Over-Achieving & The Dying Bunny

It's been said before and I'll say it again, any day that starts out with me being told to order pizza is not going to be a good day. Proven fact.  Today goes down in the books as substantiating that evidence.

My boss has been gone for a week, but returned today.  She had not been in the building even an hour when I hear from her office, "let's get Cassondra in here...Cassondra, can you come in here?"  I know the tone in her voice, this isn't going to go well for me.  "So, don't you think that everyone has done such a great job on their decorations that they should all have pizza?"  It's not like I was in shock.  I followed up with, "today?"  Indeed, she wanted it today.  This isn't my first rodeo, I got this.  No big deal.  I go out to my desk to order a buttload of pizza.

About 20 minutes goes by and my boss comes out, "have you sent the email out yet about the pizza?"  I give her the growl, "no...as soon as I'm done ordering...I will."  She scampers away to spread cheer in other places.  I've now ordered the pizza and am composing the email.  My boss walks up behind me, reads over my shoulder and says, "That email is kind of boring, it doesn't have the normal Cassondra flair, no funnies, no pictures..."  I growled a little stronger this time, "I'm not done yet, stop managing me."  She giggles and goes in her office.  I decided she was right, it did need a little something...I added a line especially for my boss, "...no one loves pizza more than [my boss].  She loves it so much she would celebrate her colonoscopy with pizza if she could!"  Flair added.  Insert picture. Click Send.

"Hey boss, I sent the email...did you see I added flair?"  She read it and then glared at me.  I smiled and left her office. You. Are. Welcome.

An hour later the pizza arrives.  I receive a phone call, "yeah, you ordered some pizza?"  I said that yes, I had.  He continued, "I'm here, but is someone going to come out and get it, because it's kind of a lot of pizza, I can't really carry it."  Mind you, every time I order it, they always bring it in.  Lucky me, I get the under-achiever today.  I grab some manual labor and some carts and off we all go to get the pizza.  Mission accomplished.

As I settle back in to my desk, the phone rings.  It's apparently one of the admins from one of the new states my company just acquired. She had questions...and an accent, a really strong accent.  I can't be certain what all of her questions even were.  You see, I thought I had done a good thing by creating a Welcome to Being An Admin at Magicland tips and tricks document.  I had shared it with about 10 admins that just got absorbed into my company and were likely clueless on our policies and procedures, as we all are in the beginning.  It was meant to be a friendly, helpful thing.  Apparently the 10 shared it with others and so on.  I guess I didn't think it through as much as I should have because here I am having a conversation about what helium is, where I live and how do we input worked hours into the system for technicians.  Shit just got real.  My boss comes out and says, "How many people did you send that to???!!!  If ever there was a time to under achieve, now is that time!"  Well, I guess being nice is not the best policy.  I mean, I've always suspected it, but now I know.  FML.

I was a bit irritated about the way the whole day was going, so I took a moment to just turn around at my desk with my back to the computer and take a break.  I sat there for a few minutes and then one of the supervisors came over and we chit-chatted a few minutes.  My boss comes out of her office all irritated and says, "Hey, I pinged you, why didn't you answer, I needed help??"  I looked her, smiled and said, "Sorry, I was under achieving, like you suggested."  I got another glare, but I smiled back and tilted my head and batted my eyes.  She wasn't having it, she turned and walked away.

I decided to head to the "ladies" room to pee.  I go in to trusty stall number one and there it is, all over the seat, piss.  I freaking hate it.  Another assault by the fire hose vagina bandit.  Ladies, and I use that term loosely, get it together, stop pissing on the seats!  I beg you.  I returned to my desk and one of my co-workers asked why I looked irritated (like I need a reason) and I told him about the bathroom.  He says, "Well, I guess loose lips really do sink ships."  Shut up.  Just...shut up.

I sit back down and I open my email.  There is one in ALL CAPS in the subject line.  I almost couldn't believe my eyes when I saw it.  Subject: DYING BUNNY IN PARKING LOT.  Am I being punked?  I mean, I've been asked to handle A LOT of stuff, a lot of shit.  a lot of utter nonsense but this might be the grand daddy of "other duties as needed."  I read the email and it was from one of our kind-hearted employees who saw a bunny out on the side of the walkway in the parking lot and it was injured and trying to run away, but it couldn't and it had blood on it.  People were poking at it and taking video of it and she was very upset.  She had called the animal control office, but no one had answered her. She tried another number, but no luck and she had to get back in the office because she didn't want to be late, so she wanted to know if I could go get the bunny and make some phone calls to get someone to care for it.  I just sat there, mouth a little agape.  Other duties as needed.  I mean, it isn't that I didn't care about the bunny, but...what exactly should I do?  Just then Naked And Unafraid shows up and says that she will go look for the bunny.  I emailed the tender heart back that I was sending re-enforcements.

The tragic turn in this story is that we have a center chat open all day for the reps to ask questions and get peer and supervisor support on issues they may have. Well, word of the bunny got out and the chat  turned dark.  The rednecks were talking about how good rabbit tastes and how it's tender and how you just put BBQ sauce on it.  It was not talk for the tender heart.  That bunny wasn't going to stand a chance.

I mean, the whole situation, while sad, was kind of funny, I mean, seriously.  So, I forward the email to our Building Dude, being kind of sarcastic, and I say, "Should I enter a ticket for this?"  I'm hilarious, right?  I get a response back that says, "Well, it's kind of late in the day, but go ahead and put a ticket in, I can send an engineer out there tomorrow to take a look."  I sat there stunned.  What?  I mean....what?  First of all, it's a bunny, hardly a corporate crisis.  Second of all, it's likely in it's final hours.  Third of all, what the hell is sending an engineer out there TOMORROW going to accomplish?  It's like, when I don't think the day can get any more ridiculous, IT DOES.

I didn't even mention about how my work place is all decorated for this Hunger Games decorating contest we are having.  The group that is the Fishing District has decorated their area so beyond what anyone would ever imagine and to top it off, everyone was wearing paper clam shell bikini tops (over their clothes) and green plastic table cloths as skirts.  And there was a bubble machine.  I mean, it's like I was stuck in a fun house all freaking day, except it wasn't fun!!!

So, anyway, that's my day in a nutshell.  Normally I can say that "at least no one died," but honestly, I don't think I can today.  I'm pretty sure that bunny is dead.  Naked And Unafraid could not find it, so who knows what became of it.

All I know is, one thing I learned today is that I am an over-achiever and I need to be an under-achiever. Roger that. Message received.

We DO NOT own a bidet!

That moment when a person snaps, today I think I have reached it.

Ok, so those of you that read my blog are most likely my Facebook peeps, so I probably don't have to do a lot of review here, but I will, for the sake of keeping everyone on the same page.

It's been a crappy few months, moving, dead things, water leaks, broken dogs, etc.  Blah, blah, blah.  However, I keep hoping things will get better.  They aren't.  Most recently, we came home to a door tag stating that the last power outage had caused the community well we are on to lose pressure and thusly pull contaminated water back into the well from all of the pipes of the people that share this water supply.  No drinking the water for 10 days while they back wash the system with chlorine and run tests on the water.  No drinking, brushing teeth, washing dishes, etc.  It could be excrement, it could be dead animals, it could be used water that we are using, so basically, don't ingest anything until they give us the all clear.  So, we stock up on water, buy paper plates and live like we are camping.  I mean sure, I get to shower in bio-hazard, but I'm really hoping the toxins from the water will fertilize my hair and speed up the growth.  At worst, I'll have diarrhea, rashes, flu-like symptoms and eventual death (I added that part, because it isn't a lie, we are all one day closer to death).  It's fan-fucking-tastic.

All the while, I'm trying to stay calm, right?  Trying to roll with the punches.  Trying.  As luck would have it, work has been full of little events that have left me tired and worn out on top of my daily will to live, which honestly, is getting less strong each day.  Add to that my desire to get my eating back on track and I'm struggling.  The freaking Girl Scouts are out, too. They are like grocery store cookie ninjas.  I mean, it's a jungle out there.

This brings me to today.  Today, I wake up tired.  Not a good start, but I wander in to the bio-hazard shower and get "cleaned up."  My hair is a little softer than normal, my guess is that the feces really plumps up the hair shaft.  Anyway, I come in to get dressed and all is going okay.  All except my mother trucking bra.  Hey, Victoria, your "secret" is that your bra is a piece of shit.  The fucking straps will not stay up.  I call Shark Bait in, "Shark Bait, I need help!"  He comes in reluctantly, like a baby deer coming in out of the forest for the first time.  He knows the bedroom is a war zone when I get dressed.  I've got a lot of fat control trying to happen and the right tights or nylons, the right skirt with the right shirt.  It's complicated.  Don't get me started on accessories. Anyway, I have him come in and change up the straps so that they criss-cross in the back. Now they won't slide. Perfect. The straps are, however, creating this weird hump on my back.  Mother Trucker.  I go in to melt-down and order Shark Bait away. He can't help me now, I'm too far gone.  He willingly scampers away to the safety of the front room.  I put the bra straps back and resign myself to just pulling up the straps all day every 10 seconds.

I arrive at work. Pissy.  I'm really pissy.  I open my email and the first email just sets me off.  I rip the sender a new asshole and proceed with the other emails that need attention.  Not long after that, the crowd starts to form by my desk.  Apparently, some guy was bold enough to go into the men's room and go into a stall vs. just using the urinal.  No one else was in the bathroom at the time, so why didn't he just use the urinal.  When our Glass Palace reporter came on the scene, the man was standing up in a stall peeing.  Apparently, this is cause for alarm.  All of the guys were baffled on why this person would pee in a stall.  I suggested maybe he was shy about his junk.  They all said that no, that shouldn't be a problem, especially if he was alone in there at the time of commencing urination.  What was he doing in there?  I suspected, peeing in privacy, but the men of the conversation finally decided, he must have open sores on his penis.  So, let that be a lesson to all you urinating stall users, there's a stigma to using the stall.  Maybe he started out being a pooper and then assumed the urination stance?  We can never truly know and I'm fine with that.  Look, I'm just happy there have been no incidents in stall one in the ladies room, okay?


The crowd finally left.  I continued with my admin work.  I had a problem with an invoice not being approved.  Apparently something had gone wrong behind the scenes and my boss didn't have the rights to approve it.  I got on it, did some research, sent some emails, finally got it fixed.  I was pretty proud of myself.  That's how you handle that.  I'm a fucking rock star.  You know what?  I'm gonna pay it forward.  I let our VP's admin know I had fixed the problem and other people might run into the same issue.  It wasn't long after that I received an email that would screw my day.  Apparently, some things had changed behind the scenes that no one bothered to tell me about.  This might not have been a problem, except that the contacts I made to get it fixed  actually gave my boss all the super powers of the VP....and took them away from the VP.  I didn't personally do it, but it happened as a result of me trying to "fix" my problem.  Seriously.  I give up. I was assured it wasn't my fault, but nonetheless, it is now something that will need to be un-fixed tomorrow.

About this time, Valerina came down to visit me.  Thank God she did, because I was losing it.  I asked her to come into my bosses office (my boss was gone).  I said, "I need you to help me not hurt other people.  I need you to help me get these bra straps off before I tear my arm off or take a hostage."  She gladly complied and assisted me.  Valerina is good in a crisis like that.  She knew the danger, and like a good little soldier, did what needed doing.  God bless her.

Beyond that, you can just insert in a bunch of other crap that irritated me and there you have pissy admin.  I decided to use my forward momentum to contact the eye doctor that had "done me wrong" on my glasses.  And by "done me wrong" I mostly mean my glasses don't fit right.  I call the office and the gal has that dead soulless voice that says she could give a shit about my problem.  That's when I became that customer.  She started to talk over me and I just talked louder and over top her until she shut up and then I drove it home about how bad my glasses fit and how I hated them.  I'm not proud, but I did get an appointment this afternoon to have the doctor fix them. Victory was mine.

I got my glasses fixed and came home a little earlier than usual.  I took the dogs out and then came in to take care of my business.  Watching the dogs pee made me need to pee, and soon.  I go running into the master bathroom and as I lift the lid, I notice that clearly there had been a struggle before Shark Bait had left this morning. Whatever, I have to pee.  I am trying to get the layer of FCD (fat controlling device), skirt and nylons down and start to bend down to take a seat when I noticed it looked like footprints on the carpet.  What is that about? Weird....OH SHIT!  SPLOOSH!  My ass was in water!  I repeat, my ass was sitting in water!!! I jump back up and realize that SOMEONE had clogged the toilet and walked away and went to work.  I don't know how long the water ran over the toilet, but enough to entirely soak the rug on the bathroom floor.  Like, there is a shit ton of water, no pun intended.  I looked at the water.  It was clear, which is why I didn't notice it being up to the brim.

So now, my skirt and nylons are down to my knees, my ass is dripping with water and my body wants to start peeing.  Don't pee, don't pee, don't pee!!!!  I start waddling and then I realize, in order to get to the other bathroom, I have to walk in front of the living room window where anyone could see me with my skirt around my knees and my bare ass waddling across the front room. I had nylons and shoes on, this was not a quick fix and my body was going to start peeing if I couldn't get this show on the road!  I pull things half-heartedly back on and truck it to the other bathroom.  I check the toilet.  It has one of those blue tablets in there, so I can see the water level and that it is safe to descend upon the seat.  I sit my wet ass down and take care of the task at hand.  I just sit there for a second and shake my head.

What exactly have I done?  Who have I pissed off?  I mean, aside from the glasses lady, and frankly, she was rude to ME first.  Now I had to take my still wet ass back across the great living room divide and get to the bedroom for clean clothes. And, furthermore, I'm not cleaning that up.  Shark Bait better get home at a reasonable hour, because SOMEONE has some cleaning up to do!

I just really want to know what animal I need to sacrifice to make all this better?  We already sacrificed a possum, and housed him after his demise (regardless if it was by our intent or not).  I don't think it is too much to ask that I not have to bathe.... or sit in feces. 

So, I'm hoping that is all the drama for today.  I'm going to see about making something for dinner that takes the least amount of cookware and that we can eat on a paper plate.  I think I'll call Shark Bait, too, and see when he plans on coming home...

And hey, word to the wise, look before you sit. 

To Mom, With Love...

This year, thus far, has been full of angst for me and for many people I know.  Several people that I work closely with have lost their parents just since the beginning of the year, so really, my angst is just superficial at best in comparison.  When I talked with one of my co-workers about how many people we know that were experiencing this, he said it's because we are getting older and it just happens.  I think he just called me old.  I mean, I am getting up there, but still.  I guess I am beyond the age of wearing glittery eye-shadow and sporting the cat-eye look.  And, even if I wasn't old, anyone can experience a loss at any time.  Life is not fair in that respect.  When our time is up, it's up.  It's like all those meme's on Pinterest and Facebook that say how tomorrow isn't promised (which, as you know, pisses me off).  It made me think about my parents. I've already lost my Dad, but I can't even comprehend losing my Mom.  And so it goes, I have some things to say...just in case.

My Mom is amazing.  She is my best friend in life, really.  She is a great part of who I am today.  When I think about my childhood and all the time in between that brings me to today, the influence she has had in my life is incomparable to anyone or anything else.  She has always been there.  Always. She has never been cruel, judgmental or selfish.  She has supported everything I have ever wanted.  She is the dreamer.  She is the one that says everything is going to work out.  It's going to be okay.  She knows it, she believes it.  She stayed in a difficult marriage with my Dad all those years and yet, she always believed it was for the best and that things would be okay in the end.  I don't know how she did it.  I don't know what driving force inside her kept her positive.  To this day, I still can't comprehend it, but a part of me relies on that piece of her to keep me sane.  A part of me wants to believe it will be okay.  And some days, I do believe it.

As most of you know, I have always been a big girl, from the start.  My Mom never shamed me, never made me feel limited in my abilities.  She quietly took me to the doctor to have tests run, or supported my weight-loss efforts as I got older, but she never allowed me to feel bad about it.  We never really figured it out, but she was there to listen or witness the crying from the cruelty of others.  We just kept moving forward.  Even as an adult, she was there to help when I had my weight-loss surgery.  She was scared for me, but she supported it because she knew it was what I wanted. She knew it would be okay.

She encouraged my love of the horses and allowed me the freedom to experience a lot of different things with them.  They were my savior from the depression, they were my everything. As I got old enough to go to horse shows, she took me and my friends.  She created a 4-H group for us all and found a way to get us to the fair every year.  As an adult, I look at all the financial burdens I have and I think I can't make it and I worry so much.  When I was a child, my Mom made sure if I wanted to go to a horse show, we went.  How did she afford that?  We were essentially poor.  I mean, we had a horse farm, Dad worked and Mom had the horse breeding business and sold them as well.  But we didn't have money.  I had what I needed, food on the table, clothes on my back, but we did not have "extra" money, we barely scraped by.  How did she do it?  How?  I never questioned it much growing up.  I mean, I knew, on some level, that money was tight, but now, trying to pay the rent, pay the PUD, pay the phone, pay for food, pay for insurance and all the things that come with being an adult, how in the hell did she do it?  It will always be a mystery to me, but God bless her for making my childhood full of wonderful memories when there was plenty of darkness.

And, I would go to those horse shows with horses that we raised and that I trained myself.  I wore clothes that I bought with money I made from training other people's horses.  They weren't fancy.  They didn't make clothes in fat girl sizes that were fancy.  We would go to those shows and all the kids with the fancy horses and the fancy saddles and outfits would snub me.  I would be so sad and my Mom would say, "Their parents bought them that win.  You've done all the work yourself, it will mean more when you do well because you did that.  You love your horse, they love what the horse will do for them."  And we went on. We went to show after show because we wanted to and because we belonged, in our own way.

I was also in band while growing up.  That woman took me to every band concert.  There she was in the audience, usually by herself because Dad didn't go.  She made friends wherever she went.  As a kid I would cringe wondering what embarrassing tale I would hear on the ride home.  She would sit out there and chit chat with anyone.  She's friendly like that.  She would sing her heart out at the Christmas concert.  She came to the plays I was in during high school.  Didn't matter how long her day was, there she was to take me where I needed to go. 

As I got to be a teen-ager, we'd go to the grocery store and Mom would go in and I would wait in the truck.  She would find the cutest box boy and have him help her out to the truck with the groceries.  She was so proud of herself. She'd come trotting out in her little princess shoes (just flats, but she wore them everywhere). Meanwhile, I'm sitting there in my barn boots and stinky horse clothes dying a thousand deaths.  She would get that smile that she gets, that one where her lips are super tight and she is suppressing the biggest laugh ever.  She enjoyed doing that to me.  Ever-hopeful that some day I would find a boyfriend, I think.  She had all kinds of boyfriends in school and went to parties.  Not me, I went out to the barn.  Boys didn't like fat girls, but she always told me it wasn't true and kept on trying.

I stayed at home for a long time after graduating college and some of the best times we spent were in the evening after Dad went to bed just hanging out.  My Mom, my sister and myself would watch our favorite TV shows and there was one that made me laugh the most.  The show was called Sex Talk with Sue.  We would laugh so hard because it is this older woman taking all these calls from the audience about sex and explaining how sex toys worked.  It wasn't like porn or anything, just no holds barred straight talk.  Anything about sex.  Mom was pretty sheltered in her upbringing and then had been married all these years, so much of this was foreign for her. Not everyone can sit up and watch a sex show with their Mom, but we were all comfortable like that.  Whatever it was, we could talk about it.

When the day came that I did finally move out, it was the hardest thing I had ever done.  We both cried.  I still can't think about that day without crying. I remember it vividly.  I needed to do it, we both knew, but it was the beginning to the end of the constant companionship.  It was leaving my Mom alone with my Dad who was fighting demons that none of us could help him with.  It was separating myself.  It hurt.

People always thought my Dad was the strong one and my Mom the weak one.  While my Dad was a larger than life force to be reckoned with and I learned a lot from him, my Mom was the strong one.  To be married to that man for just over 40 years and to be there for him through his illness and eventual death and to come out on the other side still believing that everything is going to be okay, that's strength.  To be able to give of herself to her children, not just me, but also my brother and sister, to the point where she would go without, that's love.  To this day, she still would do anything for her children, and does.  I can't speak for my siblings, but it amazes me.  And I know she gets it from her Mom.  My grandmother is that way, too.  So giving, so feisty, but in a way you don't see right away. The strength lies within. 

My Mom has that "thing" that I can't explain to you, but it is that "thing" that makes perfect strangers in a line at the grocery store open up and tell her their life stories.  That thing that makes people tell her their darkest secrets.  She doesn't ask for it to happen, people just open up to her.  She is a kind soul and I think people sense that.  Do you know I have never been able to get my Mom to say the word, "Fuck?"  I've tried.  I've told her that it is so freeing and therapeutic, but she won't do it.  She'll say other cuss words, but not that one. She doesn't believe God wants her to say that, nor any of the nuns that scared the bejezzus out of her as a child.  I just pray God finds his way to forgive me, because I've said it a few times now.  I mean, who's counting, right?

I'd like to think, if I would have had children that I would have been a good Mom, but I don't think I could have been as good as my Mom.  We'll never know, but I like to believe that I got my strength from both my parents and that will be enough to get me through this life.  Even when I think I've had enough, that inner fighter always pulls me through. It pulls me through as it must have pulled my Mom through a million times over.

If tomorrow never came and I never got a chance to say all those things, it would be the biggest regret of my life.  No other regret could compare to my Mom not knowing how important she was, how important she is and that she is the most important person in my life.  The words, "I love you, Mom" just don't seem adequate, but they are all I have to give. 

I love you, Mom.

Les Mis or Mission Statement?

It's never a good sign when one goes to therapy and the Les Miserables soundtrack is playing in the waiting room. Give me white noise, give me Barney the mother trucking purple dinosaur but don't give me that crap. I endured 10 minutes of this before I was invited in to Rug Doctor's office to discuss what had been happening in my life over the last  six weeks.  I was overdue for an appointment.  I started off asking if the Les Mis soundtrack was to ensure I was really angry or just to ensure I scheduled a follow-up to discuss my anger about Les Mis.  From what I could gather from Rug Doctor, additional anguish was not the intent. 

There was no time to talk about bad music, however, I have too much other shit to whine about. I feel guilty sometimes going on about my drama and feelings since there are so many other people out there going through so much worse, but as the Rug Doctor says, my feelings are valid. 

We spent the right amount of time talking about the non-stop shit storm of bad luck Shark Bait and I have been having.  And then we settled in to the heart of the matter, the thing that keeps me in the utter state of hopelessness.  I could tell you it's my weight, but it isn't, not entirely on its own.  What really keeps me where I am is the negative voice in my head. The voice that says I'm a failure and that there is nothing to look forward to in life. The voice that is critical, the voice that holds me accountable to every decision I make.  The Rug Doctor says that my decisions do not define who I am, but I disagree.  My voice feeds the decisions and the decisions feed the shame and so it is a full circle.  She started to compare my weight issue with other struggles like drugs or promiscuity.  Stop.  That's it. This is a break through moment!  She didn't even realize she had just solved all my problems.  I would start taking heroin and have lots of sex.  Then, I would be skinny and, who doesn't like sex? (Note to self, get Shark Bait vitamins) And, as long as I wasn't ingesting anything during sex, it's a full calorie burn activity.  So, I'm taking drugs, I'm high, I'm having sex and because I'm high, I don't care and then I get to be skinny, which honestly, is the whole reason for becoming a crack-whore in the first place.

The Rug Doctor did not believe this was a reasonable solution to my problem.  I told her I had never been high and that maybe I would like to try it to see if it was a worthwhile endeavor.  She says that if I was high, surely I would find it fun, but then my body would eventually fall apart.  If I just keep injecting it with heroin, I doubt I'd care.  I bet that would shut up the negative voices.  Sure, other voices are liable to appear in its place, but I'll deal with that later.  Those people walking the streets talking to imaginary people...I bet if we polled them, they would say the voices are paranoid, but not necessarily negative.

Some of you might not think that is funny.  And, really, it isn't, but there comes a point in life that you have to just step back and look at the absurdity of what you have done for years and years and come to realize that what you have done isn't working and it never will.  How do you break the cycle? How?  I don't know.  If I did know, I wouldn't be sitting in The Rug Doctor's office sobbing about being a failure in my weight loss journey, which has already been a lifetime and having no hope for anything in the future. I wouldn't be looking in that mirror every day seeing my face get fuller and feeling my clothes get tighter and feel powerless to stop it.  Where did my inner fighter go?  Where is she?  I'll tell you where she is, she is fighting every day to get out of bed, to go to work, to put on the brave face and pretend that she isn't dying inside.  She is trying to figure out where the next dollar is coming from.  She is trying to figure out how in the hell life is ever going to be better than it is at this moment.  And, since we've already discussed that I don't have hope, we know this is a struggle.

On the way home tonight as I thought about many things, I realized that I used to spend my drives to and from work daydreaming about what it would be like to be thin, or what it would feel like to go to a store and buy whatever I want.  What it would feel like to be with my horses again doing all the things I used to do growing up. What it would feel like to go do the things I've always felt too self-conscious to do.  I realized, I hadn't done that in a long time.  When did I stop doing that? When did I give up? At what point did I stop being powered by dreams and when did I start being powered by chocolate?  When did I check out?  That thought made me so incredibly sad.  More so than anything we'd talked about at therapy tonight. I really don't think about the future anymore, other than dying and being homeless.  It's like I'm stuck in an Adele song 24/7. It's exhausting.  And every time I see a meme on Facebook posting how to appreciate today because tomorrow isn't promised, I want to punch a bunny.  Stop stressing me out, already!

The Rug Doctor says that I've used the "kind" voices before. She says she's witnessed the transformation and that the progress we made in the past can be made again.  She says that when she has seen me access them that everything else has been better.  She says I have to stop being so critical, so negative, so rigid and unforgiving with myself.  She has given me an assignment to create a daily "Mission Statement" to myself.  Something to say everyday when I get up.  Something that will remind me to be kind.  Something that will remind me that I have the power to do better and be better.  She said to use the voice that I use to talk to my friends when they are sad.  Additionally, she says I can't use sarcasm...okay, maybe a little, but it can't be at my expense.  I told her it was hard to access the nice sometimes.  Like, I don't really like really nice people.  I like people that are kind, but have an edge or a wit.  I mean, I don't like mean people either, but those super sweet people...gross.  I don't like people with no filter that don't care about other people's feelings either.  Those people suck.  Anyway, I digress.

So, somewhere between "Look who's a pretty, pretty princess!" and "Look, the Dark Queen has risen..." I have to find a common ground that encourages a more positive self. 

Cassondra's Mission Statement
Today is probably not going to totally suck, but if it does, you can handle it (You know places to hide the bodies).  You will get up and do this day because you can (and because your mother trucking dogs poop vet bills like you won the lotto). Each day you have survived is proof of this (To date, you have taken no hostages).  You will get dressed for the day like you own it (Even if your legs are too fat for your boots now). You will drive to work listening to music that doesn't make you sad (Unless it's Adele).  You will be thankful for your job and the people in your life that keep you afloat (I'm still employed and no one has gotten me fired yet).  You will do the best you can to make healthy choices (unless it's donut day at work, and if it is, Fuck This Shit, eat a mother trucking Apple Fritter). You will fall, but you will get back up and that is all you can ask of yourself (just hope you don't fall on your back, because fat girls are like upside down turtles).  You might cry, and that's ok (that's why I have Kleenex at my desk). Breathe. Take a moment. Go for a walk (find new places to hide bodies). And at the end of the day, know that you did the best you could and that is good enough (even if you broke are homeless and you had to eat your horses to live and then trap possums under your house for future food, if you still have a house, and if not you can live wild in the woods, or at least in North Everett where the other homeless, crazy wild people live).

So, now, I'll take out the parts Rug Doctor told me to avoid.

Cassondra's Mission Statement (Rug Doctor approved...I think)

Today is probably not going to totally suck, but if it does, you can handle it.  You will get up and do this day because you can. Each day you have already survived is proof of this.  You will get dressed for the day like you own it. You will drive to work listening to music that doesn't make you sad.  You will be thankful for your job and the people in your life that keep you afloat. They are a blessing, do not ever forget that. You will do the best you can to make healthy choices. You will sometimes fall, but you will get back up and that is all you can ask of yourself.  You might cry, and that's okay.  Breathe. Take a moment. Go for a walk. And at the end of the day, know that you did the best you could and that is good enough. You are good enough.

I guess that's it. I can't say how I'll feel in the morning, but I'll see if I can muster a few kind words. If the Dark Queen shows up, all bets are off.  Sorry, Rug Doctor.

Conversation in my head - The Drive Home

Today was a weird day.  Not really that pleasant, but not treacherous either.  By the time I was off from work, I pretty much had reached my limit of sane behavior and had started into the territory of insane behavior.

My computer went down a couple of days ago and IT finally came and brought me a new one late this afternoon, but in doing so, they upgraded all my programs.  Like, they moved my mother trucking cheese.  BIG TIME.  I was in the middle of a meltdown when Valerina came down.  She saw the crazy in my eyes, but was unafraid as she had seen the crazy before. She immediately intervened and started using the Mom voice on me.  The voice of reason.  The voice of reason doesn't always work and she knows this, which is why she simply sat down at my computer and started to handle things while I had my temper tantrum about my cheese being moved and this happening to me without so much as a warning or an application of lubricant.  I don't like change.  In addition to that, just before I left, Sister Scorpion decided to tell me that she wanted snacks and water for some meetings tomorrow.  I didn't even let her finish her request before I said, NO!  I hate getting water and snacks, but then, there isn't a lot I like to do right now anyway, so really, kind of a silly place to draw my line in the sand. At any rate, Valerina "handled" me and we walked out together.  We had our normal recap of why my life sucks and the stupid things people do and say and then headed for home separately. 

And so it was, I was alone in my truck with nothing but my thoughts.

As I sat there in traffic, I considered if I should get the snacks and water tonight or do it in the morning?  Do I stop and pick up my prescription at the pharmacy tonight or in the morning?  Do I stop and get my new replacement cell phone tonight or tomorrow night?  What am I wearing tomorrow?  I better just go home because the dogs likely have a peeker brewing and I need to get home and let them outside.  What are we having for dinner tonight?  What kind of snacks should I get?  Should I get up early and get the snacks on the way to work?  Should I get candy or cookies?  What about all the people trying to eat healthy?  Fuck them.  They can have water.  Should I stop at Target tonight?  Nah.  I could stop at Safeway, get the water and snacks, then swing into the pharmacy then go home.  What would I get at Safeway?  No, I'm not going to Safeway because the lines will be too long from all the people just getting off work and buying dinner.  I hate those people.  Creating all that chaos.  I wonder if Shark Bait is getting home at a reasonable hour?  If so, he can handle the dogs.  I should stop at the Sprint store and get my phone, then go into Haggens and get the water and snacks, then I can swing by the pharmacy on the way in tomorrow morning to avoid the evening rush from all the people getting meds after work.  It really pisses me off when the old people wait until the evening because they could get their meds anytime they want, but no, they wait until they are affecting MY LIFE.  And their insurance or medicare or whatever is always fucked up and they always have questions.

Maybe I'll stop at Cash & Carry on the way in to work tomorrow.  If I leave early, I can still get a good parking spot.  Should I unload up front and then go park after I unload, or just bring the cart out to the truck? I hate doing that, that cart is so noisy when it rolls on the pavement empty.  Should I just go in and check my email first and then go out and get the stuff later?  Would someone steal water out of the back of the truck? Maybe I should come in, put my stuff down, then go get the stuff and then check my email?  But what am I going to wear, because if I wear a dress, it makes it complicated to lug all this stuff around.  Maybe I should wear jeans.  No, that won't work.  I should probably just stop by Walmart in the morning and get it.  But which one? The Smokey Point one or the Marysville one?  No, I'll just leave early, drive in to the Everett Safeway, get it there, then go to work, park my truck and go get the cart. 

So, I could go to Sprint and get my new phone tonight.  No, it will take them too long and I have dogs with defficating needs.  I need to go home.  Maybe I'll just stop and get my meds tonight.  I think I can make it till tomorrow night.  I would have to get across all those lanes to make it into the pharmacy.  What if I can't get all the way over through all that traffic?  If I went to Safeway at Smokey Point first, then I could loop back and would be on the same side of the road as the pharmacy.  No, all those dinner people will be at Safeway.  I'm just going to go home.  But that leaves all my tasks for tomorrow.  I don't care.  Fuck all the tasks. I'll just go to Cash & Carry in the morning.  Or Safeway.  Cash & Carry is in a shady neighborhood.  I'll probably go there.  What should I wear tomorrow?

The song "Turn Down For What" comes on the radio.  I crank it.  It occurs to me that I have no idea what I'm turning down for.  I mean...what?  I don't know.  Why don't I have anything to turn down for?  I should turn down for something.  What does that even mean? Turning down...?  That reminds me, what was all that talk today about "rubbing it out," wondering what kind of "pie" someone likes and having "two in the pink, one in the stink" all about?  I'm not saying that conversation was had at work, if I was at work, at that place I go, or if it wasn't at work, but at some point in the last 24 hours, the aforementioned items were discussed.  I'm so lost.  I mean, I don't even know what to turn down for.  Turn down for what?

I think I'm severely depressed.  I think I'm like my Dad got to be.  Nothing in life made him happy and he was just sad. He was a brilliant man, charming, creative, talented, but he was so unhappy.  I loved him dearly, but he was so chronically depressed.  Have I turned into him?  Is that my destiny?  Is that who I have become?  This woman that is constantly so stressed about everything that she doesn't even know what to wear tomorrow or what to turn down for? What?  Is that my road coming up?  I think it is.  It's so hard to see at night.  I hate where I live.  I hope nothing new has died.  And why did someone put a chair marked as Bio-hazard in Mrs. SRD's cube. For the love of God, her husband just took a dead possum out from under my house and of all places someone decided to put a piss chair over by her desk. Is that okay?  No.  I'm outraged. 

Well, I'm home.  I'm going to leave my headlights on for a little while since they shine right into the neighbors house across the street.  Take that Mother Truckers.  Turn down your shades, that's what you can turn down for.

So, that's it, that's what happens in my head, all the time.  It never stops, even after I get home.  Tonight is a shining example. I came home to Lilly instantly pissing me off.  She is the broken legged dog with a cast wearing a cone of shame and she still managed to get to her bandage.  I'm going to have them amputate her leg.  I can't do this anymore.  On the upside, Shark Bait left a pound of hamburger on the counter to defrost. I guess I'll go in and make fucking miracles happen with that.

Till next time, I hope you all turn down for something, whatever that means.

A Few Words About Stinky

For those of you following my life story on Facebook, you know that the stench we've had under the house has been making me crazy, and frankly, possibly killing me slowly.  I can't prove that since I am still alive, but I believe the smell was killing my body and soul.  Luckily, one of my friends took mercy upon my rotting soul and sent her husband, Super Rodent Dude, to save me from my certain slow death from dead carcass inhalation.  Super Rodent Dude was able to locate the dead something and it wasn't a rat as we had originally suspected, it was an opossum. It had crawled up inside the insulation under the house and was marinating between the insulation and the kitchen floor.

I will forever remember Super Rodent Dude, gallantly standing at my front door in his super rodent fighting attire as he said, "it's not a rat...do you have large trash bags?"  I sat there in horror as my mind considered what it could be.  A cat?  A racoon? A person (the ol man)?  I asked what it was, he said, "a possum, a big one."  I sent Shark Bait out with bags and told him to give Super Rodent Dude a hand with that.  He started to give me a pout, but I gave him the look.  I asked for pictures, but I was denied.  I needed to be at peace with this rotting thing, but not enough to go outside and see it myself.  A picture would do.

Anyway, I finally got relief from the smell of death and I am eternally grateful to Super Rodent Dude and his wife, Mrs. SRD.  I don't think it's too dramatic to say, they saved my life.  I need to bake them cookies or something.  I'll pay it forward somehow.

Tonight, as I came home and opened the door I wasn't assaulted by the smell of rotting mystery rodent. It was refreshing.  But then, I considered our friend, the possum. I felt somewhat connected to him and his maggot infested body.  He was basically "soup inside of skin" when we officially met him.  What did we really know about him, aside from the fact that he did not age well, once dead? We knew nothing.  Sad.  I decided he needed a name.  Let's call him Stinky Malone.  He deserved that much. All he really wanted was a warm place to sleep, and then just like that, he died.  Did Stinky have a family?  It's highly likely he had kids, I mean, let's be honest, I've seen his kind before.  Surely, he had swooned many young impressionable females.  Why did the possum cross the road?  To get to Stinky and all that Stinky had to offer.  It's safe to say that likely many of his children have been killed on the road or by some other animal.  I do know that it's also likely that some of his offspring are having a 2AM romp on the rooftop of a garage somewhere making sweet possum love under the moonlight.  I've seen it, and sadly have been wakened by it. I think I blogged about the time Shark Bait was buck-naked hanging out the bedroom  window shooting his Daisy Red Ryder be-be gun at two possums on our roof that were going at it like big time porn...shit, maybe this two week possum stench was our come-uppins for doing that! Karma isn't a bitch, it's a dead possum! Sure possum fornication is gross to us, but to them, it's even better than muskrat love. I've never witnessed muskrats doing the deed, so I can't compare in all honestly, I'm merely speculating at this point.

Back to Stinky.  I think that if I knew anything about Stinky at all, he lived a full life.  I mostly know this because he was ten to twelve pounds.  We can't know the percentage of his body weight that was maggots vs actual muscle mass, but let's not judge. He's dead for crying out loud.  Do you want someone judging your BMI as you lay there dead?  I didn't think so.

Now, another thing, I don't want to borrow trouble, but I have to hope that Stinky doesn't haunt us.  Can animals haunt you?  I mean, we put him in a trash bag.  We DOUBLE-bagged him.   On a side note, I would have liked to have seen the trash dude's face today. Stinky didn't get his name for wearing perfume, if you know what I mean.  That just made me smile.  Does that make me a bad person?    Anyway, I really hope Stinky doesn't haunt us.  And, furthermore, I hope his family doesn't come looking for him.

I think maybe this weekend, in honor of Stinky, Shark Bait and I will have a little party for him or something. Like, Shark Bait, the wiener dogs and myself will just light a candle (scented of course) raise a glass, and salute his smelly life...and his smelly death. We might even eat some cheese and crackers and then run out across the driveway in front of cars a few times under the moon light.  If anyone wants to join me, let me know.  You don't even have to shower, you know, in honor of Stinky.

RIP, Stinky. I hope you enjoy your perfect burial at the county dump.  May you rot with many of the things that you once ate.  I hope the maggots are happy there, too.

A moment of silence, please...

Thank you.

The Smell of Death

Death.  I seem to be surrounded by a lot of it lately.  Whether it is a post on Facebook letting me know that some rock legend died or someone's loved one.  It seems a lot of people are experiencing loss.  While that tends to give me anxiety, wondering when it will strike me personally, it also should make me feel like my problems are insignificant in comparison.  Losing someone is hard.  And I don't want to downplay that, mock that or hurt anyone when I say this, but you know what else is hard?  Smelling death.

For those of you keeping up with all the drama surrounding my life over the past few months, and let's be honest, you can't avoid it, I'm kind of talking about it a lot, you know that there is something amiss at our new home.  We believe something is dead under the house.

When we originally looked at the house on the first of December, we knew it had been vacant for about six months.  We were told an "old man" lived here previously.  He then no longer lived here and the house was sold.  Did he move? Did he die?  We don't know. At any rate, someone else purchased the property for an investment and placed it with a property management company to handle the renting and upkeep.  Anyway, when we first looked at it, it was clean, in good repair and seemed good enough.  Upon moving in, again, decent, no issues. 

About a week or so after moving in, while settling in and unpacking everything, I noticed a smell under the bathroom sink in the master bath.  It smelled a little like urine. I was like, I wonder if someone had a litter box under here before...?  The smell continued to intensify.  I wiped it down with 409, then Febreezed it, multiple times, put air freshener under there, three at once, and even some coffee grounds.  It's bad under there, like, can't breathe, nothing helped.  No evidence of mice inside, totally dry, no leaks.  WTF?  I complained about it daily, you know, so Shark Bait could fully understand there was a problem, because without complaining, he was oblivious.  Ok, let's be honest, even with complaining, he was oblivious.

A couple weeks later, I started to notice a new smell.  Apparently, it was only a smell that I was able to detect, like spidey senses or something.  Shark Bait was unable to detect it.  Every day, I was like, damn, that stinks, but the more time I spent in the house, apparently I grew used to it and proceeded to live my life.  Fast forward to a week ago when we came home to a note on the door from the water company telling us we likely had a leak based on the meter readings.  Receiving this notification, apparently is what it took to unlock Shark Bait's spidey senses.  Suddenly he could smell this rotting smell, kind of like over-cooked broccoli. Like, you had boiled it to death and then put it in the sun.  It was bad.  Shark Bait started sniffing around like he was a hound dog.  We narrowed down the most intense smell to the cubbards that were in front of the wall where the water heater is housed.  We went outside and opened the water heater compartment expecting to see a leak and the root of the smell.  Instead, we saw a perfectly functioning water heater with pile of insulation sitting on top.  Apparently, a mouse or rat had made their own personal palace.  We know this was not there when we moved in because Shark Bait had opened it up to turn up the water heater.

Armed with this new knowledge, we knew we had a problem.  We further investigated one of the other openings to the crawl space and found a heavily leaking sewer line.  Well, that explains part of the problem.  The property management company sent out a plumber the very next day.  He fixed the leak and looked around a little bit to see if he could find the smell.  Now, truth be told, he didn't look hard and he certainly didn't feel it was in his jurisdiction to handle this.  I can't say as I blame him, but dang.  He said he had once crawled under a home and pulled an elbow joint out of some plumbing and a rat with maggots on it fell out on his chest.  This is not a visual I was prepared to handle.  I felt the chunks rising in my throat.

The next morning, Shark Bait and I heard something scampering under the house, or in the walls.  I am certain, based on the amount of noise, it is an R.O.U.S.  (Princess Bride reference people, come on!  ROUS stands for Rodents Of Unusual Size).  So, the live ROUS is clearly not the odor problem, but one of it's relatives might just be.  Shark Bait and I went and purchased traps and poison to kill current residents that same day.

So, here we are, the pipes are fixed, but the smell is so bad that as soon as you walk through the door, you get a one-two punch to the face.  I get sick to my stomach not long after arriving home and nothing sounds good.  Food production is down at the White house. You'd think this is a great weight loss plan, but it isn't.  I come home each night, light the candles and turn on my Scentsy warming lamps.  The longer I'm in here, the more used to it I get, I guess, but it lingers.  It's the first thing I smell when I open my eyes and become fully awake in the morning. It's so depressing.  I've come home in tears almost every night.  We've called the leasing company again and are waiting for them to come back out, but the maintenance dude is not optimistic.  He says, "Well, if it's in the wall, I don't know what we can do...but we'll send someone out to look."

Well, that is mother trucking fan-fucking-tastic.  I mean, no worries, we'll just continue to smell death and decay every mother trucking day until the next thing you know we are DEAD.  Just put us under the house with all the other fermenting rodents, we'll decompose at some point, right?  Who knows, maybe the "old man" that used to live here is under there?  My personal opinion is, if you are gonna do away with a body, you should take it to the woods, because, hello, carnivores and coverage.  I'm not saying I've thought about it, I'm just saying it's a safe bet. 

I mean, is it safe to smell death and rotting bodies?  We moved out of the cabin because it wasn't safe (among other reasons), but is this any safer?  Are we going to get an incurable respiratory disease?  Are we going to be asleep at night and maggots are going to appear and crawl inside of us and start eating our insides out?  I mean, I'll be all, "look at me losing weight!  Finally!" Oh, wait, my intestines are gone and my butt hole is the size of a dinner plate as maggots eat their way out.  But hey, skinny jeans! Victory!  And then I die.  I guess at least I'll die skinny.

My question is, if they can't find it, then what?  I mean, we just smell it until it shrivels up into a fossil?  What if it is the old man?  How long does it take a body to totally decompose.  Should we go buy worms to move it along?  What if the rodent is dead and stuck up in the insulation?  I mean, kind of preserved?  What if the poison we used killed a bunch of others? Because I'm pretty sure they are having a party under there. 

What if I start exhibiting rat like behavior?  Suddenly I'm scampering from the light and trying to find small places to take a shit that normal people don't (unless we are talking about some of my co-workers and their bathroom habits...shit, maybe that's why?!!!)  I start pooping little pellets all over and piss at will.  What if I start putting shavings in the bed in place of my fleece sheets?  What if I start going through everyone's trash on trash pick-up day and  shredding paper with my teeth?  What if my eyes get kind of pink and I start "ratting" people out at work all the time, "John did it, I saw him!"  Sweet Maryanne.  You guys don't know.  I need to Google long term affects of smelling death.  Hold on, going right now...

Holy Shit.  I'm not even joking!  http://southernnevadahealthdistrict.org/health-topics/hantavirus.php
We are as good as dead.

What are the symptoms?

People who are sick from HPS may at first think they have the flu. The difference is that with this virus the breathing problems become worse, the lungs fill with fluid which may cause the breathing to stop and the person to die. The fatality rate is approximately 50 percent.

Early symptoms include:

• Fatigue (got it)
• Fever (not yet)
• Muscle aches (especially in the thighs, hips, back and sometimes the shoulders) (totally got this)

About half of HPS patients also experience the following symptoms:

• Nausea (got it)
• Vomiting
• Diarrhea (totally the other day)
• Abdominal pain (totally this morning)
• Headache ( yes, every day!)
• Dizziness
• Chills (have been cold at home)

Late symptoms begin four to 10 days after initial phase of illness and include:

• Coughing
• Shortness of breath
• Tightness around chest (yes, at times)

Less common symptoms include:

• Earache
• Sore throat
• Runny nose (yes)
• Rash

How soon do symptoms appear?

The incubation period is not well known due to the small number of HPS cases. Based on limited information, it appears symptoms may develop between one and five weeks after exposure.

What is the treatment for Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome?

There is no specific treatment, cure or vaccine for HPS. Persons with severe breathing problems are often placed on oxygen and a ventilator. If a person has been around rodents and have symptoms of fever, deep muscle aches and severe shortness of breath they should see a doctor immediately.

I guess I'd better hope it is a human body:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Health_risks_from_dead_bodies

Look, I don't mean to get all dramatic, but it could happen. You know, when the whole thing with the cabin happened and we had to move and we were searching for the "why" behind the need to move, we thought it was so we'd be safer, because 2016 was going to be so much better.  But, now, now I know.  It's because we have been lead to the slaughter.  Death by rats. 

#Deathvalley 
#Deadgirlwalking
#rats!
#SnuffingRatDeath
#cantbuymeair
#gonnamissyouguys
#rememberthetitans
#fml
#rememberthegoodtimes 
#ihaterats
#someonecleanoutmybedsidetablebeforemomsees