Sunday, October 9, 2016

Stupid Shit That You Come Across As An Adult

Remember being a kid and thinking all those thoughts about what life would be like as an adult? Look, I was the last little shit to be in a hurry to grow up because I had zero interest in bills and being responsible for myself. But we all dreamed of having pizza for dinner every night and staying up late and watching the shows that were "for adults."

Then we got to do that shit and you know you did it. You totally ate pizza so much that you got sick of it and you probably still buy candy whenever the fuck you want because mom and dad aren't in charge of your teeth anymore. And we all stay up far too late to feel good in the morning when we have to deal with the realities that come along with adulthood.

But we've lived the dream, haven't we? Fuck yeah Imma eat this fruit roll-up without having had a sensible meal before hand. In fact, I'm probably gonna eat like three fruit roll-ups after a bag of goldfish crackers and a couple of string cheeses that are serving as my dinner for the night. Because I'm an ADULT mother fucker. I can do this shit now.

What you don't dream about is stupid shit. And I don't mean bills and car registration and health insurance. I mean the really, really stupid shit. Like how you can't count on your mom to answer all of your questions all the time or, for that matter, another adult. I asked my boyfriend (yes, the Bat because we are still doing this thing) the other day what "scratch restaurant" meant. As in "Chedder's Scratch Restaurant." He said "made from scratch?" Oh my god dude, do you know or are you guessing? Because if I'd asked my mom, she would totally have known exactly what it meant because she is a GROWN UP and GROWN UPS know everything. I fucking think it means "made from scratch" but I'm looking for a reliably trusty resource to confirm this, not some weak ass "uhm maybe" answer.

Think about it, how many stupid ass questions did you ask your parents growing up? "I wonder why you only see old time cars in the summer", "why are there so any funeral parlors here?", "what does that billboard mean?" Even if your mom or dad didn't actually know the answer, you know damn well they probably gave you one with confidence. For the record, my mother always told me what she thought the billboards meant, told me that a lot of funeral parlors meant it was an old established city (I asked her this as a 28 year old when I lived in Columbus, by the way) and explained that insurance is hella high on these old timey cars so you are going to drive in the summer rather than the winter when they are more likely to get all fucked up (this was asked when I was an actual kid and lived in Delaware where ice and snow and salt and shit were a real thing, not this fake ass weather they have in Texas.)

But it gets dumber. I legit texted my mother telling her I was getting rid of a hand-mixer I'd grown up with today. Why is this news? Well, because I grew up with this fucking thing and my mom gave it to me when I moved out of the house. Look, we aren't rich people with a bunch of fucking heirlooms OK? I don't know where this 1970's looking hand-mixer came from, just that it as ALWAYS in my life as a kid and, for all I knew, it was her first big girl purchase. For all I knew, my mom had all these fond memories of it both from her using it and her teaching me how to bake and how to mix this or whip that.

Nope. Mom didn't know what the fuck I was talking about until I sent her a picture and even then, I'm pretty sure she had to eyeball it real good to see what the fuck I was talking about. But I had to check because what if it mattered to her? Look, this is a woman who put three ugly ass "pinch pots" in her curio cabinets alongside her Lladro statues because her babies' artwork was precious. Seriously, I legit grew up in Delaware with a laundry room that was essentially an art gallery of shitty little kid paintings and drawings that my brothers and I did. Parents save this shit because a) it is meaningful to them and b) everything we do as children is AMAZING. Nobody ever pinched a pot and painted it in those colors like I did. And nobody put together that 3D extravaganza like Eldest Brother. We were god damn geniuses and my mother had to preserve that shit.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that when you have a parent who was a really GOOD parent, they make you feel like every little thing you did is totes amazing. Because of that, every stupid thing you touched as a kid has history and meaning if only to you. Considering that my mom still has our stupid pinch pots to this day, the fact that I ran it by her before throwing out her hand mixer is not beyond the pale.

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Silly Sad Girl

I broke up with the Bat on Sunday. He plans to move out of the country next year, after his daughter graduates. I can't go with him for numerous reasons (mostly centered around my debt) so he is actively planning on leaving me. I've known for longer than I care to admit and I should have ended things then. Maybe it would have been a bit easier. I did it now because I know it would hurt even worse if I invested another year in this relationship. And what kind of year would that be, knowing that it was temporary?

I made a foolish decision when he and I got back together and then another foolish decision when I decided to gamble and open myself up to loving someone. I knew better than to do that. Now I'm heartbroken and I spend my day trying to get through work so that I can go home and be sad. Then I go home and spend my evening doing just that, being terribly sad and ugly crying. This breakup has turned me into a 17 year old girl. I got rid of my Facebook account, partly because I've wanted to for awhile now and partly because I didn't want to constantly check his page (who does that at 35?!?!?!) I also got rid of Facebook Messenger because it was becoming an unhealthy distraction. I used it for the sole purpose of seeing if he was online or when he was last online. For no other reason than I wanted to know.

I miss him but can't tell him because I'm not allowed to. Just as I'm not allowed to be upset when he moves on and lives happily ever after with someone else. I'd say I don't even get to miss him but I'm realistic and I can't control that. I miss him and love him and I hope that he does get to move overseas and be happy because he's put his life on hold to raise his kid. After 18+ years he'll be free, finally, to focus on his own life. Of course he'll still be Monkey's father and he'll always be there for her, but she'll be more independent and he'll just have more freedom.

And he deserves it. I want him to be happy. I just wish it could be with me. But since I can't have that I'll instead settle for getting through this quickly because I'm doing pretty shitty on a daily basis right now. If nothing else, I need to kill the hope that insists on remaining inside because that is what hurts the worst and makes me feel the most ridiculous.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

Cars, Keys, & Cheese

Is your monthly car payment nearly half your rent? Do you enjoy parking wherever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want? If you answered 'yes' to either of these questions, you are an asshole and probably live in my neighborhood.

I've mentioned before that I live in the 'hood (because it's hilarious) and one of the funnier things about this life is the ridiculousness of cars. People legit drive Jaguars and BMWs and all sorts of "luxury automobiles" and live in these poor people apartment complexes. What's more, they drive down the shitty roads with the potholes and concrete teeth sticking up everywhere. And they will ride your ass as you go 30 mph like they are prairie doggin' it hard. Good for you, hood rich. I hope you get a flat.

Other jerks like to park on the side of the main road or next to a bunch of parked cars as it suits them. I usually assume the car is broken down if it is along the main road but in the parking lot I stink eye them. You can't be bothered to pull into a spot while you run your quick errand? Seriously? You have to block people in so that you can go about your business because you are so damn important? I hope someone gets angry one day and backs into your dumbass as you are inside doing whatever is so necessary that you couldn't park like a decent human being.

My 'normal' keys are at that farm. I am in my apartment. I know, right? That is stupid. I was wearing this pink, pleather jacket with pockets when we went down and I put my keys in one of these to keep them safe. But then, whilst the Bat's mother and I were at Tractor Supply and Walmart, the Bat bought a little car to suit the interim before Monkey's insurance covers her totaled truck. He and his father got back to the farm before the moms and I and the Bat assured me he moved all our crap from the old car (his dad's as it happens) to the new one. Why I didn't check I will never know but when we got to his house, I couldn't find my keys and was looking everywhere when it came to me and I asked him about the pink jacket. He didn't know it was mine, he said. He'd been driving his dad's car for ages so why would his mother have this little jacket in the back, on top of other stuff no less? And I was wearing it on Friday!!! How did he not know it was mine? Fortunately, I have a spare apartment and car key and this does give me another excuse to not get my mail but he always makes fun of me for not being observant and now I have to open my car door with a key like a damn peasant. Harumph.

Honestly, I came up with the title for this blog post when the Bat was driving me to my place to grab my spare key and I noticed, again, all the asshole drivers in my area. But then I went to the store where I did, indeed, get some cheese and I do have a story so it fits.

So, because I'm a great big grown up who does things in good time rather than put them off and feel like an idiot come Monday, I went to the grocery store. I felt all gross and sweaty and dirty, which was awesome and a bonus to the task of grocery shopping on a Sunday. Even better, when I was ready to checkout and got to the self checkout kiosk thing that I like to use, the person waiting next to me was one of those who likes to be all up on you. Why do people do that? It's like they have zero sense of personal space and so you feel like you are an unwilling butt-buddy or something. And then I kept needing assistance but the cashier wasn't anywhere to be found and this lady, who only had one thing, refused to try another line and just sat on my ass the entire fucking time.

When I was done, I looked at her, ready to stink eye or say something but the bitch smiled at me and so I was thwarted.

Sigh, what a ridiculous day.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Or Maybe This is What Bipolar is Like

I've been in a funk for about a week now. I realized today that it is probably the come down from the mania I suffered and so I'm in the depressive stage. Is it awesome? Not in the least. But at least I recognize it. I recognize that I'm not upset about anything in particular, anything that has happened, anything outside of myself or, really inside myself. I'm just suffering from that horrible pull that drags you down at all times. All you want to do is lay in bed, regardless of whether or not you sleep, or make it to the end of your work day so you can cry on your way home even though you have nothing to cry about.

I knew I was in a funk last week but I didn't really connect things and realize I was in the depressive portion of manic-depression. Then again, I didn't realize I was in hypo-mania until that was over. Today, when I got home, I fed my cat and I did my yoga and I put my piggies on the bathroom floor and I just cried. I cried because I needed to. I kept saying, out loud, that it was OK and that this was going to pass and it wasn't going to be like before, back in the bad old days before I was treated. I just sat on the floor with my knees to my chest and did my best to get it out and reassure myself.

Knowing it would pass is such an amazing thing. I've spent the last week thinking and feeling things, negative things that I wasn't sure about. They mainly centered around the Bat. I didn't want him in my apartment and didn't look forward to seeing him on date night. His presence in my apartment made me claustrophobic and invaded and I just didn't like it. Keep in mind that I've spent ages campaigning for him to come to my place more often so I wouldn't have to go to his because it causes my commute to suck more than usual the next morning. But the Bat and I have gotten good about certain things in our relationship and one of them, for me, is not talking or communicating about something until I'm sure. Maybe it feels really intense right now but I know to give it a few days to make sure it is real. I've had a lot of thoughts about the Bat that I've kept quiet about because it didn't make sense in my own damn head. "I wish he would do..." and then "but he does ... so why do you need ...."

Not understanding what you are thinking or what you want or need is fucking shitty. The Bat and I decided some time ago that we would communicate certain things via email. If I hadn't had some wits about me, I would have been emailing him. But I knew I wasn't sure about how I felt or what I wanted from him or what my emotions really were/are. That is one of the most annoying things about this stupid disease. I can't articulate because I don't know and I don't know because I don't know if it is me or the neurotransmitters. I do feel I deserve Brownie points for finally being able to reign myself in and keeping myself from communicating because I think this is the first time I've had this level of self control.

I'm coming out of the depression, I think. I believe that because I can recognize it, it must mean I'm coming to the end of the episode. I texted my friend Tig about how I've been cycling and she was very nice but I have a feeling I did something to offend her. She was kind and said basically "if you'd crossed a line I would have let you know". She was kind enough to not tell me what it was I'd done if I had offended her which tells me she truly gets it. Not knowing how you feel, not knowing if it is real or not, it's so hard to explain. I feel like a crazy person just saying it. "I feel x but I don't know if I really feel x or if it is my disease." For those who care, people with bipolar II can often recognize a manic episode by realizing they are irritated with a person or a situation or both and then stand back and ask "am I really irritated? Let's see. What about this situation or this person's actions is irritating me" and they can realize, nope, it's just the neurotransmitters.

A peripheral aspect of cycling that really, really bothers me and embarrasses me is when others notice it. I apologized to the Bat once I'd come out of my mania and he said he'd been unhappy with some of my behavior and suspected it was my bipolar. Tig told me that she'd been wondering if I was OK because I'd seemed extremely anxious lately. I need to get better about hiding it on the rare occasions it happens, I really do. Not just because it is embarrassing but because I don't want to ruin my relationships with people.

For the record, I believe this was brought on by the stress of annual evaluations. I had a really good one but praise stresses me the fuck out for some reason. It's as though I feel I have to stay hyper vigilant and not only carry on but do better. I know that doesn't make sense but there you have it. What about bipolar or anxiety makes sense? And why the fuck is this shit around, just like poor eyesight? How is that something natural selection hasn't weeded out yet? 

Sunday, January 31, 2016

It Rubs the Coconut into the Skin ....

I have decided to take a break from soaps and face-washes and exclusively cleanse my face with coconut oil. Why? Because I'm a 35 year old woman with an internet connection, a good data plan, and far too much time on her hands. I've read about how people use this shit on their faces exclusively and the great results they get and I finally managed to find a jar of it so I started yesterday. By "finally" I mean that I went to Sprouts and found it in an aisle because I refuse to fucking ask some store employee in any store whatsoever whether or not they carry this shit. That is the same reason I have yet to try jojoba oil, even though I'm told it is awesome. I was going to get the raw apple cider vinegar for an astringent but that shit was hella expensive and I don't get paid till Friday so I'll just keep using witch hazel like a fucking peasant.

I legit have aspirations to be the sort of person who keeps all of her beauty products (lol, beauty products like I use any) in fancy glass jars and shit. I should create a fancy, pretty label and tape that shit over the jar of "Sprouts Farmer's Market organic refined Coconut Oil" jar.

I had to fucking google "washing your face with coconut oil" when I got this shit home because dafuq? Oil is a liquid and this shit is solid. I didn't want to get the bottle that specifically said something about being cooking oil so I bought this fucking thing. I tipped it and some oil came out but it was only this afternoon that my dumb ass poked a finger in and found that I should probably be smearing this lard-like shit on my face before I rest a hot towel on it for 30 seconds and then using the same washcloth to clean that shit off. The more you know, amirite?

So yeah, I'm doing that and I'm also only showering every other day (unless I need it) because I recently read that bitches be showering too much and we don't need to be. Shower every so often and just wash off your pits and bits on the days in between.

I know what you are thinking so, if it is any consolation, please note that my breakfast consisted of chili cheese Fritos and my lunch was Cheetos, both items purchased from a gas station during a beer run last night. I'm still awful, don't worry. 

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Guinea Pigs and Podcasts

Meet Bessie and Ella. I can't be sure, but I think Bessie is on the left. They are named after the jazz legends and I hope Bessie is always bigger than Ella so I can tell them apart easily. They are super cute and small right now, which means they are scaredy cat assholes who just want to hide and shit. That is a picture of them not eating the delicious bell pepper in my bathroom. I figured, since they are small and I have a cat, it would be easiest to do floor time in the bathroom at first. Little assholes hid behind the toilet for the most part so I lasted all of fifteen minutes. I did hold them and pet them a bit in order to get them a bit used to me and I will continue this regime until they act right or I feed them to Bubbles.

I'm kidding. Bubbles would probably just murder them and go throw up somewhere.

Ella nibbled at the pepper but they don't seem to like it much though I think they dig on the parsley I give them and bitches love hay so there's that. I got them for Bubbles, to be honest. She has gotten needier and needier and it is creeping me out and causing my anxiety so I was talking to someone about it and she was suggesting the whole rehoming thing and I was on board until I thought about what I'd tell whomever took her and started bawling when talking (out loud) about how Bubbles is a sweetheart and she can only have Fancy Feast Shrimp and Fish, etc. You know, cause I've talked about it before. So, in order to save myself the pain of losing my cat whilst simultaneously setting myself up for even more heartbreak, I impulsively went to Pet Smart and bought these beauties. I got two this time because I was assured they were both girls (I really should check) and I know that they are social creature. Plus, they were all cuddled up together at the store and the white one was boring looking (though I felt bad about not buying her as well).

So far, from what I can tell, they enjoy hiding in their pigloo the minute they see or hear me, drinking water, eating, and squeaking randomly. Sometimes I hear them run around their cage so hopefully they are happy. I think I may have starved them the first two days because I bought a rabbit cage and forgot that maybe they couldn't reach to eat in the bowl that came with it. I got something more to teir size and they've been eating so at least they like their food. And I do think it is helping Bubbles because while she still likes to lay her fat ass on me and have me pet her, she leaves after a bit and will leave my ass alone. We shall see how this works out.

Oh, and it would be great if assholes who have known me for more than a year quit asking about having rodents and a cat because I had Johan before I even got Vladimir Putin over here so I know what I'm doing and don't throw them all into a closet to see what happens.

Why The Hell Am I Listening to This Shit? 
So apparently podcasts have been a thing for years even if I just found them with Serial when there were like two episodes left. I've since started listening to various once and subscribed to a bunch of them yesterday. One of them is Sword and Scale and I listened to that shit at work today because I had a lot of repetitive tasks to do and a lot of laps to walk around the atrium. This shit is insane and it's going to give me nightmares.

The first one is about Bruce Blackman, this schizophrenic Canadian who murdered almost his entire family in 1983. It's a sad story and kind of gross and the deaths were awful but even the people talking had moments where they sounded like they wanted to say "his family was a bunch of dumbasses who had total tunnel vision and pretty much walked up to a scary clown with a chainsaw to ask if he'd be interested in selling Amway." No joke, the dad was told to take his son to the hospital and he'd (the doctor advising) would call ahead to make sure his arrival would be prepared for but the hospital was five miles away and it was late so dad was all, naw, I got this. And then, after killing his dad, Bruce calls up his sister to ask her to come over because something bad was going to happen and he had a knife. And his sister called someone and they told her to call the police but she was all naw, it's cool, and just went over there. The only people who escaped being murdered was dude's twin who was in the military and one of his three sisters who was in a hospital giving birth.

Seriously, it's all god awful, although there is some interesting stuff. He was determined to be not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect but he didn't spend a ton of time in an institution and has been out for years, moving around and changing is name. Dude shot his brother in law and then bludgeoned him over and over with a hammer. Now he's that weird guy who lives in the house all the neighborhood kids dare each other to run up to and shit.

If there is any bright silver lining to this story it is that it did NOT happen in the US but up in our super friendly neighbor to the north. It is really interesting and I do recommend it but you need a strong stomach for these stories. Radiolab and Criminal and Snap Judgement are much easier to take.

Sweet dreams, sleep tight, don't let the crazy guy who masturbates constantly and eats his own seaman bite!

Monday, January 25, 2016

Easy Things I Make Difficult

I had two of these in my head as I was driving home but I already forgot one. Remember how I said I needed to write shit down so I could maybe make this blog a bit interesting? Yeah, didn't even do talk to text on my way home so I forget the other one. Damn it.

Oil Changes
This is one of the dumbest things about me. I can change my own fucking oil but, because the Bat's cousin moved back to California, we no longer have anyone with a shop where I can go and do it. So I have to act all common and shit and take my car to a mechanic to have it done. This isn't a huge deal to be honest. The place I go is within walking distance of the Bat Cave so I can drop my car off and then walk to the cave and watch television or nap or whatever and wait for the text that tells me to come get my shit. But, like most people, I work all the damn time and the place's hours are not convenient for me to have the deed done after I get home. No big deal because they are open on Saturdays, right? Well, I go to the country every god damn weekend so that doesn't work.

That would be an awesome excuse if it weren't for the simple fact that my mechanic is fucking awesome. I've been able to drop off my car on Friday afternoon, give the homies my key, and they just call me on Saturday when they are done, I pay over the phone, and they lock my shit up so I can pick it up when I get back on Sunday. So, basically, I can drop off my car and my spare key, pay by phone, and pick my shit up when I get home. That is the epitome of convenience and my mechanics are super awesome and make life extremely easy.

And yet I still have times when I'm beyond due for an oil change and have the little orange wrench glowing on my dashboard and a scary negative number fuel life flashing at me all the damn time. What the fuck do I want? Do I need these mother fuckers to come to my place and take care of this shit for me in the middle of the night or something? I can drop my car off and go to the Bat Cave and chill or I can drop my car off and pick it up whenever I fucking feel like it and still I treat it like this huge ordeal. I took fucking PTO today to take care of this because I was tired of seeing -173 oil life flashing at me all the time. I for real took a vacation day for this shit. Who does that when they have a really good and really convenient mechanic? This bitch, that's who.

Getting My Mail
I make two trips to my mailbox every month. Seriously, I don't think I check it more often than that and I have a feeling the mail carrier assumes I travel for business a lot because of this. Now, if I lived in a very rural area and had a PO box, this would make sense because I'd probably be making two trips to town every month. But even though I'm on the border of Garland, I live in Dallas, Texas, a major metropolitan area. What's more, I live in an apartment complex. My mailbox is in my neighborhood. It's one of those metal affairs that is in a mailbox apartment complex all of it's own. But it is far enough away from my actual dwelling that walking ALL THE WAY there is just beyond my lazy ass.

Seriously, it's like .1 mile from my apartment. I used to live in Columbus, Ohio and would walk all the time. I used to run. When I first moved to Texas, I lived in Mesquite and would routinely walk to the grocery store because I could. But now? Apparently getting my mail is an enormous burden akin to walking two buildings over in the snow to do my laundry (which I did in Ohio). I have legit driven home from work, parked my car close to the boxes, gotten my mail, and then driven the rest of the way to my apartment.

Let that sink in for a minute. Get home, swipe my wallet against the gate reader to open the gate, drive a little, park my car and turn it off. Get mail, get back in car, start car, and drive like five yards to a different parking spot. Granted, I, like most people, don't get a lot of 'real' mail but that box fills up pretty quickly because of circulars and shit. Half the time, I get my mail just because I feel like the mail carrier thinks badly of me because s/he has to keep cramming shit in there. I am guilted into getting my damn mail when, in reality, the carrier probably has zero fucks to give about it.

Man, I really wonder what the other one was that I forgot.