch him in the nards.  I have limits and boundaries, after all.  I'm just saying, basically, everybody poops.  I think there is even a kids book about it.

Another threshold we have crossed: grooming. It's almost a monkey situation if I have a bump on my back and I need to know what is going on back there.  Shark bait gets the magnifying glass, tweezers, whatever.  If the words are uttered, "is that bite or pimple?"  The other person whips out their Ph D and jumps into action.  This is not for the squeamish. I'm not saying we are hideous zit-infested people, I'm just saying, occasionally, something pops up, so to speak.  And, when Shark Bait needs his eye brows tweezed, I'm there.  Not just because I enjoy inflicting pain on him, but also because I am not married to Ernie from Sesame Street and I'm not looking at that uni-brow.  For me, if I need my toe nails painted, Shark Bait is up for the task. 

Closely related to grooming is wardrobe assistance.  If I am stuck in my FCD (Fat Controlling Device), bra or nylons, this is when Shark Bait comes to the rescue.  He doesn't really get stuck in his clothing, but I can tell you, if he needed me, I'd be there.  I do fold his laundry sometimes, so that's kind of like wardrobe assistance.

We also can't forget another potentially awkward topic: sex.  Now, I'm not going to elaborate on this for obvious reasons, but let's just say, we do have a move called the "Geriatric Dismount."  Hey, if you get a charlie horse, you've got a situation.  You need an exit strategy. Also, I'm not shy.  I have questions.  I'll ask them. I'll ask Shark Bait stuff until he is ready to crawl under the bed and curl up in fetal position.  But he doesn't, he just goes with it because he knows that I'm like a little kid asking "why? how come? why not?"  I pretty much won't stop unless you give me a cookie and send me off to watch cartoons.  Shark Bait has never tried that, but he should.  We both will walk around the house naked or close to naked.  Neither one of us is a retired supermodel, or pretends to be, but there comes a moment where you just have to say, "who cares?"  I'm known to occasionally say, "Shark Bait, look at my fat belly...just look at it..."  It happens.  He always tells me he loves me and that I'm beautiful.  And, I always tell him I'm lucky I married a man with failing vision.

Aside from the obvious gross or embarrassing stuff, we can tell each other anything.  Unless Shark Bait just bought another gun, in which case, he keeps that a secret and then tries to convince me to believe he already had it or got a steal of a deal on it and he told me about it already and I just don't remember.  We  both know this tactic won't work, but it doesn't stop him from trying.  It's like a little game we play.  It's called, "I"m going to pretend my wife is stupid and she is going to hand me my ass on a platter."  It's a fun game, no dice or cards required.

All these things were crossing my mind as I just stared at Shark Bait sitting there on the couch.  I thought about how he has been rolling over and snoring and coughing in my face the last week while he has been sick and the nights he sits there completely in another world in his Kindle or in Facebook.  Are we just BFF's?  Have we sacrificed  a more mysterious, exciting life for one of two boring people shuffling around the house scratching and farting?  Are we fraternity brothers or husband and wife?  Some might say we have crossed too many lines and that the romance is gone.  But what is romance, anyway?  I mean, sure it could be flowers and candlelight or romantic strolls.  Or, it could be Shark Bait helping me feed the ponies on a cold night and we stand there together and watch the ponies chew their hay and sneak a kiss and hug in the barn.  It could be a night on the town and a fancy dinner, or it could be sitting side by side on the couch watching The Voice holding hands. 

Sometimes I think I want something different than what I have, but the reality is, 10 years of nurturing this relationship has created something comfortable and secure.  I know that whether I just need a kiss and a hug, or a full on discussion about how my intestines sound like a freight train, I can get either in the same place.  That's pretty cool, right?  So, I think the answer to the original question is, yes, I could sit next to him and shit my pants, and while he would be grossed out about it, he would still love me and we would laugh about it later.  I do think, however, I would be cleaning up my mess solo.  I mean, not that I have any desire to create such a mess, but since I posed this question to the universe, I think it deserved an answer.

And now, like many times before, anyone who has read this knows more than they bargained for. But like my relationship with Shark Bait, I think we all know each other well enough to expect a little trauma during the average blog reading.  Just to be clear, however, I don't feel close enough to any of you to want to see you naked walking around in my house.  I'll call the cops, I mean it.