what doesn't kill ya

In Which My Childhood Fear is Realized

We all have little fears as children that we grow out of as adults.  The ankle-grabber hiding under the bed?  Well he can totally go fuck himself 'cause I am heading to my bed to pass out, just TRY and stop me.  That creepy old man who lives at the end of the block?  Eh, he's just cranky because he can't have a regular bowel movement and goddamit,  TV has totally sucked since they canceled The Lawrence Welk Show.  The toilet swallowing you up spontaneously, or worse yet, wielding a nasty snake from the depths of the sewers to bite your ass off?  Well, that's impossible.  You can't fit down the toilet and snakes don't find their way into your bowl.  We're grown-ups now, and we know better.

That is, until you're a grown-up working at your grown-up-like job, and like grown-ups sometimes do, you decide to check out the day's news via your local news agency's website, and you read a grown-up tidbit about stem cell research and yet another grown-up tidbit about the war in Iraq, and then, you see THIS:

"White rats pop up in toilets"

Jesus Christ, I need armor for my ass.

No, This is Not a Hormonal Rant, Thanks for Asking

This may be uncouth and too much information, but tough crap. 

My period sucks and I'm sick of it.  I totally get that no woman on earth relishes having her period.  My "monthly visitor" is an unwelcome guest that stays seven motherfucking days every 27 days.  My flow, as it were, is unrelenting, a veritable Old Faithful in my pants.  I am seriously considering petitioning for a Super Duper Plus tampon size, because this would ease up on my trips to the bathroom for seven motherfucking days every 27 days.

And my friends, sweet thangs, say things like, "Wha?  Seven days?  Tee-hee.  Mine's only three days and one of those is just spotting," or "Super Duper Plus?  All I use is regular."  Bitches.  These are friends which, by the way, have said, "I never threw up once during my entire pregnancy!"  And instead of biting their heads off, I smile and tell them how great that is, and SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY. 

Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire

Two weeks ago John and I were in a department store, where we heard the first Christmas music of the season.  We looked at each other and cringed, silently agreeing that this was just wayyy too early to be piping Bing Crosby throughout the store.

There's a radio station here in Phoenix that prides itself on playing nothing but Christmas music ALL DAY! EVERY DAY! between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The station is classified as "adult contemporary," otherwise known as Sterilized-Inoffensive-Politically-Correct-Office-Friendly music.  In other words, terribly boring but better than silence -- most of the time. Too many doses of the Celine Dion/Kenny G/Faith Hill blend make me long for crickets and my whirring brain.  Somehow, my own personal montage of music,  with its references to bootys and drunken cavorting, wouldn't have others in the office feeling very productive. So yesterday, I decided to play nice like I always do and flipped on the warm-fuzzy station.

To my surprise, instead of yet another rockin' three minutes and thirty-one seconds of "Kokomo," I was greeted by John Lennon's "Happy Christmas."  What?  But it's not even Thanksgiving yet!  I was delighted, even with Yoko Ono's tone deaf contribution.   

True, in another two weeks I will have definitely had my fill of holiday music.  And I'll be the first to admit that Tom Jones belting Christmas carols is a bit much.  Not to mention all the talk of "Jack Frost nipping at your nose," meanwhile it's 82 degrees outside and I'm pondering yet another purchase of flip-flops.  And the "people passing dressed in holiday style?" I haven't seen them yet in downtown Phoenix.  Although, I could have missed them amongst the scantily-clad meth-heads and drunks hanging out at the park.  You never know.

For now, I'll enjoy the heavy doses of virgin-pure Christmas music and long for the days when the Donny & Marie dolls in purple satin get-ups topped my Christmas list.  The days when I thought that Santa really was watching, and I'd better not swipe any more candy or my Weeble Fun House would go to that snotty-nosed kid next door.

The bastard.

Depression:7 Heather:8

I'm back, muthafuggas.

It was close; Depression gave me a run for my money once again.  But in the end, I emerged victorious and have mopped the floor with Depression's ass.  I'd be remiss if I didn't thank my team of antidepressants and loved-ones, without whom I would surely be bench-warming indefinitely, watching the world pass me by.

This was my seventh severe depressive episode, the second in one year.  By "episode" I mean a state in which I cannot function normally and my life becomes so adversely effected that words like "intervention" and "crisis" and "hospitalization" get thrown about like all the jeans I've gotten too fat for.  Unfortunately, for me and many others, depression is a part of life.  It's something that in chronic cases must be managed as opposed to cured.  So this is what I have attempted to do since I was a teenager.  Inevitably, the valleys crop up despite all the managing, and foundations morph into quicksand and things gets tough for a spell.  This time was no different.  I lost myself for a few months.  When that "feeling" began creeping up on me in late spring, I was caught off guard and didn't even have the chance to say, WTF??  I began falling down that slippery slope, and fought the disease and myself to crawl my way out of that deep, dark well.  (My nails are fucking trashed.)  Anyway, I won't get into the gory details except to say that it was a bitch and I lost my job and ended a friendship in the process.

I basically threw blogging out of my consciousness until the last week or two, when I started thinking about blathering on via the Internet once again.  I decided to revisit posting for, uh, it's therapeutic effect and whatnot.  My opinions are back with a vengeance and I say, why the hell not? 

So I'm back for another round.

"Fall down seven times, stand up eight." -- Japanese Proverb

Mind of Me

A bunch of crap is floating around in my head.  I shall share this crap with you.

I cannot get with the whole vanity plate thing.  WTF?  I saw two yesterday that made me nauseous with disgust:  "1SXYWYF" AND "TOOSEXY."  First of all, the decrepit dried out old man driving with the sexy wife plate was undoubtedly in the midst of some mid- or three-quarter-life crisis.  Dude was cruising around in a late model convertible Corvette, with his three remaining wisps of hair flapping in the hot wind.  And his wife?  All I can say is, a botox and silicone shortage is surely upon us.  Also, she really should be sharing some of her flaxen extensions with her poor husband's head. 

"TOOSEXY" chick was also in a Corvette.  She was pulled off to the side at the Wendy's Drive Thru, awaiting her Biggie Fries or some shit.  She rolled down her black tinted windows when someone approached with her bag, and outstretched her free hand (the one not holding the cell phone) to take the bag.  She didn't even look in the person's direction, or at least not that I could tell.  I couldn't see her eyes all that well through the bling-encrusted Chanel sunglasses that covered half of her Mystic-Tanned face.

I'm glad to see that humility is alive and well in my fine city.

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Today is the eve of The Weekend of Doom.  Yes, it's another weekend with all four kids, His and Mine. The group that "somehow forms a family," like the Brady Bunch. Except there's no Alice, no spacious split-level, no wacky camping trips, and no visits from Davy Jones.  However, there very well COULD be a broken nose. 

I'm taking bets.  Anyone care to wager on who will get sick?  How about who will come to tears first?  (John and myself are the favorites.)  Anyone care to bet on who clogs up the toilet?   Or how about who will burn themselves, get bitten by an unidentifiable creature, sprain an ankle or wrist, or get a bloody nose?  These odds are all outstanding.  Screw Vegas.

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HEAT.  Stifling, unrelenting, smoke-your-ass-like-a-turkey heat.  Heat in which we have chosen to live, and give ourselves a swift bitch-slap for doing so right about May every year.  The realization hits us that the next four months will be filled with convection oven cars, melted frozen goods, and sweaty ass cracks.  We will eat mostly ramen noodles, because most of our income is spent on electricity.  Electricity that is working to air-condition an apartment that gets daily twelve-hour beatings from an atomic fireball that sits directly outside the living room window.

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What do you do when your child is in tears, and you are fighting to keep from laughing?  It was all I could do this morning, to keep a straight face.  You know, because it would be so unbelievably cruel for me to LAUGH AT SOMETHING FUNNY.

I was getting ready for work, and noticed that Noelle's hair was disheveled.  I told her I wanted to fix it.  "Noooooooo!  My daddy said I could leave it down!"  (He had gotten her ready at his house and dropped her off - I was taking her to school.) 

"But I just want to pull part of it back, so --"  And with that, Noelle flung her self backwards, trying to flop on the toilet to mope.  Thing is, she had just peed in it before our exchange, and had not yet flushed the toilet.  But she did have her skirt pulled back up.

Her flinging skills are top-notch, so she landed right in the toilet.  Slam dunk!  The look on her face was priceless heart-wrenching.  Her legs dangled over the side, and I must admit she looked a bit like Bambi, with her limbs all over the place and whatnot.  I wanted to tell her this, because I thought it might make her laugh.  But it might also make her cry harder.  So I went another route.

"At least you hadn't pooped."