Dark Places in my Mind...

Do you ever find yourself on a long drive or commute to or from work, by yourself, and your mind starts to wander into weird territory and you have this whole scenario that plays out?  Happens all the time to me.  Sometimes I think about my Dad and if his divine presence would save me if I got in an accident, or think about what I would say to someone that had made me mad and how I would word it and how that person would react, or what my life would be like if things were different, etc.

Tonight on my way home, I'm not sure what possessed me to get into such a dark place, but I started thinking about how Will and I would die. I guess there were not too many drivers to cuss at to distract me, because soon enough, I had some serious scenarios going on in my head.  Would I get some disease and die first, leaving Will behind to fend for himself?  Who would make sure he took care of the dogs and ponies? Who would check the doors to see if they were locked before bed?  Who would pay the bills?  Who would ride his ass to get shit done? Who would decide what was for dinner?  How long could he survive on cereal? I'm a pretty important person in his life for his basic survival.  Anyway, then I started thinking about us getting older.  I mean, healthcare is a sham.  I don't know if social security will even be there by the time I need it, we have no real retirement plan.  I'm planning on the cardboard box program.

Then things started to get really ugly.  What if we do make it to old age?  Then what?  What if we are homeless and cold and gangs keep stealing our denture cream and Depends and food stamps? What if we are tired of being cold.  I started thinking that maybe we would just shoot each other in the head.  Just end it all, just Thelma and Louise it at point blank range.  But what if one of us misses the mark and one of us is dead and the other just wounded, then what?  Or, what if Will shoots me in the head and then shoots himself in the head?  But what if he can't do it, then he is alive and I'm dead and he murdered me?  Also, that is suicide or murder, I don't think God would be okay with that.  What about pills? We could get our prescriptions filled and then totally take all of them at once. But what if we just end up in a coma?  Or again, what if one of us dies and the other lives and then they lock the surviving person up in a looney bin and then we have to wear a straight jacket, watch Sprout TV all day and eat applesauce and then we get bed sores because it is a state run facility and they are just soul-less bastards that work there and we are just sitting in urine and feces and then we get a diaper rash and we are so miserable we just want to die, but our bodies won't die.  Then what?  That would suck.  Or, what if we are homeless and we are really cold and we just can't get warm?  And we hold each other and just wait for the cold to consume us, because, after all, we are old and fragile.  But again, what if only one of us dies, then the other has no one to keep them company or keep them warm and now, one of us is walking the streets waiting to die, but death won't come.

Hey, you might not ever think about that kind of stuff, but I do.  I have concerns. Old age is coming and it scares the hell out of me.  I mean, if we die young, that has it's own set of problems like, who gets the dogs? Will anyone love Spanky the way I do?  Will he be sad?  Will he miss me?  Will he just be waiting to die? Who takes the ponies, who makes sure everything ever purchased for me or by me from Passion Parties or Lovers gets destroyed before our mothers see it?  I mean, we are probably not going to live out a story like The Notebook.  I don't want to go first, because who will take care of Will?  I don't want Will to go first because I don't want to be alone.

It was getting pretty intense as I finally got off at my exit.  I realized I was heading into a holiday weekend and I really needed to snap out of it.  No idea how I ended up in this dark place to begin with.  Just part of my charm, I guess.  I reached down and hit play on my CD, track number 8..."I gotta pocket, a pocketful of sunshine, I gotta love and I know that it's all mine...oh, oh, oh..."  That ought to cheer me up.  Pocketful of sunshine is perfect.  Suddenly I am the karaoke queen, I'm belting it out, I feel like I'm going to live to see tomorrow, everything is going to be okay..."take me away to better days....take me away, a holiday..."  Yeah, I'm perked right up.  Then, track 9, "Tell me how am supposed to breathe with no air...If I should die before I wake, it's cause you took my breath away...losing you is like living in a world with no air..."  Okay, maybe I should just listen to the radio....Miley takes it away, "I came in like a wrecking ball..."  Maybe I'll listen to Pocketful of Sunshine again....

Anyway, I did make it home. Will was waiting with a kiss, Spanky was waiting with tail wagging, squiggling and little grunty noises.  I guess today I don't have to worry about dying.  ...Unless, there is like a house fire or something.  But let's think positive, tonight probably won't totally kill us, or if it does, I hope it kills ALL of us at once.  There, see, now I'm thinking positive!

Homework - Letter to Myself...

I think I'm wearing the Rug Doctor out. She has given me homework. I think there comes a time when you are such a mess that an hour long session twice a month just doesn't cut it. Her and I have been discussing many things in my life, but one thing is a recurring constant that I cannot get a handle on.  That thing is my habit of eating when I am not hungry.  Whether it is stress, anxiety, sadness, anger, joy, boredom, relaxation, etc., no occasion seems off-limits (Yay! The Seahawks won, let's eat hot wings! Wait...I hate football...I'd better eat some cheese and crackers).  I'm frustrated by this. This is something that weight-loss surgery can't fix.  This is all me.  This is my "brokenness" that I have not been able to fix.  I have moments of greatness when I do everything right and then I fall off the wagon and ruin it all.  The Rug Doctor would like me to shy away from terms like "right" or "wrong"  or "good" or "bad" and just stick to "making healthier choices."  Bottom line is, I'm either being good, or bad, but if she wants me to use her terminology, fine, with an eye-roll and gratuitous air quotes with my hands, fine, "I'm making 'healthy choices.'"

The Rug Doctor wants me to write a letter to myself that is positive and encouraging and will be a reference point when I am feeling "unhealthy choices" coming on.  The thing about me that makes this whole process tricky is that it isn't like I don't know what I'm doing.  I analyze everything to death, I consider whether I need that cookie or not.  I think about what the impact will be and then I tell that little voice of reason to shut the fuck up and enjoy that cookie.  It's how I roll.  Given that circumstance, The Rug Doctor feels that if I can reference this letter, that I can impact my behavior before it gets out of hand.  She wants me to be in a "good place" when I write it.  I think her fear is that it is going to read something like this:

"Dear Buttzilla, put the freakin ice cream away. You are a fat-ass an you are never going to achieve your goals if you don't get your shit together.  What? Are you stupid? You like it when your arm-fat whacks against your sides when you apply lotion?  Do you want your thighs to give you a round of applause if you try and run?  What is wrong with you that you can't seem to keep your hands out of the freaking chocolate? You want to die fat? 'Cuz that is what you are headed for.  Fat and Alone wearing Pranx.  And you know why you are alone? Because you can't find your dog because you sat on him and he is wedged so far up your fat ass you can't find him.  That's right, your butt cheeks suffocated your dog.  How does that make you feel, Fatty?  You want that cookie, you think that will make you feel better?  Go ahead, eat it, I double dog dare you. Eat it. Prove to me that I'm right and that you are stupid...and fat."

I think that is the kind of letter to myself that The Rug Doctor fears I will write.  I do believe she understands I can't be like:

"Dear Beautiful, isn't it a glorious day? It's a brand new day where we can achieve anything together. You are beautiful, you are worth it, you have all the power inside of you to make this happen.  You love yourself and will put yourself before junk food and empty calories.  You can do this because all is possible through self-actualization.  Do you really need that cookie right now?  Are you really hungry?  Just remember that nothing tastes as good skinny feels.  You can do this, you have the power. Let's have a carrot."

I almost just threw up writing that just now.  I think the best I can hope for is the following.

"Dear Angry Pony,
I am one of the several personalities inside your head. I am Slutty Pony.  I'm talking to you. Look, we are all tired of fighting about this food thing up here. We are also tired of you whining about wanting to dress like a slut (okay, so maybe not a slut, but at least a skantily-clad pop-tart) We all know you are not hungry right now. We all know that you want to succeed.  We all know there is no real good reason to eat anything. You know you are worth it and that you could totally rock a mini skirt someday...after plastic surgery.

Skeptical Pony has something to say: Look I don't know if we can do this or not, we've never been skinny.  I don't know how far we can take this, but we won't know if we don't try. We need you to consider that food is not going to make you happy, it's not going to comfort you and it isn't worth the boredom. I can't promise you anything, because, I don't know if this thing you want can be done, but I do know it won't be done if you don't change your ways. We don't know what skinny feels like, but it probably isn't anything like the feeling you have after eating a KitKat.

Tough Love Pony chimes in: Look, Buttzilla, cut the crap. Stop being a victim and start being a success story.  You aren't getting any younger and we are ready to move this process along, so if you could quit screwing around and holding the rest of us back, we would appreciate it.  Now, get your ass down to the gym after you don't have that donut that Cross Fit Crazy offered you.  Oh, and by the way, we don't care what time schedule anyone else has us on, we are going to do this, no matter how long it takes.  This isn't about anyone but you.  So, if we could do this one thing before we die, we'd like to.

Sad Pony gives her two cents: I'm really tired of being stuck in this body and there is only one way out, we need you to find the Key Master...wait, wrong screenplay.  We need you to focus.  We need you to be better than this whole situation.  And, you are.  We need you to care enough. We need you to dig deep and stop being tired. Tired of trying, tired of obesity, tired of working hard and failing. Stop being tired and start being involved in the process. You have the tools, stop wasting them.

And finally, Bitchy Pony weighs in: And one more thing, we don't care if anyone else is on board. We don't need anyone else and those getting in the way will be eliminated, or at the bare minimum, will be cooking for themselves and possibly doing other things for themselves that may or may not involve lubricant. You know you are strong enough for this challenge so do it and don't let anyone or anything else stop you. Seriously, you are making us all crazy.  Get a grip, bitch.  Now, focus, behave and if all else fails go be mean to someone that has it coming because you need an outlet for this excess energy anyway.

P.S. We all love you, however, you really are making us crazy. Let's just do this thing, already, okay?"

And that is my letter to myself, with the help of the other little ponies in my head.  It will have to do for now, because today, that is good enough and this letter doesn't totally suck.

Motorhome Terrorists

On the way home tonight, I was almost taken out by a mother-trucking motorhome.  Traffic is slow, like 5 mph and we are all creeping along.  I'm in the middle lane and a motorhome comes up along side me.  I know they saw me, they had to have.  As their front tire clears the front of my truck, I notice their blinker comes on and they are progressing into my lane.  I am immediately horrified, because I AM IN MY MOTHER TRUCKING LANE!!!  Me.  In my truck.  Together, my truck and I, are occupying space IN MY LANE. The mouth breathing, armpit licking, toe jamb sniffing, butt picking, zit popping, dog shit eating mother trucking asshat is coming in on top of me.  I am sitting there gripping the steering wheel for dear life as I have no freaking place to go and I am laying on my horn.  Nope, the butt cheese eating asshat doesn't fucking care.  It must have been the Honey Badger driving because nobody gave a shit.  I was so furious as I watched the motorhome barely clear my truck as it bullied it's way into my lane.  It had a freaking motorcycle strapped to the back that almost took out my headlights.  I was beyond livid.  I just wanted to keep driving in my lane and see who won.  But, I knew the answer.  They were bigger, meaner, more ignorant and, they liked the taste of butt cheese.  I can't compete with that.

After they overtook the lane, I got over into the passing lane so I could get up next to them and give them a piece of my mind and possibly a finger.  I guess it wasn't meant to be as darkness was falling and I could not make out the face of the motorhome terrorist.  As my blood pressure boiled and I thought of all the things I would like to do to that person, I could only think, "Day 11 - I'm thankful I'm not packing because that scum sucking, baboon ass licking piece of rat excrement would be sitting right on the shoulder of the road, right next to the turd laundry with four shot out tires and I would be yelling, "yippie-ki-ya-mother trucker!" Drive that Bitches.

From a legal standpoint, it probably wouldn't end well for me.  But that got me to thinking, why is it that my husband has to have a CDL to drive his delivery truck or a bus, but any 96 year old lover of butt cheese can drive a motorhome that is bigger than anything in the local trailer park?  Or some stupid bitch and her asshat husband can take to the road with their home away from home terrorizing local civilians?  It's bullshit.  I think you should have to get a license and matching license plate to identify yourself.  Like, you have to take a test about your personality and based on that personality and a driving test, you are assigned a license.  If you are an inconsiderate asshat, you get a license stamped as Motorhome Asshat - your corresponding license plate says MOTO-ASS.  If you are like, over 60, you get a stamp of Blind as a Bat - Your license plate is BLNDSPT.  If you are just  mean or stupid, you are a Mother Trucker of the worst kind and your corresponding plate is MOFO-69.

Lets identify people, so people like me can go about my day and do my best to not get killed by the motorhome terrorists.  It's bad enough you've got the everyday mainstream mother truckers out there that almost kill you, but those motorhomes...that shit is not okay.  I'm just going to put this out there, if you are a motorhome driver, I hate your guts.  Okay, I can't hate all of you, because I do like some of you, but you damn well better learn how to drive the damn things and don't be a bully.  It makes the pony angry.  And, if anyone knows who the asshat, mofo terrorist was on I-5 in Everett tonight at 5:15ish, headed Northbound, I'd like that person's information.  I have a gift for them.  A very special gift.  You know how to reach me.

Bathroom Ambassador

This has been a crazy week so far. Weird stuff happening, thick fog that won't go away for days, people doing weird stuff in the bathroom, it makes me feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  Seriously going to lose it, especially if the fog doesn't lift.  I'm going to need to find an axe and keep it handy.

I'll give you an example of the shenanigans. Yesterday, I'm minding my own business and I get an email from the credit card company for my corporate card.  Apparently, they suspect fraud on my account.  Weird.  I call and sure enough, someone has racked up $2400 in charges with my card.  Mind you, the card is in my possession, so how did they get the credit card number?  And, it's stuff like monthly charges and protection plans, etc.  Rest assured, if I was going to scam my company, I would not waste it on items like mortgage protection plans.  Mama would be gettin' some new shoes, some kick ass clothes, some stuff for the ponies...I mean, if I'm going down, I'm gonna buy some FUN stuff. At any rate, that set the tone.

Not to be out-done by fraud, I was walking over to the mini fridge to get some water and I smell something so horrible, I want to puke.  Did someone shit their pants?  Did someone die and we just don't know?  Does someone need a shower?  I needed a second opinion.  I called over Cross Fit Crazy and the Daily Incident King (DIK).  I asked them both if they smelled anything.  We opened both mini-fridges and deduced that wasn't it.  After a lot of sniffing and lip curling, we decided the only thing it can be is something dead is in the cubicle walls.  Now, I just did the headcount report and all employees are accounted for, so before anyone accuses me of anything, no one died at my hand.  We figured it must be a rodent.  Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that?  I can see it now, I put a ticket in claiming, "Either someone shit their pants or something is dead...somewhere, can you come take a sniff and bring some tools?"  I don't think that is going to fly.  I wonder how long it takes for rotting rodents to just turn to hair and skeleton and stop smelling?  I think we are about to find out.  I'll keep you posted.

Gross things seem to be the theme this week. I was at home earlier this week minding my own business (again) when I get notified via Facebook that someone has defiled the bathroom.  I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the lines I became the bathroom ambassador.  Every time something goes wrong in there, I get an email, a ping, a FB update, a phone call, a visit to my desk...how did the bathroom become my problem?  Sure, I have sent out a few etiquette emails, that have done no good, by the way, but that doesn't mean all this stuff is my problem.  I guess I am wrong about that.  So, anyway, no one tells me what happened, but apparently someone defiled one of my signs requesting people to clean up after themselves.  Apparently it was too horrifying to tell me what it was, but suffice to say, it was horrific. Okay, I'm fine not knowing.  I've seen shit on the floor, blood all over, "Fuck You" written in lipstick on the toilet seat, I've seen piss all over the seat, etc.  Really, what could surprise me at this point?  Well, I come in yesterday and Sassy Pants comes over and shows me the picture she took of the "defilement."  Disclaimer: If you have low tolerance for gross, stop reading.  The defiler had shoved a wad of tissue paper up her "tunnel of trouble" while she was riding the crimson wave, taken it out and then shoved it inside the plastic sheet protector which housed my note about being neat in the bathroom and disposing of feminine products appropriately.  Who does that? What kind of classless loser does that?  We aren't in middle school, we are adults.  Adults that should be able to get the shit in the toilet, not pee on the seat and keep Aunt Flo and her bi-products under control and be civilized.  Guh-ross.

Then, to add insult to injury, today, minding my own business (yet again), my screen lights up on my computer, "Cassondra, the toilet in stall one is plugged."  "Cassondra, the toilet exploded, what should we do?"  "Cassondra, there is water all over in the bathroom."  I am not the high priestess of bathroom maintenance.  I could give a shit less, however, I make a call and send out an email telling the troops to relax, help is on the way.  Apparently, someone had taken a dump of monumental proportion and used enough toilet paper to wipe an elephants ass and the toilet just couldn't take it anymore.

It wasn't long and the building maintenance dude calls me back advising me it is safe to shit with confidence again in good 'ol stall number one.  However, he has a complaint from the janitor.  The janitor, that spends the majority of his day on his cell phone, on break, taking selfies or not cleaning has apparently been recently reprimanded, because he has stepped up his efforts.  So much so, the bathroom is often closed for cleaning.  Apparently the bitches of the glass palace cannot wait to get in there and take their wadded up blood burritos and attach them to the signs, pee on the seat and then leave feces on the floor, so they are hassling the janitor when he is trying to clean it.  Seriously?  He might be a bit lazy, but that crazy bastard comes back to work every day knowing that he is going to see nothing short of an animal sacrifice in that bathroom daily and we are going to run him off?  Really?  Stupid bathroom bitches.  I don't care if you have a semi-truck load of feces traveling down the track of your intestines and it's race day, do not hassle the man cleaning up the dirtiest place on earth!!!

I'm exhausted doing all this bathroom monitoring.  I told my boss that from now on, we don't conduct skills testing for job aptitude.  Screw that.  We put them through a bathroom simulator test.  For example, if they see a sign that says "clean up after yourself" and it makes them agitated at all, FAIL.  If it is a multiple choice question on where does the poo belong and they can't clearly identify it goes INSIDE the toilet, FAIL.  If they see piss sprayed all over the seat and they answer that this is acceptable, FAIL.  If they answer the question, "I wash my hands after using the bathroom; True or False" and they answer False, FAIL.  If these people can't handle the bathroom simulator test, they can't work here.  I told my boss, "just think, if they can use the potty like a big girl, think what they could accomplish in their lives!"  I'm putting this down on my year end review. One of my metrics I get graded on is coming up with new processes.  I think this one is a perfect example of how we can get more successful people in the door and out of the shit-house.  Don't think for a second I'm not going to put this down.  I am.  Rating scale 1 - 5, baby, this is a big 'ol five!

I don't know what tomorrow holds in store for me, but I bet it will be some sort of bacteria.  Note to self, pick up more hand sanitizer at the store.

Night all, and remember, center your ass over the toilet, evacuate your bowels, use enough toilet paper to do the job, but not so much as to kill a forest, flush, wash your hands and please, put the seat down.

Thank you, that is all.

Sincerely,
The Bathroom Ambassador

Follow-up on my journey...

Today I had three different appointments, so I took the day off.  They were all just follow up appointments, so shouldn't be anything major. I had an appointment with the throat doctor because of my acid reflux, a nine month follow up with the doctor at the surgical center where I got my weight loss surgery done and a follow up appointment with the nutritionist to talk about how my diet is going.  That's three doctor's appointments.  What are the chances this is going to go smoothly? I was ever so hopeful.

At the first stop, the throat doctor, I checked in on time and as scheduled. I'm a good patient and I believe in being on time.  He comes in about 30 minutes after my appointment was scheduled for and proceeds to probe my nose and down into my throat with various instruments.  Hey, look, I don't even put my finger up my nose unless something really itches, I don't need Inspector Gadget up there poking around telling me how I won't feel this, but I will know it is happening.  Newsflash - I not only know this is happening, I FEEL IT!  Which is why I uncontrollably coughed in his face.  Woops.  Maybe if I would have known I would feel it, I would have been able to control that.  None the less, he completes his exam and informs me I need to be on more pills and oh, by the way, I should really see an allergist because my nostrils are inflamed. Duh, you just stuck a bunch of tools up there.  Great.  More pills and more appointments.

The next stop is my nine month surgical follow-up with one of my surgeon's associates, Dr. B. Again, I am on time.  I even checked in 15 minutes early as recommended.  About 40 minutes later, I am escorted back to the exam room.  The little medical assistant was going over my stuff.  She is full of hope and excitement and she says, "Let's go over your co-morbidities and see how you are doing! So, how is your Acid Reflux?" I told her it was worse since the surgery.  She continued, "And your depression, how's that?"  I said, "yep, still depressed."  She made the appropriate notes and continued, "And your sleep apnea?"  I said, "yep, still have that."  She concluded, "okay, so things are looking up."  I just stared at her and blinked.  If that is what she got out of all that, she is probably the most "glass half full" person I know.  She skipped on out and advised me Dr. B would be in soon.  As I sat there waiting, I thought about how  I wasn't happy about this appointment today because I feel like I am not where I need to be in this whole process.  No matter how much people tell me I am doing fine, I don't feel like I am doing fine.  I expect more from myself and I am impatient.  Anyway, another 30 minutes later, Dr. B shows up.  We go through the whole "how are things going?" line of questioning.  I cracked like the prize witness in a murder trial.  I confessed all my sins and told her what a failure I was.  She scolded me for being hard on myself and was very nurturing and caring and compassionate.  So nice.  Whatever.  Nice is for sissies.  I need a kick in the ass.  I know it, you know it, we all know it.  She asked me if I was scared of failure and if I might be sabotaging myself.  I said, "I don't think so..."  I don't know, do you think my subconscious is fucking with me?  It's possible, I suppose...I would consider that later.  She presses on and asks me if I have been working out and I tell her I need to get back to the gym, but I hate it.  She asks why I hate exercising.  I just looked at her.  This was a serious question and she wanted an answer. I sensed that, "because I freaking hate exercising" wasn't going to fly with her. I explained to her how my knees and shoulders had injuries, so they were difficult to deal with and that there is a lot of fat flying around and no one needs to see that.  I'm not one of those people that says, "yeah! I'm gonna run on the treadmill for an hour and feel the burn!" Fuck that.  She wanted me to find an activity that I liked.  "What do you like to do?" I contemplated her question, desperate for an answer that didn't involve skinny girls in turmoil on TV, or slaving over a cookie sheet, or spending money I didn't have.  I finally came up with, "I like to be outside."  This isn't a lie, I actually do.  However, I don't really like walking long distances due to my hips are all jacked up, especially now that I have lost some weight and my body is trying to re-align.  I think she could tell she wasn't going to get far with this line of questioning and finally turned her focus to other things. She asks me about my reflux and when she finds out what Mr. Throat Doc wants to put me on, she's like, "no, you need a endoscopy, we need to know what is going on there."  Great, another procedure, another appointment. She asks when I have my next nutrition consult and I look at my watch and say, "Five minutes ago."  She's like, "oh, well, they are used to me running behind, it will be okay."  I finish up with Dr. B and scoot over across the street to the nutritionist.

I arrive 15 minutes late at the nutritionist and say, "Sorry, I was being held hostage by Dr. B."  The receptionist says, "That's okay, we are running behind here as well."  Oh, whew, I'll just have a seat then. Fifteen more minutes go by and I say, "Just how long is she running over?" The receptionist informs me that she would probably be done in about 15 - 20 more minutes.  I was pissed.  I took a day off of work for these appointments and every single doctor has made me wait and now I had an appointment at 2:30 with the nutritionist and it is now 3:00 and I probably won't get to see her for another 15-20 minutes, which means, I won't even be done until 4:30 and I will be stuck in rush hour traffic.  Screw that.  I said, "We are going to have to reschedule, I was expecting to be done when you say I will just be starting. That isn't going to work for me."  So, now, I have to make another appointment to come back.

So, to recap, I now have more pills, a consult with the allergy doctor, an endoscopy procedure, which will lead to a follow up appointment, and another trip to the nutritionist.  Sweet Maryanne.  This is not what I had in mind. Totally pissed.  And, I wasted a vacation day for this.

I told myself today that, no matter what, I would try and be positive.  I would try and make "today good enough."  To that end, here is what I am going to hold on to, no matter what.  I heard Dr. B when she said this is MY Journey and no one else's and that where I am is just fine.  I am surrounded by a support team that cares and is in this for the long term, not the short term.  So, with that said, here are two pictures from before the surgery and another showing where I am today.  I guess this is good enough...for today.

Last summer 2012

Last Summer 2012

Today 10/15/13

And the journey continues...

My Opinion

The last couple of weeks I have been increasingly irritated with my fellow man.  I realize right now, we, as Americans, are pissed off, worried, confused and outraged about what is going on in our government and that is making a lot of people on edge.  You add in world problems, domestic problems, violence, poverty, healthcare, unemployment, etc., etc. and it is overwhelming.  Which is why some choose to check out of all of it and be blissfully ignorant.  I get it.  However, what I don't get, and won't tolerate, is a bunch of people being mean to each other, especially on social media.  It's no wonder we are a hot mess, we just tear each other down. No wonder kids bully, we adults set such a fine example.  Well, I'm sick of it.

Case in point, just today, one of my FB friends posted a picture of a wedding she had just attended.  The bride was wearing a beautiful gown, was holding a beer and she happened to have tattoos on her arms. She was having a good time, it was her day, she should. This friend of the friend just whips out a comment about how the bride looked like a trucker and hated tattoos and it looked gross.  WHOA.  Bitch Alert! First off, Bully Commenter, you are an asshat.  How dare you go on your friends page where she is celebrating the marriage of her family member and bash the bride.  Who the hell do you think you are?  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.  It took everything I had not to go off on Bully Commenter on that friends page, but, I did not.  I made a disapproving comment about Bully Commentors view point and moved on, because, after all, it wasn't my FB page and I wasn't going to start war.  It wasn't my place to do so.  I don't like it when people start war on my page, so I don't start war on others' pages.  It's a simple concept that many have not grasped.

Another example, just a week or so ago, I mentioned about the government shut-down in one of my blogs, just kind of in passing.  One of my friends made a comment about it (playfully so, we have that kind of relationship where we can poke each other about stuff and not freak out), and then my husband chimes in with a kind of harsh comment and then all hell broke loose from there.  First of all, I don't usually talk about politics AT ALL on my page because people cannot freaking have an intelligent conversation about it without going off on each other.  I get people are passionate about it, I get people are pissed off, I get that, which is why I don't discuss it on FB.  FB is for my entertainment and connecting with my friends and family...and posting a shit-load of pictures of my dog and my horses.  When that political shit cuts loose on my page, it pisses me off.  Here's the deal, it isn't that I don't have an opinion, I do. It's really none of your effing business what that opinion is.  Doesn't mean I don't care, doesn't mean I don't stand for anything because I'm not spewing it all over my page.  Look, I think the government is a fucking mess right now. I don't care if you are a Liberal, Democrat or Republican...or if you bury your head in the sand.  I don't fucking care.  None of you are ever going to agree.  You all spout off your sources and what "the truth" is.  Well, guess what? If I am a Christian and want "the truth" about Christianity, I don't go ask a Jehovas Witness what that truth is, I ask my fellow Christians.  Right?  Well, same concept with politics.  If you are a Democrat looking for "truth" you go to your sources.  And then you site your sources against the opposing sides sources and neither of you are going to agree.  Where is the "truth" in all that? Huh?  Tell me. It's somewhere in the middle, would be my guess.  The only truth I know of right now is that it's all fucked up and I don't think anyone has all the details.  And, I don't think our elected officials give a shit about the fellow Americans that voted them in. They are going to be just fine, no matter what.  They still get paid. They still get health care.  They still get a retirement. They still make way more fucking money than they need to.  THAT is MY opinion.  Without spouting off my personal beliefs about laws or specifics or who's side I'm on, that is how I feel.  With that said, I don't go on your FB pages and get up in your business and tell you what you need to believe and what "the truth" is.  I respect everyone's right to have their own opinion, regardless of what it is and I won't shame you for having that opinion...even if I do think your a fucking idiot. I have actually had to unfriend or hide people's posts from my news feed because that is all they ever talk about.  I have a hard enough time getting up in the morning without having to have conspiracy after conspiracy thrown at me.  Look, I've got inspirational quotes I need to get to, pictures of ponies, dogs and unicorns to see.  Hopefully some hot guy without a shirt on will show up in my feed.  I'm also looking for a certain amount of drama that myself and my friends supply on a daily basis.  It's how I roll.  I don't want that crap shoved down my throat.  I will choose my level of engagement in the issues. Doesn't mean I don't care about them, but it is all I can do some days to put both feet on the floor and focus on living.

Some people might think I bury my head in the sand.  To a degree, I probably do. But let me tell you a little bit about what I do  believe in and let you decide if you want to continue to hang around or hear anything I have to say.

• I believe in God.  If you don't, that's fine, just don't belittle me for believing. You can even be whatever religion you want, I don't judge you. I may not see things the way you do, but I would not disrespect you for it.
• I believe in choosing the best candidate, regardless of political party.  I usually lean to the Democratic side, however, do like views that some republicans have.
• I believe it is my body and I will do what I want with it. Doesn't mean an abortion is right for me, but I don't think it is my place to tell someone else they can't. Doesn't mean I want a tattoo, but if you like them, good for you.  Doesn't mean I'm going to pierce my nipples, but hey, they're your nipples.
• I believe that if you kill someone out of hate, dysfunction or pre-meditation, I think it would be best if you were also dead. I don't necessarily want to be the person to kill you, but if it needs to be done, it should be.
• I believe in my right to bear arms.  I believe people are bad, and if they want to kill you, they will find a way, gun or no gun.  The bad guys will always have guns and removing them from citizens is not the answer.  You can disagree with me on this, and I will still be your friend, by the way. I did learn that I cannot discuss gun laws with my husband because he goes ape-shit-crazy if you ever suggest anyone is going to take his guns away.
• I believe that if you are a citizen and pay into the system, as I do, you deserve the same rights I do.  If you are not, go home, or pay for yourself. I'm not your sugar mamma.
• I believe we should mind our own business more and focus on our problems here in America more.  How about we help our homeless and impoverished.  With that said, Thank You and God Bless all soldiers out there, I thank you for all the sacrifices you make, no matter where this country sends you.
• I believe you should marry whomever you want. Some of my dearest friends are gay and they deserve to marry if they want.  It isn't like the straight people have made it some sacred thing.  Take a look at the divorce rate, folks.  I have gay friends that have been together way longer than you.  Love is love. You don't have to agree with me, but don't ever be crude to my friends or disrespectful because you think you have the corner on the market for what is right or wrong.
• I believe that kids should be spanked when warranted.  I believe that the utter and complete lack of respect that many have for their parents and others is ridiculous.  A lot of things have changed since I was a child, I get that.  I am so thankful we didn't have social media when I was in high school.  I think the bullying that goes on is out of hand and that parents need to be more involved and more aware of the actions they take as parents.  
• I believe that women can do most of what men can do, and should be treated equally. That means, the toilet seat and lid should always be down - equal playing field.  We all start at having to lift something up in order to pee.
• I believe that your opinion is as important as my opinion, however, that doesn't mean I want your opinion unsolicited.  And unsolicited opinion can and likely will lead to activating my bitch switch.
• I believe if someone merges their vehicle on top of me, I should be allowed to get up on them, do some bump drafting and leave a swirly on the side of their car.  However, to date, I have not done this.
• I believe in old-fashioned romance and chivalry.  I like it when Will opens the door for me, when he puts his hand on my back when we are in public to help guide me through a crowd, or holds my hand.  I like that stuff. 
• I believe in being who I am and sharing what I want. I believe in standing up for myself and for my family and friends.  Nobody gets the gift of my friendship without earning it.  If you betray me, we are done. If you are my true friend, I will always have your back.

That is the short list of what I believe. With all that said, if you don't like anything I have said, don't let the door hit you in the ass as you leave my life.  I do care what people think, however, I will not sacrifice who I am to fit your mold.

Now, go in peace and don't let people be mean to you. Asshats are an unfortunate constant in life, but we don't have to tolerate them.

And, that's my opinion on this Sunday afternoon....

Annoyed on a Tuesday

Today at work it was "70's Day."  Four Feet of Fury loves the 70's.  She gets ready for work listening to 70's music and it seems to make her happy.  The music from that period mostly annoys me, so that could explain our mood differences.  Anyway, I didn't really want to dress up, but knowing how FFF felt about it, I thought I would be supportive.  I donned my long hippy dress and tried to curl my hair just like Farah Faucet. I knew I was in trouble when it started to flip completely out to the sides and I started to look a little more like the crazy cat lady.  I decided to go with plan B, which was hair pulled back and a full, sassy hair piece. Add a headband and some jewelry and presto, I was back in the 70's.

My outfit was a great success, except the dress is super long and actually trips me if I am not careful.  And, if I don't pull it up when I sit at my desk, it will get stuck in the rollers in my chair.  A real pisser when you have to go to the bathroom and you are playing office chair rodeo trying to get the hem of your dress out of the rollers before you pee yourself and without ripping the dress.  Indeed.  And yes, that did happen at least once today. It was making me crabby.  I know, the mind reels at the possibility of such an event occurring. It didn't help that people were making me crabby, too.  For example, I'm sitting there, minding my own business, working, and I get an instant message from Polly For The People wanting to know how I'm doing.  Immediately, I am on high alert.  No one messages me for no reason.  I ask her what's up.  She says nothing is up, she is just checking on me and wanted me to know that it is possible to get messaged without it requiring extra work on my part.  Not completely true.  I had to respond to her message. Thus, extra work. Nonetheless, I appreciate her sentiment.  I guess my railing on FB yesterday about how people only message me when they need something got through to someone.

My day progressed with the usual annoyances, but no major events.  I headed out to do a "desk drop" to all the consultants.  It was their lucky day.  They each get a can kozy and a handout.  Naturally, everyone wanted to know where their beer was. Ha ha. It got even less funny after EVERY person said something about it.  Whatever, we can't all be comedians.  I'm just about 3/4 of the way done passing these out when Bubba Gump, the security guard appears. I can't stand this guy, he annoys me.  He's kind of hunched over and staring at me.  I'm looking at him like, "what?" He doesn't say anything.  I finally said, "Can I help you?"  He asks me, "What is your name?"  I tell him and he says, "That's what I thought, there is a guy with a bunch of flowers for you at the front desk, I've called you like six times."  I looked at him, instantly annoyed, and said, "Well, clearly, I'm not at my desk."  He goes on to tell me that there are like six flower deliveries and that I need to bring a cart because the delivery guy is an old man with COPD and if I don't bring a cart, the guy isn't going to make it.  I asked, "so, do I need to go out to the parking lot, or what?"  He informs me the guy is by the front desk.  I said, "Okay, but he obviously needs the cart out there since he can't handle it."  The guard says, "He'll never be able to make six trips." We go round and round about where I need to be with the cart.  I'm losing my patience.  All the while, COPD guy is up there running the show while Bubba Gump is down here hunting me down.  Security at it's finest.  How do we know this isn't an elaborate rouse and that COPD guy isn't a suicide bomber?  We don't.  Bubba Gump didn't check his credentials.  This is how I know I am going to die there someday.  Anyway, I get my cart and head to the front desk to find a man hunched over the desk waiting for me.  He smiles and has half of his teeth in a lovely brown color and the other half are rotted off in various formations.  He is sickly, to say the least.  As I followed...I mean, lead him out to the parking lot with my rattly cart, he kept stopping to hock up parts of his lungs.  We finally make it out there and he hands me each arrangement.  There is only one left to get and suddenly, he stops, he can't go on.  His lungs have given out. Shit. He is going to die right here.  I don't have room for him on my cart, not with the flowers.  He finally manages to muster up the strength to hand me the last one.  I bid him adieu and start my dangerous trek back into the building.  I have to push my cart, hold up my dress and keep the flowers from sliding off the cart on the rough surface of the parking lot. This is a real hoot. I hope that guy wasn't looking for a delivery tip.  I make a mental note to be more diligent about my retirement.  Some day that could be me...pissing off some youngish saucy admin.

I finally get in the building, still upright and with all flowers still intact, and deliver the flowers to the happy recipients.  Now, where was I? Oh yeah, desk dropping the can kozy's.  By the time I am done, I am sweating in places I shouldn't be.  And, while I'm all proud of my Victoria Secret bra, let me tell you what all that padding does, it makes you freaking sweat.  I've got all this extra hair, a headband, extra jewelry, a long dress that has repeatedly tried to kill me today and I have tights that think the race to my ankles is the Boston Marathon.  Mother Trucker, I didn't need the perspiration, too.

At this point, I'm agitated.  Seriously. I sit at my desk and try and take care of some business.  First order of business is to let the employees know that lunch will be served to all of them tomorrow.  I sent an email out about this on Monday advising them (in all CAPS in the subject line) that lunch would be on Wednesday.  I had a few people ask me Monday afternoon where their food was.  No one can read the important part of an email.  It makes me angry. However, today, I am clever because I put it in the subject line again and now I put it multiple times in bold in the body of the email.  All the details they need.  Bomb proof. I can't possibly get questions now.  I walk away from my desk and someone asks me, "hey, when do I get my personal lunch?  Do you bring it to me or what room do I go to?"  I'm certain that my head spun around three times and that smoke came out of my nostrils.  I stopped and glared at him, "Don't you read your emails AT ALL?"  He smiled and said, "Well, kind of, but I like it when you tell me personally."  I smiled, in what can only be described as a menacing smile, and said, "Well, why don't you go read it again Einstein. This lunch isn't your personal lunch, it's for the center, do you really think I'd put it in a conference room?"  He started back pedaling.  I said, "Go read your email," and walked away.  I get back to my desk and I have an instant message asking me if the lunch will be buffet style or boxed style.  Okay, I'm going to lose it.  It's pasta, people. Who puts pasta in a box?  I talked about how we would keep the food warm and how people should come at their lunch times so that there would be enough food for everyone, etc., etc....I give up.  I had also explained to them that the food was coming in three different deliveries and provided the times.  Again stressing to them the importance of coming on their lunch time so that my calculations on deliveries would pan out. Another email, "What if my lunch isn't until after the last delivery?"  Um, come at your lunch time?  Then, finally an email that did not demand any further explanation, it simply stated, "You are making me hungry."  I felt dirty reading it.  I don't know why.  I felt like one of those cartoons where some guy is out in the desert with his best pal, but as a mirage he sees his best pal as a hot dog and starts chasing him and biting him.  I gotta get out of there.  I don't need anyone chasing me around the center thinking I'm a corn dog or something.  I think this place is getting to me.

I'll just be glad when tomorrow is over.  I hate center-wide lunches.  People don't follow directions, they think they are funny, they whine when they don't like something and they make a huge frigging mess. Well, in preparation for tomorrow, I'd just like to tell everyone, in advance,  you're welcome.

With that, I'd better get my beauty rest, because I am going to need to put a special face on tomorrow. The face of an admin that cares.  The hardest face to wear All. Day. Long.