How Hard Does Sprint Wireless Suck?

The question begs to be asked, "How hard does Sprint Wireless suck?"  The answer to that question is that modern technology has yet to develop testing equipment with a capacity to measure this. I do believe, however, that a good comparison might be that Sprint sucks harder than a hooker trying to make rent to her pimp before getting beat up.  I don't have any first hand experience with that scenario, but I would assume the suction would be intense.

I should start by saying that the only reason I have Sprint is because Shark Bait had it when I met him and it was cheaper than what I was paying, so I switched over.  It's been an underwhelming user experience ever since.  I mean, who even came up with the name, Sprint? The service isn't fast or reliable.  It's like the Special Olympics of cellular service.  But, alas it seems like whenever we are in the mood to change, we are in the middle of a contract.  Basically, we are dumb-asses.

So, what brings on today's rage?  SO GLAD YOU ASKED!

Yesterday (Sunday), Shark Bait and I were heading on a road trip for the day.  I got in the truck and was settling in as the trusty passenger and pulled my phone out.  Half of the screen was black.

Notice how half of the screen is black? Yeah, so did I.  So, Shark Bait and I traveled over to Eastern Washington and when we got there, we located a Sprint store.  The dude in the store is quick to inform me that he cannot help me because he is not a corporate store, nor does he have technical help in his store. He then suggested that I had caused damage to the phone, even though, not a mark on it. After not really believing me, he said my options were to pay off what was owing on the phone (allegedly $200) and get a new phone, or I could call the insurance company and see what they would charge for a deductible to replace it.  I said, "Well, that's bullshit.  The phone is worthless, why would I pay $200?  And, if I pay insurance on it every month, what the fuck good does that do me if I just have a huge deductible over something I have no control over.  I didn't do this to the phone!?"  Pablo basically was ZERO help.  He says, "$200 isn't that much, I'd just pay it off and get a new one."  Oh yeah, chump change.  No big deal. Clearly, Sprint over pays him.

But wait, Pablo wasn't done. He continued on with more great news.  He said, "Yeah, these HTC Bolt phones are bad news.  I don't know why anyone would buy one.  I never let a customer leave the store with one of these.  I've seen a lot of problems with them."  I looked at him, clearly pissed, "Well, that's fantastic, because the girl that sold it to me assured me it was the next best thing and would be faster, have more range and not drop calls, and now you tell me it's shit?  That's awesome that you sell it, then."

He suggested we visit the Marysville store which was a corporate store. With that, we left Pablo to think of more ways to scam customers.

Upon returning to the west side of the mountains that evening, we stopped in at the Marysville store.  Right off the bat, we are told they are not a corporate store.  Said they haven't been one for over a year and a half now.  Huh.  They said I should take the phone to the corporate store in Everett or in Lynnwood. That sure sounds super convenient, I'll just take a day off work and run around the county trying to get my phone fixed on Monday!!!  They hypothesized some possible issues the phone could be experiencing and then we just cut our losses and left.

Fast forward to today.  It's a Monday, so it's already a challenge.  I decide to go on my lunch hour up to the CORPORATE Sprint store in Everett.  I know where it is. It's in the Trader Joe's Parking lot.  The boufante-haired and under-showered guy at Sprint told me so.  I walk in to the store and no one is there except two guys, one at each counter.  They looked like contestants on Jeopardy.  I gravitate over to the orange-haired lad with gauges in his ears.  I explain the problem and tell him I need it fixed.  He informs me what he thinks is wrong with the phone and then tells me that he can't help because he's not a corporate store.  I said, "are you kidding me? The dude at Marysville said that you were? They used to be one, so I went there thinking they still were."  Orange hair dude says, "No, they've never been a corporate store."  I can't do this, I can't argue about that.  So, now I'm pissed. I said, "So, you are the THIRD store I have been to.  Each of you tells me something different. I don't have $200 to pay off this phone and get a new one, nor should I have to!"  He says, "Well, it's actually $375 to pay it off, but it might be worth it to cut your losses."  I looked at him incredulously and said, "Seriously?  Why in the hell would I give you $375 for a piece of crap phone that doesn't work?  Why in the hell would I do that?  And then you're going to charge me for a new one and to upgrade, etc.  I have insurance, what the fuck good is it if none of this is covered?"  He's like, calm as a cucumber, nothing was going to rattle him.  He was probably smoking weed before I got there. He then hands me a piece of paper telling me that the corporate office is in Lynnwood and I need to go there.  I was so beyond pissed.  I said, "Where the hell is that store??? What is it by?"  He says, "Well the address is on that sheet of paper."  I looked at him with sheer rage in my face, grabbed my phone, shoved it in his face and said, "WELL, I'D PUT THE ADDRESS IN MY PHONE TO GUIDE ME, BUT I CAN'T!!!!!!!!!!"  With that, I thanked him for abso-fucking-lutely nothing, and left.

When I was safely in my truck, I considered my options.  I wanted this dealt with TODAY.  I needed this rage to help me through this.  I was going to that fucking Lynnwood store.  Vengeance would be mine.  Justice would be served.

I arrive at the Lynnwood store.

I walk in and I see a crowd of 20-something boys in the back, all of them seemingly work there. They could all see that I was a crazed fat girl with an axe to grind.  They sent a tribute.  A little guy, his name was Hugo.  He asked how I was.  I said, "I'm very cranky and I need help, but first, are you or are you not a corporate store?" He confirmed that yes, I had located the mother-ship.  The other guys in the back, settled in to watch the show.  I told Hugo of my travels and that he would be the fourth store and that I would not be told one more time that I needed to pay $375 for a piece of shit phone.  He looked at it and said he could have his repair guy look at it, but his repair guy was really busy, so it might be a while.  Strike one, Hugo.  I elevated my voice a bit and said, "Look, I have been told three different stories by three stores, I'm trying to get my phone fixed on my lunch hour.  I live in Stanwood and work in Everett, I don't have time to travel all over God's creation just to be told I need to come back.  I want this resolved...and not by getting a new phone after I pay a bunch of money.  Do I look like a baller to you?  Is $375 chump change to you?  You Sprint people get paid so much you just make it rain?"


Hugo returned to the back room and had the tech take a peek at the phone.  Hugo informed me the tech had seen another phone already today with this same issue and someone else had called and was bringing one in, also with the same issue.  They said because I had the insurance and because it seemed to be more of a warranty issue and not customer created, there would be no charge and they would fix it.  It would only take 7-10 days.  I may have lost it again just as one of the girls that worked there was arriving for her shift and walked up to the counter.  When she heard me start to talk, her eyes got big and she scampered away quickly.  I said, "That's awesome you're going to fix it, but are you shitting me?  I won't have a phone for 7-10 days? Seriously?  This is ridiculous!"  He said, "oh no, we would give you a loaner phone."  A loaner phone?  Apparently, they give me some random piece of shit phone while they are fixing my phone.  They just transfer my phone number over and bam, loaner phone. (Sad thing is, the loaner phone might be lame but it's still probably a better phone than mine.)  So then, Hugo says, "So, the technician is super busy working on someone else's phone, so it will take him about 30 minutes to get to your phone so he can transfer your stuff over to this loaner phone."  I looked at him like I was going to pick his body up and stuff it into a phone case.  He then said nervously, "or we can just get your number moved over and you out the door in about 5 minutes, but you won't have any of your info from your phone."  I said, "Let's do that, shall we?"

So, I'm a little calmer now, as Hugo works away and getting my number to work on this loaner phone. We are making idle chit-chat and I say, "One of your people told me that this is the worst phone and he never lets anyone out of the store with one, but the gal that sold it to me told me how much better it would be, blah, blah, blah...."  Hugo says, "uh, yeah, I don't sell it either.  It doesn't get great reviews.  I think they thought it was going to be great, but it wasn't."  I said, "That's fantastic that your sales people push shit phones on people and then try and screw them over when something goes wrong.  I feel great about doing business with Sprint."  He looked a bit nervous and said, "Well, a lot of times the manufacturers of these phones have sales incentives to sell specific phones, so the sales people push them."  I just looked at him and slow-blinked, unimpressed with his reasoning.

We then discussed in great length about the difference between corporate stores and all those Sprint re-seller stores and how confusing it is for the customer.  I told him the guy in the Everett store almost got killed.  Hugo then says to me, "I just don't understand why you didn't go to the corporate store in Everett?  Why would he tell you to come here?"  I stood there stunned.  I said, "I did, the one in the Trader Joe's parking lot." Hugo says, "The Everett corporate store in Everett is right across the street from Applebees, you could have gone to that one."  I stood there, livid.  "Why didn't the dumb ass at the Trader Joe's store tell me there was a corporate store literally a couple blocks away from where I was?  And why would Sprint do that to their customers?  WHY?"  Hugo had no answers, but he did ask me to give him a 10 on the survey that would be sent to me.  I'm not going to lie, more slow-blinking.

Hugo then asked me where I worked.  I told him.  He then proceeded to complain about how slow my company's internet was.  He has NINE people in his house that game, stream movies, and use it full-time online.  Oh, I'm sorry our internet is not fast enough.  I think he could tell I was not interested in talking about anyone's short-comings other than Sprint's.

The bonus of waiting for Hugo to work on my phone was that I was lucky enough to enjoy the musical stylings of Michael Bolton over the sound system and then the boys in the back of the store blaring some gang-banger hip hop.  I said to Hugo, "I'm loving what you guys are doing with the music in here, it's like it calms you down while you get pissed off." He said, "yeah, sometimes the guys do that, I don't understand it."  Well, finally we can agree on something.

Finally a few minutes later, I left there with my very used loaner phone.  Better than nothing, I guess.  I felt a sigh of relief that Shark Bait and I do not take nakie pics on our phones because I wasn't able to back anything up or take anything off of the phone before handing it over.  I hope the tech guy doesn't spend too much time reading the Boot Bitch Gang group chat or my text messages.  I hope he likes weiner dogs, selfies and ponies...and bunnies.

All in all, I made pretty good time running around the county and got back to work a bit beyond my lunch break, but not horribly so.  I made a quick stop at McDonalds across the street from my work to pick up a chicken sammy and the gal that took my payment says, "Oh, I love your outfit today! It looks really good on you.  I could never pull it off because I have three kids, but that white looks good on you (it was actually a yellowish-white)."  I said, "Thank you, I have a hard enough time pulling it off with no kids."  She says, "Well, if you had long hair, that might be too much, but because you keep it short and it's a cute style, you can pull it off...but yeah, long hair would just be too much."

I'm just going to put this out there.  I got better customer service and fashion advice in two minutes at McDonalds than I did at four different Sprint stores.

Sprint, you suck harder than a Black Hole.  Harder than a hooker in a Black Hole.

Probably Not Getting Kidnapped...

I can't sleep tonight. I'm restless.  Perhaps I am subconsciously stressing about my upcoming adventure.  You see, as of Friday at 5pm, I will be entering the Admin Protection Program.  That's right, Saturday morning I am leaving for 10 days and going with my friend to visit her family in  Colorado.  During this time, the amounts of fucks given about work will be zero. I shall not think of the Glass Palace, not even once. I'm excited, but also nervous about the trip.

First things first, let's just get this out of the way, just because I am going to be gone for 10 days does not mean any of you home-wrecking tramps get to come over to my house and love on my dog or my man.  Yeah, you heard me right, Shark Bait is mine and he will not be entertaining wild women.  As a matter of fact, he also gets to babysit my sister's cat while she is also out of town.  That is the only pussy he gets.  Vulgar, I know, but it was right there, I couldn't just let that go.  Sorry, not sorry.

Secondly, it should be mentioned that I am not that big of an adventurer.  Like, in the 13, going on 14 years that Shark Bait and I have known each other, we've never been apart for more than an occasional couple of nights here or there when it is hunting season.  Aside from that, we are glued to each other like construction paper and uncooked elbow macaroni in a first grade art class.  We're tight.  So, yeah, that's a big deal.  Also, I'm kind of scared of travel.  Like, I'm a big scaredy-cat.

Last night Shark Bait and I were laying in bed and I said, "Shark Bait, do you know, if I was kidnapped in Colorado and then somehow managed to break free and get my abductors gun and shot him, would that be self-defense or would I go to jail."  Shark Bait, not even surprised by my question answers, "Well, there would be an investigation to see what happened, but you shouldn't go to jail.  I would think that would qualify for self-defense." I said, "oh, okay, but are you sure?  I mean, why does there have to be an investigation if I was kidnapped.  You know, like we were reported missing and I'm all bloody and stuff from being smacked around and I probably soiled myself because the bad guy wouldn't let us go to the bathroom and I haven't showered in days and there is tape residue on my wrists...like, you can tell I was in tough shape and I was clearly kidnapped.  I won't get in trouble, right?"  He says, "You're not going to get kidnapped."  I argued, "you don't know!!! I'm fat and out of shape, I could be easily taken over by a couple of creepy guys that want woman suits and it could happen!"  Shark Bait is unflappable and says, "That's not going to happen, do you know how small of a percentage of people get kidnapped?  VERY SMALL, like it's not going to happen."  Clearly, he hasn't been paying attention to what we watch on TV.  I also was undeterred by his steadfast beliefs about my safety.  I continued, "That's bullshit!! Every NCIS episode and shoot-em-up crime drama you watch has people getting kidnapped!  What about Dateline and 20/20??! What about them?  What about every movie out there with people being TAKEN??!!!  I don't have Bruce Willis or that other angry dude...(Liam?) coming for me  because I'm their daughter!  Or, what about that movie Seven, where the guy kills people for the seven sins, I'm a sure candidate for the gluttony sin! I'm going to be killed in Colorado! Like, you're never going to see me again once I get on that plane!"

It's like no one even tries to take me seriously anymore.  I have legit concerns.

Fast-forward to today.  I'm talking to my Mom and I said, "Mom, Shark Bait doesn't think I'll get kidnapped in Colorado, but it could happen."  Mom buckles up for the ride, as she has on many occasions and says, "You're not going to get kidnapped in Colorado.  If you think for one minute I believe that anyone is going to attempt to kidnap you and Pal-o-mino, you've got to be out of your mind.  Not gonna happen."  She continues on, indulging me, "who is even going to try to kidnap you girls?  I don't think so."  I said, "Mom, there is some guy (or guys) out there that want women suits.  They just need to get us in their van, store us in their basement and starve us for a short time and our skin will be saggy enough for them to harvest what they need.  It's a thing Mom, it could happen.  We are getting old, we can't even run."  I could envision the look on Mom's face.  Her mouth is in that half-smirk thing and she has her head tilted to the side and she's rolling her eyes.  This isn't her first rodeo.  Mom says, "There is NO WAY that anyone is going to mess with you girls, no way."  I don't really like to be shut down so I finished the only way I could.  I said, "Whatever, Mom, when I don't come back from Colorado, you'll see."

Finally, I talked to Pal-o-mino about it.  She says, "First of all, we can't take our guns with us, so you can't shoot anyone."  I retorted, "Duh, I'm going to break free of my ropes or tape or whatever and I'm going to make a grand effort to save us.  I'm going to wrestle him down, get his gun and shoot him dead.  I'm going to save us.  I promise you."  Pal-o-mino wasn't buying it, she's like, "yeah, that's not even a thing, that isn't going to happen."  Here's the thing...she doesn't know...it could and at least  ONE OF US is thinking about it.  I don't hear anyone thanking me for being preventative or cautious or proactive or anything like that.  No, they just say it isn't going to happen.  But...what if it does?  Then what?

To be clear, I'm not saying that I want it to happen (unless it's by Channing Tatum).  I mean, maybe the terrorists will be on our flight.  Probably not, because it is super early and who wants to get up early to die, you know?  I mean, I guess I am, but I'm not planning on dying, I'm just saying, what if?  Look, I might not be the kind of girl that gets attacked and kidnapped because I'm young and hot, or because I'm a hooker (I mean, I'm not a hooker, but I'm just saying, if I was, but I'm not...trust me), but at the end of the day, I've taken pretty good care of my skin.  Shark Bait says my butt is soft as a baby's butt and my facial skin is pretty good.  Cellulite has really kept the wrinkles from coming on.  My back skin is pretty nice, too.  I've never had "backne" or blackheads or anything.  Trust me, I've seen some shit on Dr. Pimple Popper and my back skin is fantastic.  I would make a pretty good woman suit.  Now, my legs, they are pretty much like the extra parts that come with a Thanksgiving turkey, you throw them out or boil them to make gravy.

Or, say the guy doesn't want a woman suit, say he needs to sell me and my friend for human sex-trafficking........................... omg...lmao...never mind. hahahahahaha  That would only happen if he was a blind guy.  Sigh.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm going for 10 days, I'm a little anxious, but I'm probably going to be fine, according to everyone else.  Tonight, as I was laying in bed trying to count sheep or something,  Shark Bait reconfirmed, "I don't know what else to say, but you are going to have a great time and you ARE NOT GOING TO GET KIDNAPPED!"  I replied, "Look pal, until you have an 800# and a loyal following, I'm not going to believe your psychic bullshit."

And just like that, he had no comeback. A smug win for Angry Pony.

I'm going to try and go back to bed now.  I'd like to be kidnapped by dreams...

Violent Femmes - DO NOT Attempt to Kidnap

A Day at the Gyno - Adelle Will NEVER Understand

Today is another installment of "Putting Cassondra Back Together in 2018."

This week has been super fun.  I was given a cortizone shot in my left shoulder on Monday.  The doctor said, "Based on your history with this shoulder, if this shot doesn't help within two weeks, call me and I'll order an MRI and then schedule you with a surgeon."  What?  I don't want my shoulder operated on.  That sounds like it hurts.  That sounds like a long recovery.  That sounds like something I purposely have been putting off, thusly why I haven't been in to see you in years.  Shit.

Tuesday, the fun continued with a visit to the doctor to have an endoscopy.  Our hope was to discover if I had any shenanigans going on in my stomach which would explain all the pain.  After spending way too much time in the waiting room with a loud belching person, they finally took me back to the admitting area where they prepped me up for the procedure. As luck would have it, I was an instant celebrity as I got to wear the new gowns that the hospital just got in.  It might not sound like a big deal, but I'm telling you, it was the prettiest shade of blue and the shoulders unbuttoned.  Glam-or-ous! Once word got out that I had the new gown on, there was a bit of a scuttle about where those gowns were and who was hiding them and why no one else had been able to find them.  Then, people started coming by to check me out in this new hospital fashion trend.  I was kind of a big deal. 

After that, I spent some time arguing about the fact that I was not, in fact, pregnant and that it was highly unlikely that I had been chosen as the vessel for divine intervention that would subsequently lead to baby Jesus Jr. being put in my belly.  I told the nurse I was positive God would not do that to me, or humankind.  I can't be responsible for baby Jesus Jr. in on the computer on Facebook, Plenty of Fish or on the Twitter tweeting, "Parted my soup like the Red Sea at Panera Bread today. #BadAssSavior."  When the world falls apart for reals, I don't want to get blamed for that.  I mean, unless the place floods again and everybody dies...or is it supposed to burn up?  I'm not up on Revelations, but I'm pretty sure I probably wouldn't be around after that, so maybe it isn't a big deal if it was my fault.  Unless God had me live.  And then everyone is going to be all like, "We used to have cell phones and be able to text each other and could stream Game of Thrones and now we are smashing two rocks together to make fire and have to talk to each other instead of texting, THANKS A LOT CASSONDRA!!!!"  Then, no one lets me reproduce anymore, which, actually, I'm fine with and then I have to carry water from the well all the time because I'm the idiot that let baby Jesus Jr. get cat-fished on Plenty of Fish and ruined everything.

Like I said, I don't want to be the vessel for our savior.  Too much responsibility.

Anyway, that whole deal ended up going fine.  My throat is still sore, but I'll live, I think.  The doctor said I should probably see the GI surgeon dude and talk to them about taking out my gall bladder if the problems continue as that is likely the root of all my abdominal pain.  Oh, okay, I'll just have another surgery. No problem.

Disclaimer: You are now entering the part of the blog where I talk about girl parts.  If that makes you squeamish, this is where you want to stop.

Today, was the big mamma-jamma appointment.  I don't really know what mamma-jamma means, but it is some epic shit, I'll tell you that.  Last week I had an appointment with the tech person running the love-wand and had a pelvic ultrasound that revealed I've got some things going on that are not ideal.  (No, they didn't see baby Jesus Jr. in there during the ultrasound, FYI.)  I could have told them I was a hot mess without the love wand.  I'm the one harboring the angry uterus.  Anyway, so today I had to have the doctor go all Jacques Cousteau again and go up in there, get a piece of my uterine wall and have that sent out for a biopsy.  I know, I know, this is A LOT of information about girl parts, but hey, I had to go through it and I know a lot of others have, so it isn't a big deal.  Except it was a BIG MOTHER TRUCKING DEAL!!!!!  It hurt so freaking bad! 

I should have known it was going to be a big deal because this is the course of events.  The doctor's assistant came in and checked me in. She started by taking my blood pressure, which was way higher than normal. We chalked that up to stress, but she said she would take it again before I left. She goes on to say, "I'll be here in the room during the procedure with the doctor, just so you know.  I'll play some music and by the time the song is over, it will be all done."  Okay, whatever, distractions during the violation, I get it.  I think the pictures they have on the ceiling aren't really great for distraction, so maybe the music will do the trick. (Note: if there are any medical professionals reading this, hey, put some naked Channing Tatum on the ceiling instead of that ugly fucking cartoon cat and the puppies in the paint can.)

The assistant then starts small talk with me about doctors and their specialties.  Did you know there is a doctor that specializes in just your rectum?  Yep, not inside of it, just the rectum itself.  I'm like, okay, well, I guess someone had to be an expert on assholes, but what lead to that person saying to themselves, "I've studied all these years and I'm going to be an asshole specialist!"  Did that doctor fail the test to be a brain surgeon?  I don't want to belittle the butt-hole because it's a pretty big deal, but of all the specialties, why that?  Is medical school like in Harry Potter where you hold the hat and it tells you what specialty you get to pursue?  Weird.

The doctor comes in and we finally get down to business.  My ass is almost hanging off the table, I got my feet in the stirrups, the assistant hits the ipod and Adelle comes on singing her heart out.  I'm staring at cartoon cats, naked babies in flowers and puppies in paint cans on the ceiling when all the sudden, shit got real.  Holy Mother of all that is painful in this world!  I hear phrases like, "oh, I'm going to have to dilate her, the cervix opening is small..." (No shit, I've never spawned a baby through that hole!) "Oh, looks like things are at an angle, this isn't going to go in straight."  I'm clawing the table and the nurse assistant gal is holding my shoulder and petting me like a scared wild animal that was just pulled out of a burning house.  I started to cry.  The cramping is un-freaking-believable.  I said, "THIS BODY AIN'T MADE FOR BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!" By this time, Adelle is done singing and some other random Barney was on there singing.  By the time it was over, I don't know how many songs I had heard, but I knew how many expletives I had suppressed.

Finally it was over and I laid on the table as if I had just given birth to a really sharp pencil.  The doctor says I just needed a blood draw and to do a urine sample and then I could go.  This day just keeps getting better.

The blood draw was no biggie, but then the urine sample.  Men have no idea how lucky they are when it comes to this task.  Seriously.  First of all, I don't have Stretch Armstrong arms and I don't have a back-up camera or eyes on my vagina.  I'm squatting, hovering over the toilet, holding a small cup that may as well be a thimble and praying my stream of urine goes in it.  My pants are around my ankles, I'm in position, much like an Olympic skier and next thing I know, there is pee everywhere.  Mother. Trucker.  I re-negotiate my stance and fill the cup while also completely covering my hand in urine.  This is AWESOME.

I get it cleaned up and then go to pull up my underwear and pants.  Oh yeah, I totally got piss on the side of my underwear and all over the back of the leg of my jeans when I was skiing the freestyle in the downhill race.  Pretty sure this was a GOLD medal performance. This is fucking awesome.  I'm sure no one will notice.  I'm just standing there thinking, "this is awesome, my cooter hurts, I've got a band-aid on my arm from the blood draw and now I look like I was standing next to a group of guys pissing in the wind. 

Nonetheless, I pulled myself together to leave.  As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, I see the nurse.  Shit, she was supposed to take my blood pressure again.  I don't want her to get in trouble, so I say, "Hey, aren't you supposed to take my blood pressure again?"  She says, "OH YEAH!  Thank you for reminding me!"  We take it and it is 148/102, which is higher than it was when I first got there.  I told the nurse, "You just sucked a sample out of my uterus, took blood and now I've pissed myself, what did you think it was going to be?"  While amused, she was not allowed to let me leave, so she goes to get the doctor.  After much discussion of sending me to the walk-in clinic, or stopping by the Fire Station to have them check later (um hello, Firemen?  That's not going to help it go down), or having me come back later, we finally decided that I could leave, but that I needed to follow up with my regular doctor to address this high blood pressure.  We were assuming it was just pain and stress related, but need to be sure.  The doctor says, "You're not going back to work, right?"  I said, "Well, I was planning on it."  She says, "I need you to go home and CHILL OUT and not be stressed.  I do not want you at work right now."  Finally, an order I'm happy to follow.

So, I came home, chilled out and called my friend, Pal-o-mino.  I told her about the horror of the day.  She says, "yeah, I thought about telling you about that test and how bad it hurts, but I didn't want to stress you out about it.  You basically now know what labor feels like."  I can't imagine what my blood pressure would have been had she told me before hand.  

At any rate, I lived to tell the story and to over-share as only I can do on the regular.  I do have some suggestions for those of you that have not yet spawned a child via your loins and need an endometrial biopsy. 

• Get stoned before you go to the doctor.
• Get drunk before you go to the doctor.
• Do heroin before you go to the doctor.
• Stretch that shit out. Toys, vegetables, appliances, a submarine, whatever it takes.
• Don't think for one second that Adelle understands, because she doesn't.

This test is not for the faint of heart. I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you.

Also, if you are currently in medical school and considering your options, remember the rectum.  It's special and, you don't have a lot of competition for clients.

As always, my friends, I'm leaving you with more information than you asked for.

You. Are. Welcome.

Super Cellulite Girl

I thought I would take some time today and update everyone on the progress in my life since the last blog where I had just seen the Girlie Doctor and been held hostage by Dr. Nature.

As luck would have it, the nutrient IV/hostage situation that caused me to have to lay in an uncomfortable position on my bad shoulder for hours has caused my shoulder to flare up.  I have been babying this shoulder for close to 9 years after the last cortisone shot that seemed to stabilize it. Well, now it is PISSED OFF.  So, if you add that on all my other maladies, I'm a bigger hot mess than before.  On a side note, for those of you that wanted to know how the nutrient IV went after the fact, it did make me feel better and sleep better and wake up refreshed for about a week.  So, there's that.

So, I have been going to appointments to figure out what is going on in this angry body of mine.  Still a few more to go over the next two weeks, but the one constant appointment I always make time for is my Therapy Thursday sessions with The Rug Doctor.  I visited her on a Tuesday this week, so it was more of a Train Wreck Tuesday.  Regardless of the day, I always bring the correct amount of dysfunction to the session for her to earn the co-pay.

This week I told her that I was pretty much emotionally bankrupt.  Like, all this drama with my body, not knowing what is going on and having all these pains and not sleeping made me feel utterly hopeless and honestly, a little scared.  And knowing, at some level, that so much of it is probably my fault for a lifetime of obesity. Knowing how bad I want to be healthy and just continually struggling.  I told her I am the problem, but we can't fix me, Lord knows she's tried.  I just need to do what I need to do, but I'm apparently in my own way.  She says not to be so hard on myself and that there is a balance between being kind to yourself and holding yourself accountable. And that I'm still working through issues from my childhood. I called bullshit on her, "Being kind hasn't worked.  Kindness likes cookies. I need that accountability bitch in there telling me to get my shit together." She said, "so how's that been working out?"  (Insert disapproving look here directed at therapist ) I told her that nothing I have ever tried, since birth, has ever worked for me to lose weight.  No diet, no plan, no program, not even surgery has helped.  I mean, surgery did for a short time and then all hell broke loose with my work out program and my joints and the weight all came rushing back with a vengeance.

I went on to explain, it's like I can't break through the barriers.  I said to The Rug Doctor, "It's like I'm some sort of cellulite superhero."  She looked at me confused, "A cellulite superhero?  I've never heard of that..."  I said, "Yeah, you know how the Incredible Hulk gets pissed off and he's all green and indestructible? He's a bad-ass an you can't touch him.  I'm like Super Cellulite Girl, go ahead and try and lose weight, can't be done because Super Cellulite Girl (SCG) is there to fend off any sort of healthy behavior.  The cellulite has super powers.  They grab on and multiply like fucking rabbits and I am powerless to stop them.  Cellulite is stronger than any force in the food chain or in the workout world."  She considered this and said, "But that isn't true, you were able to tap into your positive self at the beginning of January and be on track, feel good and make healthy choices."  I countered, "Yeah, because even Super Cellulite Girl has a kryptonite....HOPE.  Cassondra was attacked by hope and was temporarily hi-jacked, but then shit happened that weakened hope and then SCG came in and regained control."  I acted out punching-out hope and puffing myself up like a bad-ass with puffy cheeks.

Super Cellulite Girl. Gnarly looking bitch, isn't she?

God bless the Rug Doctor, she never gives up.  She says, "I think we can access hope again by being kind to yourself and remembering what it was like when you were successful and working out and what that felt like."  I said, "SCG has amnesia.  She doesn't dwell on times she was consumed by hope, she focuses on the daily ability to hold on to power.  She cannot be defeated.  She has a cape."

We went on to discuss how having hope may have let me down in the past and how to access it again. And also about worry and how that plays a role.  I actually said to her, straight-faced, "I don't think I worry that much.  I think maybe I should worry more."  While this is not the first time I have rendered The Rug Doctor speechless, it always gives me a small sense of satisfaction when it does happen.  I like to believe this is the part of our session where she really earned her hourly rate.  It's too much to go into, but she made her point.  I may worry more than I think.

So, at the end of the day, SCG is a reigning power in my life. She's allegedly indestructible.  I know I'm the one giving her power, I just don't always have the strength to fight her.  She will always be inside, always.  She has been there since birth.  Kind of like an X-Men gene, but in my case it is an XXL genetic mutation.  Even in the most basic of action films, there is always a way to destroy the bad guy, but then there is a sequel.  Like, is Freddy Kreuger even dead?  Jason?  They always come back.  Always lurking, waiting for the stupid teens to be unattended, or in my case, a fat girl standing outside Coldstone Creamery...sniffing the smell of waffle cone...and just like that, SCG is back in charge as fast as feeding gremlins after midnight. 

I don't know what the hell I'm going to do, honestly. This constant fight makes me feel like a failure.  It's hard to build on that. And, I know I'm not supposed to compare myself to others, but really frustrated by other people's success with programs and surgeries. SCG has defeated all of them.  And look, I've watched enough positive inspirational videos to know that that I need to say "I can" everyday and I need to change the mindset, but the reality is, my XXL genetic mutation makes it so much harder. 

I have no answers in this blog tonight, no insights, no plan of action.  It's simply where I am today.  I guess I'm going to get through this next two weeks of appointments and see where I am.  Am I getting a hysterectomy, my gall bladder out, my shoulder worked on?  OR...a lobotomy?  Let's spin the wheel and see what happens.

Friday Sucked #AngryPony

Disclaimer: I'm about to use the word FUCK a lot.  If you think it reflects poorly on my writing skills or myself, then you can fuck off.  This isn't about YOU, it's about ME.  I have a right to offend you, you have a right to be offended and then I have a right to be offended that you're offended and then I find some little girl wearing a vagina t-shirt to hold a sign that says, "Feel your Fucking Feelings!!!"  I provide no refunds on feelings.  The blog reads as is, no warranties implied.

Let us begin.

So, I'm a mess, we've established this an infinite number of times over the years. I've been crying, can't control my anxiety, worrying about stuff and so I need to figure this shit out.  There is stuff going on that the Rug Doctor can't address.  I don't want to go on and on about what is currently going on with my body, but let me just break it down on a general level, as to give you an idea of why I'm doing what I am.  Basically, I could be dying.  Or, it could be a stomach ulcer, my gall bladder, endometriosis, uterine cancer or it could be a hang nail or any combination thereof.  Suffice to say, I'm getting stuff checked out. 

In starting the process of elimination on What's Eating Angry Pony I had a doctor appointment with the girlie doctor yesterday. She got all up in my business and checked things out.  Then she ordered a bunch of other tests for me to go have done and then talked to me about Weight Watchers...a lot. Clearly, she drank Oprah's Kool-Aid (sugar-free) and is all about that.  No offense to any WW fans out there, but it's not my jam, you know?  I know it isn't, so don't hold my naked ass hostage on the table talking about it.  Look at my bits and then let's wrap this up. 

While I felt okay about the girlie visit, I wanted to talk to someone that I felt would be more in touch with what's really going on in my body, so I arranged to see a naturopathic doctor that I had seen years ago.  I knew that she would do a deeper analysis with my blood work and that she would be able to help me find natural resolutions instead of jacking me up on a bunch of pharmaceutical candy for the governments profit and enjoyment.  I was very excited she could fit me in today, so I took the day off to go see her and then I was planning on getting my nails done later in the day.  A vacation day used for the betterment of Angry Pony.  Sounds great!

First of all, fuck you, Friday, you piece of shit.  I get up early and am filling out the bazillion pages of info that Dr. Nature (not her real name) wants to know and it asks if I have called my insurance company to verify naturopathic coverage.  Well, I went to my insurance website yesterday and she is in-network, isn't that enough?  No, it isn't.  So, I call.  Long story short, I find out that my fucking insurance doesn't cover naturopathic medicine.  You know why?  Because my insurance fucking sucks.  That's right, I said it.  All they fucking care about is sending me to the fucking doctor, collecting my fucking co-pay, getting my mother-trucking deductible, and hopefully, if they are lucky, the doctor I choose will hopefully put me on some fucking drugs to cover-up whatever is really fucking wrong with me so that they can give me more drugs to fix the problems the first drugs caused. And then they hope I die.  That's right, they want me to take a lot of drugs and then they want me dead.  That's all that makes any sense to me.  Why cover a naturopathic doctor that might be able to help me get healthy?  To help me enjoy my life without chemicals and shit?  Nope, NOT TODAY! Not the fucking government and healthcare we have.  The government allows and condones the poisoning of our fucking food, then we are sick, then we need drugs and then we die.  On top of all of that, they build a bunch of fucking houses and business all over our agricultural areas, they make it hard for farmers to survive so pretty soon there won't be any REAL food left to eat and we will all be living off of Cheez Whiz in a can and some sort of Pop-Tart crisps.  It's going to happen.  I'm not even making this shit up.

Now, don't think for a minute that I don't know there is at least one of you that is thinking, "at least you have insurance, look at the people in poor third world countries that don't have it...or even my uncle Joe, he can't get coverage."  You know what? Fuck off.  I'm not talking about that right now.  What I'm talking about is the fucking quality of our insurance here in the mother trucking U-S of A.  I am thankful I have it, but for the love of God, can we do some shit that makes sense?  I'm living in a fucking country where women put on vagina costumes and have their head poking out of their clit and asking their children to carry obscene and vulgar signs and telling me to "Feel my Fucking Feelings!!!"  Well, you got it girlfriend, I'm fucking feeling those feelings!!!! If women can march in vagina hats in an effort to lower their cable bill or whatever else is on their mind, I can be a voice about better insurance.  I'm not wearing a costume, but I did spread my legs for a doctor to look up in there, so same difference.

But. I. Digress.

Anyway, I talk to Dr. Nature and she's talking to me about my girl stuff and thinks I'm low on progesterone. Oddly, she didn't mention anything about thinking I might be low on testosterone...I think I may have ample supply of that...and then we talked about my guts and what is going on there and the fact that my body is not absorbing the nutrients it should.  Insert a lot of other information here, but bottom line, if my body isn't absorbing that stuff, no wonder I'm tired and my insides are a hot mess.  She suggested I get a nutrient IV which basically by-passes my guts and all the plumbing that is currently not taking the time to pull anything good out of the food I eat.  I ask her how much it costs since, clearly I have to be a cash customer since my fucking insurance is shit. It isn't too horrible, so I ask how long it takes.  Mind you, my appointment was at 10am.  I arrived at 9:45am.  Dr. Nature finally took me into her office at 10:35am.  I was wrapping up with her at 11:31am.  She says it should take anywhere from 40 minutes to 90 minutes. I told her I had an appointment at 2pm in Stanwood, could I be done by then?  She said yes, so I agreed. 

I was parked in 90 minute parking out on the street, so I went and moved my truck, came back in and sat there and waited and waited.  Finally, IV Chick comes and gets me at 12:30pm.  She gets me in position and then says, so you have to be somewhere at 2pm?  I answered that I did.  She says that will not allow enough time. Well, this is problematic.  I said I would call my nail girl and see if she could bump me out.  I called and she couldn't, so I went back and told IV Chick, who now had Dr. Nature with her, that I couldn't stay.  IV Chick gets all a-twitter because she has already mixed up my nutrient IV and so doesn't know what to do.  Dr. Nature then proceeds to say, "Is getting your nails done really a priority right now?  You came in about your health.  I think your health is more important than your nails, and maybe if you get healthy, you won't have to get your nails done for a while.  I mean, it's up to you, it's your decision, but I think your nail person would understand how important your health is and she would also want you to put your health first."  Holy shit.  I feel sorry for her kids, she is Guilt Level - Expert.  I felt dirty and shallow for wanting my nails done.  What a whore.  I call nail girl back and let her know I have to cancel my appointment.  I wasn't that upset about my nails, but that is how nail girl makes her living, that isn't cool to cancel on her last minute. So, now I had that guilt, but I also felt confident she would have someone fill that spot as it is a Friday and someone will want their nails done.

So, I'm laying on the table and it takes forever for IV Chick to get me all hooked up, in my hand no less, since my veins are safely residing in cellulite deep within the safety of my arms.  She leaves me in a position that is not super comfy and I have to hold my arm just right so that the IV drips continuously. She left the room and said she would be back later to check on me.  I laid there and watched the dripping of the IV for a while and then tried to close my eyes and relax.  Pretty soon all the dripping of the IV and the ticking on the clock was making me have to pee.  By now, it was a slow time in the office as I can only hear the receptionist up front.  I stand up and I drag the IV stand to the doorway.  I'm like, "helllooooo...."  Nothing.  So, I grab my IV stand and shuffle down the long hallway to the bathroom, all the while the IV stand making noise, squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak..."OUCH!" as I run into a cart in the hallway...squeak-squeak.... No one fucking hears me.  I make it to the bathroom and take care of business and head back.  I see IV Chick in one of the offices, but she doesn't see or hear me, apparently.  I squeak on back to my room.  

By now, my lower back is killing me and my elbow is, too.  I try and turn on my side and that is when the biggest injustice of the day happened.  I felt a pain directly under my right boob.  That's right, my size B cup boob was so angry, it busted out of a size C cup bra.  It took out the underwire and now it was stabbing me in my boob.  No worries, I only have to lay here another fucking hour!  I tried to remain calm and shove some of my shirt between my busted bra and my boob.  As I lay there, I just felt so angry.  My whole day off, ruined.  The IV was going slower than expected.  It was now 1:50pm.  I started to get mad and then I started to cry.  IV Chick comes in and says, "I know, it's a long process, but we'll get there..."  I stared up at the ceiling, angry tears streaming down my face and said, "WHEN?? IN TWO OR THREE MORE HOURS??!  I'm probably getting a parking ticket right now to add on to everything else I didn't plan for today."  I think I may have startled her, but I'm not sure as I never looked at her.  I just stared at the dripping IV.  I was so angry.  I wanted to channel my Dad and rip that bag off of there and rip the needle out of my hand and then call everyone a Mother Fucker and then tell them they could shove this whole son-of-a-bitch right up their ass. (To those of you that knew my Dad, you know he would have done just that.) But, I didn't.  I sat there and lay in my self-pity and then anger at myself for not being thankful for this process that is supposed to help me...and the people in third world countries without insurance...or clean drinking water.  Fuck that.

After what seemed like forever, IV Chick cautiously came into the room and told me it was just about over and together we watched the final drip into the tube and then the final liquid going through the IV line into my hand.  "All done!" she said.  It was now 2:50pm.  She then says, "I bet you're hungry and I always get even more hungry after I have one of these."  I said, "Well, I haven't eaten anything yet today because I didn't plan on the hostage crisis happening."  Oh, and I'm so glad the treatment makes a person hungry.  That's fucking fantastic. 

I head up front and tell the receptionist, "The hostage situation has ended, I'd like to leave, please."  My doctor was long gone and no one really knew what to do with me, but they did remember seeing me at 10am.  They finally got the bill together, I paid it and left.

On the way home I thought I should probably stop at Kohl's and get a new bra and as luck would have it, there is a Carl's Jr. there in the parking lot, so I could get something to eat.  I don't really like Carl's Jr., but at this point it was either that or Taco Bell, also in the parking lot.  I didn't want to shit out all the nutrients just put in, so I chose Carl's.  I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke, got my food an then drove over into Kohl's parking lot to eat my burger and calm the fuck down.  I take my first bite and the burger tastes gross.  Then, I take a swig of the Coke and I don't know what the fuck it really is, but it isn't Coca-Cola, it isn't Coke, I don't even know if it was Diet Coke.  I'm pretty sure it was some sort of cleaning fluid that the cook took a piss in, then spit some Copenhagen in there and added ice.  Today just isn't my day.  Look, I know the burger and Coke were a bad idea.  I get it, but for the love of unicorns and all that is magical in this fucking world, I just wanted a mother-trucking moment of something good.  Fuck. This. Place.

I did manage to find a bra that won't fit very well, but that will keep my boobs from looking like moobs. I have zero expectations for this bra or the bra experience.  It will suck like all the others before it. When expectations=standards, that's where the calm lives.  I headed home and immediately removed the broken bra and now, as I sit here blogging, they have morphed into blob status and are hanging out partly in my armpits and partly comforting my belly with a boob hug.

So, where do we go from here?  I sure as fuck don't know, but I will do the testing that the girlie doctor has recommended and check things off the list.  If it all turns out to be nothing, which honestly, is a best case scenario, then I think it will be time to look into witchcraft, becoming a Wicken, or start going to psychics for future guidance and health advice.  I just need my body to stop being a bitch.  Because, fuck her.

A New Problem Just Popped Up

I think I have a problem.  I know, I know, that is the most ridiculous statement ever as I have a variety of problems in my arsenal of life experiences, but this one is new.  This is a problem I never expected to have.  I had heard of it happening to others, but I didn't think it would ever happen to me. And no, it's not gingivitis or incontinence.

Here's the deal, it all happened innocently enough.  I was flipping through the channels on television Monday night.  There was nothing on.  Seriously, just a bunch of crap I didn't care to watch, but then, I struck GOLD!  A show called Dr. Pimple Popper caught my attention.  Shark Bait was sitting next to me reading Lord only knows what on his tablet and so he was oblivious. I took advantage and watched the show. 

I found myself fascinated. The first gal had this huge growth under her boobs, so it was like a third boob.  No one else seemed to be able to help her, but Dr. Pimple Popper came to the rescue!  The doctor pulled out some huge sack of fat lipoma. Changed her life, really.  The next person had two huge bumps on his back and this other lady had cysts all over her head.  That doctor fixed it all!

I felt weird watching it, so I confessed my weird fascination with the Boot Bitch Gang. I mean, we talk about everything, so it's a safe zone, you know?  I was immediately relieved to find out that Top Knot Pony was also addicted to the show. She informed me that not only was there a television show, but a You Tube channel and an Instagram page.  Within moments I was signed up for both.  My evening just filled up. 

I started out easy, you know, watching the blackhead extractions.  Did you know that some of the blackheads come out and they are considered ombre?  Like, they are black on top, but as you pull them out, they gradually change color to a yellow or white.  Fun fact, right?!  But then other blackheads look like your skin is literally excreting feces.  Some of it is even greenish-brown.  So amazing.  Not near as much pus as I thought, just crazy shit coming out of people's skin. Dr. Pimple Popper said that sometimes it even smells bad.  So gross! Oh, and then this one chick had a big 'ol whitehead inside her ear!  The doctor put her extraction tool in there and holy crap, it looked like a happy ending at one of those special massage places with all the windows blackened out on Evergreen Way in Lynnwood.  Shark Bait looked over and said, "What the heck are you watching?"  I looked at him, possibly with crazy eyes, and said, "Dr. Pimple Popper...it's AMAZING! And, so therapeutic!" He looked at me like he had just caught me playing in poop or something.  I said, "Seriously, this is so fascinating!  I can't stop."  He shrugged it off and went back to his tablet. I'm sure he was relieved I wasn't bored and asking him personal questions about how he feels and what he wants out of life. 

I got braver with each video and I was drawn to every extraction.  I'm sitting here like, "oh, you missed that one, why didn't the doctor take that one?  How does she know which ones to take and go after and which ones to leave?  How long does that take?  Oh my God, that guys face is like the Milky Way of blackheads...we must save him!"  I was getting anxious when she left some behind.  I wanted them ALL GONE.

I reluctantly put my phone down and went to bed.  I woke up and wanted to watch more videos, but no, I had to go to work. As luck would have it, I had a shitty day at work on Tuesday.  I of course can't go into it because of all the delicate people in the world that might get their feelings hurt.  And, because I need a job.  Anyway, I came home Tuesday night, sat in my chair and went straight to You Tube.  I needed to see some blackheads and some extractions, STAT.  I watched video's for about 30 minutes before Shark Bait came home.  He walked in the door and said, "You're still watching those videos?"  I'm like, "yeah...it's calming me down." 

I think it was at that moment I realized I may have a problem.  Why am I fascinated by this?  Is it the idea of inflicting pain on people?  No, that can't be it, because, I think I'd rather give someone a kick in the junk or in the cooter if I really wanted to inflict pain.  Or, I'd just make them be an admin.  So, that can't be it.  Could it be that watching people get disgusting stuff forced out of their body is like me watching an exorcism of internal impurities and it makes me think of my personal impurities that I need to detox from my own system?  Well, shit.  If that is the case, I'm going to need more than that zip-popping tool and a small scalpel. Which reminds me, in one video, I saw a zit vacuum.  I'm not even lying, it is this little contraption that suctions to your face and you drag it around and it pulls all the pus, blackheads and zits out of your skin.  The clear container attached to it just fills with all that body excretion, it is SO COOL.  It's kind of like that one scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark and the bad guy gets his face melted off because he opened the ark thing.  Except, it doesn't rip your skin or eyeballs off, just pus, oil and blackheads.  I'm digressing, though.  Anyway, I don't think that is it, either.

So, what else could it be?  What does all this mean?  Am I mentally ill? (Don't answer that) Do I secretly want to be a Dermatologist?  Do I just want to fix the world one zit at a time?  No blackhead left behind?  Why the anxiety and concern when she didn't take all the blackheads out? I don't know these people, why do I care if they have ombre blackheads?  Oh, that reminds me, again, there was this one girl that had some cyst thing in her armpit and the doctor pulled out a hair that was very likely 3 feet long.  I'm not even joking.  If you don't believe me, I'll find the video and post it to my FB.  Oh, and ingrown hairs, epic shit there.  That is so cool how the doctor digs around in there, gets the hair upright and then yoinks it right out of there.  Such a relief, right?  You don't even know what you are missing.

Last night, I had to stop watching and go to bed.  I walked in the bathroom and washed my face as I do each night.  I remove my make-up, check the super-magnified mirror to see if I have any zits coming in or any unwanted hairs.  It's a routine.  I don't get this baby face from not taking care of it, you know?  Anyway, I was sad I didn't have anything to extract.  I looked very closely.  Nothing.  Just then I remembered I have this one little spot on my back where there is an open pore and it sometimes gets a blackhead in there.  I called Shark Bait in, "Shark Bait, can you come here?  I need you to help me, I have a situation."  He comes in wondering what I'm up to.  I said, "I have a blackhead on my back, I need it out of there," and handed him the extraction tool.  He's like, "Seriously, now you have to extract something just because you watched all those videos?"  I said, "This is serious.  I need that out of there."  Dutifully, Shark Bait takes it out and shows me.  I was so excited, it was ombre!  I begged him to look for any more that may be back there.  Nothing. Sigh.  Damn it. It was such a rush for just a moment.  I guess maybe I wanted to see some grotesque back skin and then have the satisfaction of making it beautiful...but with pock marks.  This would not make a sane person sad.  I'm seriously messed up.

All I can say is, Thank God it is Therapy Thursday this week.  I don't know what the Rug Doctor is going to say about this, but I hope she has some insight.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have videos to watch.


Here is a really tame one if you want to watch...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVEVl-g8p8s

This one a little more graphic...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTmaf0jggF8

Go ahead...join me in my obsession...

2017 Year of the Mid-Life Crisis

As I sit here on New Year's Eve in my fleece onesie unicorn pj's, I am reflecting on the past year.  This year of 2017.  It seems to have been a tumultuous year for many people.  I can't say it was especially cruel to me, personally, (nothing died under the house) but it was a growing year in many aspects of my life.  I feel like I back-pedaled on personal progress, however, if I look back and give the year the credit it is due, I have to be honest and say, I may be in a better place than I'm willing to acknowlege in spite of it all.

First, let's address the elephant in the room, my stomach.  I did not lose any weight this year.  In fact, the last quarter of 2017 was full of angst, stress, change and then finally disappointment leading to a depression that was pretty damn intense.  Thusly, I didn't give a flying fuck about my weight.  I threw in the towel and said, "you know what, you ride this out, do the best you can and just get through it."  And so I did, one piece of chocolate at a time.  I'm not proud of that, but it's done.  I have noticed the changes in my body and in the fit (or not fit) of my clothes, so I know I have done considerable damage. Even my Spanx just said, "you know what, we give up, we can't contain this anymore."  And then they just released their will to live and now they slide down all the time.  They refuse to even try and contain all that is me. This morning, in a sad moment of despair, I changed the scale to read in kilograms so I could feel good about life for a few seconds.  And then I faced the reality.  Time to start over.  Again.  For the bazillionth time in my life.  At least I know how to do this part.  I'm a mother trucking trained professional in starting over.

When I think back to the beginning of 2017, I started off the year with the greatest of hopes about life in general, but the first couple months of the year were emotionally exhausting.  The whole United States was in a social media war about President Trump and there was no safe place to turn without constant fighting. I'm not going to spend any time talking about him, because, frankly I don't want to go there.  I lost a life-long friend over a question I had asked on Facebook regarding the women's march that happened in January.  I shared a perspective and it was met with all the hatred and single-mindedness that I was, in turn, being accused of expressing myself.  I mourned that friendship. I couldn't understand how someone could be so hateful towards me.  Someone I thought I would always be connected to.

I found myself absorbing everyone's angst and worry about the future.  I worried about me.  I could not seem to change things and I felt helpless.  I was 45 years old and my best years were behind me.  I found myself reaching for any change that would make me feel better.  I got brave, or maybe it was desperate, but I finally got a tattoo on the inside of my arm.  It is a horse head in the shape of a heart.  No regrets.  I'd always wanted to get one and now, there it was.  But that wasn't enough, right after that, I went to get my hair done and while sitting in the chair, a voice inside of me said, "I've always wanted to try red hair."  And so, I said it out-loud to my stylist and she obliged. I had a tattoo and red hair.  I was a freaking bad-ass.  I thought I was really living it up.  I was finding myself, or so I thought.

Sadly, the tattoo and red hair did not help me get to the gym, it didn't help me lose weight, it didn't help me out of my rut. To top it all off, I found out that because I was an artificial red head, I couldn't even steal souls like other gingers could.  Hmph.  As my ordinary life went on, more changes were in store in my world.  At the Glass Palace there were leadership changes made.  I changed up bosses a couple of times, actually.  I began to feel weary, so tired of constantly starting over with new bosses.  And then, one day I was walking in to work and one of the other departments Director was walking beside me.  She said, "Cassondra, why don't you come work for me?"  She had a job opening in her department.  Maybe this was the change I needed?  It felt right.  My boss had just changed again and I needed to start fresh somewhere, I needed a new start.  This would be the perfect addition to my mid-life crisis!  This would change my life.  Everything would be different.  I could tell every person that had bathroom problems, needed help with the copier, had food stolen out of the break room fridge, wanted me to write a funny email, etc. to go to hell.  I could hide away in my new job and life would be amazing.  I would feel better about myself, I would make more money and I could focus on my health and not worry about all the Glass Palace bullshit that never was my responsibility in the first place, but was bestowed upon me anyway.

Luck was on my side, I knew it. This time was going to be different.  I'd get my hopes up for this. I had my second interviewed for the job on September 1st and felt like I had a seriously good chance at getting the job.  And now the waiting began.  I didn't tell but a couple people, but as things go at the Glass Palace, nothing is a secret for long.  Not long after that, the next cycle began, "did you hear anything?"  "are you leaving us?" "you can't leave us, what would we do without you?"  "you don't want to take that job, that would be a big mistake."  All the mind games began from those that didn't want me to go, but then encouragement from those that did want me to leave.  I was an emotional mess.  I felt obligated to stay because they need me, but at the same time, I needed to do what I wanted to do.  What did I want?  I didn't even know anymore.  It was so exhausting and the conversation about it was constant.  I scarcely had a day when someone wasn't working on my psyche to one end or the other.  All the while, I wondered what I really would do if they offered me the job.  But would they?  Weeks turned into months and I still had not heard anything other than HR saying, "we should know by the end of the week..." but they said that every week.

During all of this, I reached out to a psychiatrist to help me with my increasing anxiety and depression.  I had the Rug Doctor to help me every other week at Therapy Thursday, but I needed a professional to help me with medication.  She was pretty amazing, this psychiatrist.  Within our first session, she had me completely sized up.  She didn't miss a beat with my sarcasm and defense mechanisms.  I was in awe of her.  She just came out and said it like it was.  I took away a couple of nuggets from my appointments with her.  For example, she told me, "Just because something is comfortable, convenient and easy, that does not mean it is what is best for you. Staying where you are is not what is best for you.  Whether you get this other job or not, it is very likely time for you to start thinking about finding a new place to work."  She isn't wrong.  She also told me that I am very good at using my sarcasm and negativity to protect myself and to stay in control.  She flat-out looked at me and said, "You know, there is no medication that can fix the negativity.  If you're not willing to try and change your thinking and outlook, you will stay exactly where you are."  It wasn't like I didn't know that, but the way she said it, the way she cut through my bullshit and shut me down right there and got so real right in my face, it was a life-changing moment.

After analyzing all the financials and talking to the people I could truly count on, I decided if I was offered the job and the salary was right, I was going to take it.  I needed this.  It was important.  But the waiting continued.  It was making me crazy.  And then, finally, I was told that they pulled the position and would not be filling it this year.  Maybe next year.   I was devastated.  I was angry.  I felt cheated. It figured that I finally put myself out there, AS USUAL, nothing ever went my way.  I went through a good week or so of mourning it.  I made an agreement with myself that I could be sad for a short time and then be thankful I still had a job and to just to the best I could to survive the holidays.  No pressure, no guilt, just me doing whatever it took to engage in self-care and survive. That was my plan. 

I decided for my birthday in November, that I wanted a get-away weekend to the ocean.  Self-care, check.  I decided to let my horse Lola go to a new home (long story, lots of reasons) and took on a new project horse my mom had.  I decided to name her Hope.  I decided I would allow hope back in my life.  Self-care, check.

This mid-life crisis was teaching me how I didn't want to be, sad and not living.  Those moments when I got the tattoo and changed my hair, they may seem silly, but I took a chance.  Maybe I need to take more chances. Which leads us to the grand finale of my mid-life crisis in the year 2017.

Christmas dinner.  This will forever go down in the books as the most bizarre experience of my life.  It was all innocent enough, my cousin was extremely...baked.  He was offering/pushing these special gummies to everyone.  No one else seemed to want them. I was like, you know what, I'm going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas EVER.  Fuck yeah, Clark Griswald, you and me both! Yeah, I'll have a gummy.  It tasted disgusting, of course, so I chased it down with some cheese and crackers.  Everyone was like, "WHOA, you know you have zero tolerance for anything like that!" You know why?  Because I'm always a good girl.  I'm always all straight-laced and don't drink, don't smoke, I'm not a whore (The Rug Doctor confirmed this for me during one of our sessions, I don't meet the criteria, sadly). But on this night, I'm gonna be all bad-ass, I'm all, "I don't feel anything, give me another one..." I looked at my cousin and said, "how many do I have to have to get to where you are right now?"  He looked at me through little half-closed red eyes and said, "Six...or eight...I don't remember."  I looked at my brother, who is kind of a "gummy professional" and said, "how long before I feel something?"  He says, "probably an hour, I'd slow down, sis, don't eat any more."  All was fine for a while until there was another challenge for a third one.  I ended up splitting that with my sister's friend, Thai-Dan. 

It was now time for dinner.  To be honest, I don't really remember much after this very clearly.  Everything was hilarious at first.  Like, super hilarious.  I couldn't really eat or drink anything because I was laughing so hard.  And then I was really tired,  I think,  I went to this special place.  Suddenly, that sitcom called That 70's Show made so much sense.  Like when they did the pot circle conversations?  I was like, in a special place and voices were far away.   I didn't know if anything was reality or just a dream.  And then I couldn't see.  I was waving my hand in front of my face and started crying, "I can't see! I can't see!"  My sister said, "Cassondra, OPEN YOUR EYES."  I couldn't.  And then I had to go to the bathroom.  Shark Bait escorted me to the bathroom since there was some concern about my ability to walk. As I sat in there on the toilet, I was like, "am I peeing?  I can't tell...did I already pee? or do I still need to pee?" I just stayed where I was for a while and allowed myself to sink into the darkness.  I was pretty sure I was sleeping on the toilet.  Finally, I forced my eyes open and got myself off the pot...er uh...the toilet and walked out where Shark Bait was waiting.  I felt like I had been in there for an hour, but Shark Bait said it hadn't been long. Time moves SUPER SLOW when you're on the gummies.

My sister was apparently recording my adventure on and off through the night.  I don't know at what point things were no longer funny, but I started crying.  Not like normal tears trickling down my face crying, but like I had a water hose turned on full bore coming out of each eye.  I kept asking Shark Bait, "Are you mad, Bro?"  I seem to remember him threatening to kick my cousin's ass a few times.  And, I also remember Thai-Dan saying, "Are you getting all of this?  This is GOLD."  His half of a gummy and the beer he had consumed made him super happy, too. 

It was quite a night.  I did not like feeling that out of control, but I think I finally figured out how to get through a holiday event.  In retrospect, I think consuming 2.5 gummies was probably not wise considering the high-dose of anti-depressants I am on.  Assuming that is what the crying was about.  At one point I said, "It's like a lifetime of tears is coming out in one bad pot episode!  I'm not ready for this life...I'm not ready!" And then I apparently said, "I feel dirty, like I've been in prison!"  
My sister came over the next day and showed me all the videos she took.  Apparently I get a southern accent and talk in a high voice when I am high AF.  I also have an episode of Scooby Doo playing in my head at all times as a point of reference and I believed I may have been a parrot in a previous life.  We can't even talk about my re-enactment of me thinking I was in The Matrix.

At any rate, all this random stuff throughout 2017 that felt like I was just wandering aimlessly actually taught me some life lessons and helped my growth.  I let go of a friendship instead of trying to save it, because honestly, if you don't feel like I am a good enough person to be friends with, then it is probably not a friendship worth holding on to.  I decided to stop blogging at one point because I felt like I had nothing left to say.  But so many people said, my journeys help them in some way, and even if it didn't, my blog is for me anyway.  This life was given to me to live for me, not for anyone else.  No more guilt.  No more doing things simply because someone else thinks I should.  No more being used and having sunshine blown up my ass.  I don't know how many years I have left, but I need to get on with this shit show.  Move forward.  2018 will be for me.  More positivity, less negative voices telling me what I can and can't do.

No more mid-life crisis in 2018. 

Happy New Year!  It's now midnight and the fireworks are going off as I write this last line, which is kind of symbolic, I think.  Good-bye 2017.

Cheers!
 (no gummies, just sparkling cider, I promise)