And a Happy New Year....

Yup, it's like last year. I'm in sick and in my pajamas. I'm home this time, though, not in Glenburn playing Scattergories. It's OK. I just had a ridiculously expensive meal that made me ill. Totally wasn't worth it, either. So, I'm blogging in the new year. Woo hoo. Hope all of you are alive and well and reading this well into tomorrow, if not later (because, if you were to read this right now, you'd be just as lame as me). Tschuss!

To the jackass typing in spanish

Get the fuck off my blog. That's why I deleted "The 'Burbs" post (I couldn't delete just the comment.) Any-hoo, I apologize for the word verification added to the blog, but Juan Carlos made it necessary. I know, using Juan Carlos probably isn't very p.c. But, if it was in German, I'd use fritz helmut. Seriously.

Merry Christmas!

How was your holiday? Mine was rather uneventful, aside from the animal farm frenzy. I decided it would be a good idea to take cram my jeep full of four suitcases, three cats, two brothers and one dog for the 225 mile trip (had to swing through the hometown to get brother no. 2).

I made it all the way to the hometown (45 miles into the trip) before anyone in the car shat themselves. Luckily, Esme managed to wait to relieve herself on the leather seats until I pulled into my parents' driveway. After a quick cleanup with some paper towels and windex (hey, the water was shut off, I didn't know what else to do), we added a litterbox to the mix and headed north. Brother no. 2 drove so I could sit in back and do some animal control.

At about mile 90, I reached over to pet Oscar and discovered some crust on his fur. Crust. A/k/a dried poop. Yes, Oscar regaled us with a dump of his own in his cat bed and ever so discreetly hid by laying atop of it. We pulled over so I could clean him up with some water and some more paper towels and Brothers 1 and 2 could get some fresh air. I rinsed off my hands with some bottled water and waited to put my hands near my face until I could wash my hands at the nearest gas station (only 45 minutes away).

Esme slept in the litter box most of the way, but the animals managed to control their bowels for the rest of the trip.

The next day, Ruby threw up in the hallway at the cabin. While she was galloping, apparently. I deduce this because her puke was spread out in a three-foot streak.

We then went for a solid two days without incident. Or, at least without a mess. Huxley spent a good part of each night barking at my brother's bedroom door while I slept blissfully unaware of his attempts to "warn" me of the intruder. Other than that, he relieved himself outside like a champ over the four days we were there.

Finally, it's Christmas Day and time to go home. As I was packing, I noticed that one of the cats had thrown up all over the back of the sofa in the family room. I quietly cleaned up the mess and left. Interestingly, neither of my brothers accepted a ride home with me.

We traveled 180 miles peacefully. And, after we got home, Huxley promptly threw up on the rug.

I'm pretty sure all five of us will not be invited back next year. They may only accept two of us. And, if it comes to a vote, I think I'll lose out to Oscar and Ruby. Yes, it'll be a pity vote and a beauty contest. Me, shitty cat and Barksalot will be at home spinning the dreidel with Tiki.

Relevance

So, I met my new doctor today re: the craziness in my head.

First of all, let me say that it was an odd situation, since we met at a juvenile lock-down facility. To back up about 18 months, my doctor in the Magic City was a child psychiatrist, but all the other doctors were full for months and she took people under 30 on occasion. We met, I liked her, I think she was relieved to talk about something other than ADHD and detention, and we had a successful relationship. When I jumped ship and moved on down the road, I asked for a referral. She referred me to a fellow doctor who practiced in the Capitol City. I didn't even think about it but, of course, her familiarity with doctors in other towns is related to her line of work. So, my new shrink is a child psychiatrist, too, and her office is in juvie hall. Nice.

That being said, she was reviewing my medical records and announced that I had an anxiety disorder. Of course, I knew I used to have anxiety (before the dolls), but it never occurred to my that I had an actual anxiety disorder. I mean, it's not like I had panic attacks or OCD. I mean, the fact that terror would clutch my heart at the thought of driving in traffic in a city of 3 million people didn't seem all that abnormal, even after it went away.

So, it turns out I have the full trifecta of craziness: depression, insomnia and anxiety. And that made me anxious. OK, it didn't, but it'd be funny if it did.

So, after my appointment, I remembered a card I received from my high school science teacher for graduation. It was a full-blown disaster scenario of the graduation ceremony, as predicted by the graduate. I believe it started with a small stumble and ended up with the graduate in the orchestra pit and the ceremony ruined.

The point is, after six years with this teacher [I went to a small school where we had some of the same teachers in junior high and high school, smart asses, and I took at least five science classes over grades 7-12 from him, even though you wouldn't know by from talking to me. I probably still have the award for taking that many science classes in my garage. I'm pretty sure even he is glad I'm not a doctor, after witnessing my inability to grasp anything related to physics. We were building rockets one day in class and he asked me to explain how we would measure the exponential trajectory component (ok, i made that part up). I got to about step three and was stumped. He prodded me for further explanation and I said, "what do I look like, a rocket scientist?" It's probably the only time I'd seen joy in his face, as he was a stone-faced, cynical teacher tired of putting up with shit from snot-nosed kids. It was also the only time that phrase was a relevant part of my lexicon. Anyway, this was a huge tangent. I know it's really distracting...]

Where was I? Oh, the long and the short of it is that he recognized my irrational murphy's law attitude towards life and all things related. It was funny at the time. It's apropos now. And still funny.

I'm so happy.....and so sad......and happy... and so on and so forth....

So, today has been a fabulous/horrible day. It kicked off this a.m. with some searing, stabbing jaw pain. I expected this. The dentist warned me yesterday that I would need at least two fillings, if not two root canals. So, I popped 800 mg of Advil and slunk into work, waiting for the edge to get knocked off of my jaw pain.

I soon was distracted, as I heard that raises and bonuses were coming down the pipe at the M. So distracted that I forgot to call the endodontist to schedule a consult for my throbbing jaw pain right quick this a.m.

I have to admit, I wasn't expecting a raise or a bonus because, well, I'm me. I don't get raises. I get fired. Or laid off. Or have to leave my job unexpectedly due to extenuating circumstances. Plus, I'm on at least one person's "watch list," a word I'd hoped to never have to use in my jaded post-AOL world.

Still, I found myself bitterly disappointed when the other two associates got the good news and it didn't appear anyone would be knock-knock-knocking on my office door to spread the holiday cheer.

When it appeared all was lost, the managing partner popped into my office for a closed-door meeting. This, I have to say, was the only time I have ever welcomed a closed-door meeting. I mean, what are the odds that they'd fire me midday on a Tuesday? I've been laid off first thing in the morning on a Monday, and summarily fired after 5 on a Wednesday. But, that's neither here nor there.

The managing partner shared the excellent news that I was, in fact, getting a raise!!!! And the heavens opened up, angels sang, and a bright light shone down so brightly that my eyes teared up from the glare. I love the M!!!!!!

After practically skipping outside to have a celebratory smoke and telephone my 'rents to share the good news, I became aware of my swollen right lower jaw once again. And then I got down to business. The endodontist scheduled me for a consult at 3 p.m., warning me that they would require full payment for the $95 consult fee up front. No problem. I just got a raise. Wink wink.

After a brief consult and a look at some x-rays, they narrowed the problem down to one tooth. The other tooth did not, in fact, need to be filled, much less root canaled. (See, HLC, I told you your dentist overtreats. Nine cavities, my ass.)

He then offered to book me for mid-January or immediately. I thought about delaying it to January, and then pictured myself sitting round the electric fireplace at the cabin in the woods, surrounded by my irritating family with a pain so excruciating that I'd murder just about anyone if it meant I'd have a little relief. I opted for immediately. Then I asked how much it would cost.

Only $1200 and I could make two payments a few weeks apart, if I needed to. Great, thanks. You're right. I don't have $1200 available right now, but I'm sure I'll have the full amount at my disposal in two weeks' time. That will give me time to rifle through my couch cushions for loose change and cash in that CD I've been meaning to get to for the last few months.

Nonetheless, I went for it. And immediately had buyer's remorse. I left the office after 1.5 hours with one less root in my mouth and far less money in my bank account. After doing some quick fuzzy math, I realized that I had to do the unthinkable. I telephoned my mother and asked her to return my "big" christmas gift and asked, instead, that my parents pay for one-half of my root canal. She declined. And that was it. Oh, wait, she did ask when I was getting a crown. What? I can't afford a crown! I just spent $1200!

Next, I telephoned my father. Not to ask for money, just to get some sympathy (and maybe have him come up with the idea of returning my gift for some dental money). I got no satisfaction. His comment? "That's life." I wasn't necessarily disappointed, since this is a lot nicer than I usually get when I bemoan my financial state. Never complain about money problems to a banker. Unless he's not your father. In that case, he'd be happy to help you.

Then, I headed to Tiki's shop to let her know the bad news. I could not pay her my remaining balance on the bang-up framing job for my diplomas. And then, the jaws of hell opened up, demons screamed, and the flames of eternal damnation raged so wildly that that my eyes teared up from the heat.

And then I got a hug. Thanks, Tiki. Maybe I can trade you some food stamps for the work? Or, I could get pregnant and give you my WIC vouchers. OK, it's not nice to make fun of poor people or public assistance. I'm sorry, Santa.

I got home and did some more math. Apparently, I'm not as destitute as I initially thought. It'll be a tight squeeze for the next month or two, but I'll probably survive. And I didn't get fired. Yea!!!!!

Fargo: Friday Edition

So, I leave the office at noon to head out to the Windy City for the M's holiday party. I have to pack, get the dog to the kennel, go to the bank, fill gas, drive 190 miles, shower, iron and get to the holiday party before 6 p.m. So, I hop into my Jeep, turn the key and....nothing happens. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.

After my phone calls were ignored by my dad, brother-in-law, and sister, I was able to reach my friend Brandon. He promptly showed up with jumper cables and a good attitude about the situation. After nearly freezing to death in the 20-30 minutes it took to get the car started, we decided I should get a new battery from the dealership so I wouldn't die of exposure on the highway. We made it three blocks before the Jeep decided it didn't want to run again. It died in the middle of the street. DAMNIT!

Well, 2.5 hours, a police officer, some near-frostbite, a tow truck, a new battery, $210 and raging headache later, I was finally on the road. I drove 90 m.p.h. and popped four excedrin. It was 10 below when I rolled into Fargo at 5:30 p.m. and, admittedly, I was a little sick and jittery from the excedrin. I didn't get to the party until 6:45, but I managed to roll in with about five other people and no one noticed.

As a testament to how much Fargo sucks, let me tell you how cold it was there. It was so cold that, when I spilled a diet coke in my jeep, it froze instantly. The air temp was ten below before 6 p.m. I managed to ply myself with enough alcohol that I walked the four blocks back to the hotel with only a jacket (no hat, gloves, or scarf) and even smoked outside with no coat. It wasn't until 2:30 a.m., after I flipped on the television, that I realized it was about 30 below with the windchill. Hmmmm, it didn't seem that bad, despite the fact that my necklace was so cold it made my chest ache. Fargo sucks. That's a fact.

Der, Die or Das

I thought about that tonight, as I gazed into my fridge. When you think of bachelors, you think of a fridge that's empty, except for empty pizza boxes and a six pack of beer. You think of laundry strewn about and dirty dishes in the sink. You think of late nights watching premium cable channels in nothing but sweats. That's a bachelor.

So, what are you supposed to picture when you think, "bachelorette?" That word isn't even used, unless it's referring to someone who's hardly a bachelorette, or will only be so for a week or two. No one ever says, "yeah, my friend Molly, she's a bachelorette." Not that I like the term, but there's no good word in the English language to describe a single female adult. I mean, the word "spinster" hardly suffices as a feminine form of bachelor. Spinster has negative connotations, whereas bachelor is merely descriptive, if not being synonymous with freedom (although I'm starting to see it as synonymous with being gay now that I've moved back to god's country, where there are lots of bachelor elderly farmers yet no gay men for miles around, but that's neither here nor there). Yes, a single man is free, while a single woman is burdened with the fact that she is single.

OK, so that's a weird tangent that still brings me to my point. My point is, after looking in my fridge, I realized that I'm a female bachelor. My fridge is empty, except for empty diet coke boxes and a six-pack of low-fat yogurt. And I have laundry strewn about and dirty dishes in the sink. And I spend late nights watching cable in nothing but my sweats.

I'm not a spinster, because it's not a bad thing that I'm single. It's one less albatross for me to carry around. I'm a female bachelor. Not the gay kind; the single kind. I'd call myself a bachelorette, but I'm not getting married next week or wearing condoms as accessories. And, I wouldn't want the burden myself with such a scary label.

Smelly Squash: August Rush

I've decided to start a movie review. HLC and I saw August Rush tonight. As a backdrop, I'd like to thanks HLC's boyfriend, Jerry Bartz, for the free movie tickets.

However, this was a truly awful movie. Keri Russel was great, as she always is, and I'm not even a Felicity fan. However, the kid, with his sensory perception disorder (it's the new adhd, according to msnbc.com), isn't cute, and his prodigality (?) is truly unbelievable. The worst part of the movie, however, was the lead male role, played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. He's pretty to look at, but, unfortunately, you can't turn down the volume at the movie theater. Dreadful is the only way to describe his performance. He plays an Irish musician. And, despite the fact that he is from Ireland, he seemed unconvincing as being Irish, in comparison with the other Irish actors. I don't know what it was. Maybe he just shouldn't speak.

The only funny part of the evening: HLC and I had to fill out surveys reviewing the movie. When I referred to Mr. Meyers, I wrote his name as, "Trevor Rhys Jones" a/k/a Princess Diana's bodyguard and sole survivor of the Paris car crash.

Overall, I give this flick 1 out of 15 paws.