Happy Birthday To Sugarbowl

The main reason that I have not been blogging is because I feel like so much time has passed that I need to bring myself (and any readers I may still have) up to date. Honestly, the idea of having to bring myself up to date makes me want to go to bed with a hot toddy and an ice pack for my head. Not that there is one thing of any real interest, my divorce was finalized in July, I'm still a gimp, my sciatica is still a hot knife stabbing my right butt cheek/lower back, and yet I still feel like I should deal with these issues before moving on to new ones. But in honor of Sugarbowl's birthday, and my deciding to just start from where I am and pretend that I slipped into a coma for the last few months and just woke up from it, I am going to act like we were just talking yesterday, and here is what's going on today.

So, Sugarbowl is 34 today and you would think that 34 is the most ancient age ever, that we would have to saw Sugarbowl in half and count her rings to ascertain her age, then do some carbon dating just to be sure. Maybe if she and I were not 4.5 years apart, I may have an iota of sympathy, but I don't. To a woman who is 4.5 years older, I can't bring myself to cry into my pillow over her hitting the big 3-4. She and I both had to have our driver's licenses renewed this year. Why is it so hard to take a decent picture for those things? Do they do it on purpose so that you don't want to get pulled over and have to show that picture to ANYONE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, thereby making you are a law abiding citizen? Since she and I both had to go through that hideous event this year, we have been debating whose picture is worse. Spoiler alert: Mine is. But let us start with hers.

Hers

Imagine if you will, a round, white face framed by about 14 chins, a luxurious blond comb-over-looking hair don't, and a look on the face like they just ate a stink bug. They didn't just, "GULP! I swallowed a stink bug!" They chewed that thing 20+ times and savored every bite, then CLICK! here's your driver's license that you get to carry for the next 5 years! She called me and said she wanted to cry and that she would pay me $100 if I could honestly say that mine is worse. (She refuses to accept my arguments regardless of the evidence staring her beady eyeball to beady eyeball, and steadfastly claims hers is worse. She still owes me $100.)

Mine

I would like to pretend that I don't have a driver's license instead of admit that that is supposed to be me. What a sick joke! And the lady had the nerve to lie TO MY FACE and say that it turned out pretty good. I don't even want to think about what I must have looked like to her in person for her to open her mouth and fart out such a lie. But I digress. In my picture my hair is a curly mess that is flat on one side and caught in a wind tunnel on the other. My face looks tired and old, like I spent the last 38 years servicing men in a back alley for crack money. But all of this is nothing compared to my skinny, stingy, dried up old turkey leg of a neck. What was I craning my neck for? Did I want to see how long and stringy I could make it look? It's so horrible that I keep it covered at all times and  live in fear of someone needing to see it.

Even though it is her birthday and I should give her this day to have the worst driver's license, I can't honestly say that hers is worse. I'm going to go over to her house and clean, but I cannot lie and say that 14 chins are worse than stingy, dried up turkey leg necks. It's a toss up at best. There are no winners in these situations. Only losers, and there are 2 victims of the DMV right here.

It Better Be Coming Around The Mountain

I'm so crusty and gross. I am going to be crusty and gross until Lord Lortab kicks in and I can stand upright without a hand on my back, grunting and shuffling along, like my ancient neighbor. Once I can stand, I'm taking the longest, most luxurious shower ever had by man or gimp. I'm going to scrub and condition and pumice like there will be someone else in my bed besides me and the dogs tonight. As it is, I feel my sciatica but not my lortab yet. And I still feel how crusty and gross I am. I have been working on restoring my bathroom floor (it dates from the 1880's) and it requires a lot of scraping and dust and particle flinging. Many nose blowings to see how black my boogers may have become in the 10 minutes since I last blew my nose. Many gouges and cuts on my hands. A blister on my left palm that burst and yet keeps oozing. Countless splinters in my poor arse. Glancing down after that last sentence, I saw my fingernails. Add them to the list of things that are not attractive.

When I realized that my pain had taken over my ability to work, yet my pain meds had not yet given me the ability to lie down on anything I value, (this chair is from Goodwill) I decided to visit my poor ol' neglected blog. I keep telling myself that I need to get back on here, yet I feel like I have nothing to talk about. The only things going on in my life are things that are far too mundane and boring to talk about. Then a slide show of past blog posts plays through my mind and I realize I built my reputation on the mundane, inane, and boring. (I wanted another -ane there, but couldn't think of one that would work. Bane? Candy cane?) I have a few things I've been meaning to write about brewing right now. As I think I'm starting to feel the beginnings of pain management, I'm going to have to go and grab a very comfortable, very ugly, very sleep inviting pair of pants and shirt. I have a hot date with a pumice stone and a heating pad tonight. All this excitement on a Thursday too. Just imagine what my weekends must be like and then you will understand why I'm too busy to blog, I have the softest feet this side of the Platte river.

An Ode To Sciatica

Oh, Sciatica, I f*cking hate you. No, my most odious friend, I really f*cking hate you.
You have turned my nights into a sweaty living hell.
Sheets wrapped around my suffering hips, buttocks, and down my thighs.
Heating pad cooking my backside until my turkey timer pops.
Our last few months together have narrowed my existence into a small world of pain.
Walking hunched over like a little old woman, hand tightly gripping my right buttock,
And cursing my inability to find a comfortable way to have my body.
I pace, I lay down, I try to find a way to sit comfortably, but there is no getting past you.
As long as you are in my world, I am unable to focus on anything else.
I notice nothing else when you throb in my butt cheek and down my leg.
You have become my life, and it has been an intense few months, maybe too intense.
No maybe about it, you have ruined my enjoyment in my usual enjoyments, you  greedy wh*re.
You demand all of my attention, keep my from being able to focus on a book,
Only able to watch tv that requires no thought processes, watching the clock,
Waiting for the time that my pain medicines kick in.
Your presence has made me more short tempered and forgetful,
Rendering me even less enjoyable to be around, amazingly.
When you leave me, and you are going to leave me,
Do not bother to ever darken my door again, although that may be just a pipe dream.
I know that our relationship will most likely be an on off cycle of hatred and pain,
Mostly on my end, because I do hate you.
Oh, Sciatica, I f*cking hate you. No, my most odious friend, I really f*cking hate you.