Birthdays, Anniversaries, and Architechture

Today is my little dog's birthday. A day of great joy and celebrating in my house. A celebration of 3 years of love, joy, and happiness! (Because it is his birthday, we are going to ignore some of his more irritating habits, like not waking me up at night when something is knocking on his back door. Love those morning surprises.) He has an under bite that makes his bottom lip stick out and I swear he dangles it in front of me hoping I will trip on it and cover him with kisses, all while pretending to want to get away from my loving embrace. I think he is just trying to save face in front of the other dog, that is why he runs away from the kiss storm as soon as he can wriggle away from me, but he has a head that is as soft as a velvet painting of Jesus and I cannot resist trying to cover it with layers of kissies. The other day I came home to find that my dogs had ransacked my potatoes. There were 4 of them scattered around the house. One in the living room, one in the kitchen and two in my bed. I threw away two of them and let them keep the other two because they were enjoying them so much (and had eaten half of them). They kept bringing them into bed with us and I kept pitching them back out. We kept up this charade until I gave up, as they knew I would, and I went to sleep with 2 dogs, 2 potatoes, one rope toy, 2 books, my 2 remotes, and me all sardine-canned in to a full sized bed. I should be embarrassed by how much I spoil my dogs, and I am a little, but I love those little sh*ts so much and I have never been a good disciplinarian. I set his birthday on the 5th on purpose, because I wanted something positive the day after something negative, which is the anniversary of my being diagnosed with MS.

Eight years ago yesterday I got the news that I got the MS from sitting on an infected toilet seat, probably at a store somewhere. I really should use those paper seat covers, but I didn't think I would ever contract anything. How naive I was, putting my bare arse all over toilet seats wherever I went, never for one moment stopping to think of the possible consequences! Nah, I just had to give the public what they want, a reason to treat me as a person with a communicable disease. The thing about having MS for this long is getting over having MS at all, whether that is good or bad, I leave to each person to decide for themselves. I'm not saying I don't hate it or get frustrated by it, but I no longer rage and shake my fist at my crappy immune system. In fact, I am not even doing any of the DMDs anymore. I remember in the early days after being diagnosed, whenever I heard of someone willingly not doing any of the DMDs, I thought they must be crazy. I never thought I would be one of those who stopped clutching my sheets with sweaty palms at night, worrying about not having that 30% (more or less) reduction in disease activity or whatever, but here I am not caring. I was getting so bad about giving myself my shot that I only did it once or twice a week, just to be able to show my family an itchy red welt to prove I still was doing my shot, kind of. I talked to my neurologist about it, we tested me for the virus (is it JCV, JVC?) that excludes you from taking Tysabri. I tested positive (good thing I quit doing Tysabri) so that was out, and she and I agreed to stop with the facade of doing Copaxone because there is no benefit to taking it so little, and just waiting for some of these new meds to make their ways down the pipeline. Now I have 3 months of Copaxone chilling out in my fridge, waiting for a good home. I would like to find someone who is really struggling with being able to afford it to give it to. It is house broken, crate trained, and ready to cuddle with its forever family. If interested, contact Blindbeard at Blindbeard's MS Medicine Rescue.

Lastly, I have a few words to say about architecture. The other day Princess asked me how it feels to play the same game that little kids play. She was talking about my enjoyment of Angry Birds. Yes, it may seem like a game for little kids, but that is only if you look strictly at the graphics. Those damn egg stealing pigs are architectural geniuses! Their structures are marvels of engineering! If we could build stuff as ridiculously strong and stable as they do, no tornado or hurricane could ever destroy any home or building, EVER! There is more to the game than just flinging birds at those irritating, albeit very cute, pigs. It takes some finesse and figuring to bring down those structures. I get so angry at those pigs, I swear I'm going to have bacon for my next meal. Princess hates when I say that because it makes her hungry for bacon. I'm just hungry for revenge and my eggs back! The only complaint I have, other than their building skills, is how they get black eyes and lose teeth. It makes me feel bad, but then they smile when I don't beat the level and I swear I'm having bacon as soon as I finish that level and go to the store, or they give me my eggs back, whichever comes first.

Critique

As if I didn't suck enough, I now have cluster headaches. I don't know if I wrote about my eyeball pain last year when it started, but I sure didn't hold back around here. I have done all the scans, went through too much none-too-cheap medicines trying to treat a sinus infection that didn't exist, pondered the possibility that 3 times EVERY day at the same time someone took a sledgehammer to the left side of my face/head and for some reason I didn't notice them sneaking up on me, because we all know how much that happens, and finally when all those possibilities were ruled out, cluster headache was the only thing left. I figured it out by myself, because lets face it, the doctors most certainly weren't awake with me in the middle of the night trying to figure out how that person with a sledgehammer got me again. I was looking up how painful gout is and stumbled across a list of the worst pain people can have. Gout is on that list, that list that has as the number one most horrid pain cluster headaches with a description that was exactly what I was going through. Since they hit at the same 3 times every day, I prepare for them as well as one can. I take pain meds at night that make me fuzzy around the edges and make my reading comprehension so low that it is pointless for me to try reading, so I have been watching movies. I am finally getting around to all those movies that I have been meaning to watch for years (and years and years) but just never got around to. I'm trying to stick with classics and any suggestions you may have would be greatly appreciated. Here is my critique of a few.

The Godfather

I have been meaning to watch this movie for years but never wanted to take the time to do it. I don't do good with too long of movies because I get restless unless they are excellent movies. The Godfather, as I'm sure you know, IS excellent. I have watched it so many times, and even now am thinking about getting it from the library again today. My first book is going to be "Things I Would Do Sexually To A Young Al Pacino". And there would be sequels. Many, many sequels. When my eyes first clamped on to him, my pants burst into flames and every time I see young him again my pants burn up. Too bad that I wasn't even born yet when that movie was made. Such a damn good movie and such a damn hot man. That is the definition of win-win right there!

Seven Brides For Seven Brothers

Have you seen this movie? It is so ridiculous yet so much fun and the songs get stuck in my head. Even talking about it I get, "Bless yore beautiful hide, wherever you may beeeee!" playing in my head. I have watched is several times and have enjoyed it each time, damn it! It amuses me that women back when that movie was made sang at such a high pitch. One minute they are talking in a normal voice, then the next they break out in a song in a pitch that can shatter glass.

Some Like It Hot

I LOVE LOVE LOVE this movie! I am going to have to buy it because I have renewed it from the library 3 times and that is the limit. Jack Lemmon as a woman is so friggin' hilarious, and how can you not love Marilyn Monroe in it? She is so cute and I love how she has curves, she's not built like a 12 year old boy like women in movies are now. The pointy boobs are really pointy and you can tell it's a different time by how the men pat the women on the butt and the comments they make that would get them in trouble these days. When Jack Lemmon gets engaged to that man is my favorite part and I have watched it and laughed at it over and over again.

I have more that I will add later, and, like I said above, I am open to any suggestions. There are a few that I really want to mention but I don't want to not give them the full paragraph that they deserve. (If there is anyone who is interested, I can talk more about my cluster headaches, or if you want to tell me about yours, that would be great too. I would love to hear how you deal with it.)

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.

How To Lose 200lbs Of Ugly Fat

It is called Divorce. You may have heard of it. You may have already used it, successfully. You may even recommend it to friends who are wanting to lose their own mass of ugly fat. It is a painful, yet oddly freeing, diet. I am currently on this particular diet, needing to lose those last stubborn 200lbs because they are annoying, irritating, frustrating, discombobulating, infuriating, and, worst of all, tenacious. The only good thing about this mass of fat is how easily I can irritate it, having known it for 12+ years now, I know what buttons to push to make it just as frustrated as me.

We finally decided that it was time to do this. Actually, he was pushing for it because the woman he was seeing, who turned out to be a real peach but more about that later, kept asking him how his divorce was coming along. Silly man, thinking with his twigs and berries instead of his brain, tried to work out a plan for he and I to get together and see an attorney to hammer out a deal and get this whole thing rolling. He has been so gung ho to get me there and pin me down (sadly, both ways that can be taken are accurate) that it made me suspicious. So this woman went and done got herself her own attorney. Said mound of ugly fat was soooo happy about that, he yelled, hooted, hollered and boo hoo-ed to me about it for a good half hour, telling me how much he hated me and amusing me very much. We hung up, I went back to my book, and 20 minutes later he called me back, considerably calmer, to talk about it. Because neither he nor I give a hoot about the other's way of seeing it, we just stop as soon as we catch ourselves starting to try to explain how we see it. It's pointless. At this point, we cannot sympathize with the other.

I was surprised that he called me back so quickly. I figured he would be digging up his jar of pennies and moving them to a new spot. But he wanted to call me to sing, "I just called to saaaaaaay I haaaaaaaaate youuuuuuu!" at which point we both laughed and started changing love songs into hate songs. Don't get me wrong, we are both brimming with hate for the other, especially as it could have been so different if we had just made some different choices along the way. He is so irate with having to divide up the marital assets/money, that I can't resist messing with him. Case in point, I offered to go halves on a cabin with him once this is over. I think he popped a few blood vessels over that one, but it helps me deal with the stress of this all if we can at least joke about it a little. Like him telling me that if we can work out a deal and not have to fight this out in court, he might be willing to not delete my number and still be my friend. Gee, how can I not be thrilled with that offer.

Lastly, this wonderful woman he was dating turned out to be seeing an ex of hers on the side. She has turned out to be the gift that just keeps on giving because it seems the whole town, except my ex, knew about it. So not only was she cheating on him, she pushed him into getting a divorce when I would have been content to just stay separated forever. Instead, he decided that he really wants to have to give me some of our marital pennies. The moral of this story, if it ain't broke, don't fix it!

What Color Is Swamp Ass?

It is imperative that I know the answer to that burning question because I am trying to draw the Swamp Ass Swamp and can't seem to find just the right color. At first, I was drawing the swamp as the starting point for a game board to mark progress for my little sister, who has just started a vet tech program that is accelerated and promising to be an intense next 2 years. But then things took a turn that I was not interested in them taking, and now I find myself in that swamp with Sugarbowl, trying to navigate my way to the finish line. Why did I have to make such a long path to the finish? It wasn't so bad when I wasn't on that path with Sugarbowl -- I don't mind others' suffering, only my own -- but now all the obstacles that I have to go through seem very obstacle-y and long.

Before I go into why I am now a player in that game, let me give a rundown of the board itself. I took Cookie Monster and Burt out of my Walk Along Sesame Street game, cut out pictures of my face and Sugarbowl's, and stuck them over their faces. I am Burt and she is Cookie Monster. We start out mired in the Swamp Ass Swamp, ride the Beginner's High roller coaster, which then plunges us into the Homework Ocean. From there we must navigate our way through the I Have To Stick My Finger Where forest. I'm looking forward to that forest strictly to enjoy Sugarbowl having to lift tails and insert her digits, and hearing how she deals with it. And that promises to be a great story, she having the most sensitive gag reflex of anyone I have ever known, and anal glands being the worst thing I have ever had the displeasure of smelling. From there we will mosey into the swirly twirly Slumpy Mountains. They being so swirly and twirly one must go slow through them, hence the hideous slumpy-ness of them. I fear those slumpy mountains because I really hate the slumps. If we make it safely through those, we enter the dark tunnel of Is There A Light At The End. If we can find the light, it is the light of our goals. It's going to be one heck of a journey and I most certainly was not interested in traversing this path, but traverse it I must, because. . .

I found out earlier this month that my ex has started dating someone. The shock of that put me into a pity party in the middle of the Swamp Ass Swamp. It's not that I begrudge him dating, it's that I want to be able to go out and do those kinds of things that can result in meeting someone, instead of turning into a pumpkin at the hour when most people are gearing up to go out. And then my pity party really got rocking and rolling when I started thinking about who could possibly want to be with me. I have no money, no energy, but plenty of MS that promises more fun in the future. When I was saying this to Princess, she came and put her arms around me, told me that she wants me, and that she loves me more than I love her, which is not possible, but very nice to hear anyway. I have to be 100% honest and admit that the hurt of him moving on is at least equal to all the other hurt from not being able to go tear up the town myself. Why does someone getting over you hurt so bad? And why does it mire me so deep in that swamp? At least I have a game board to track my progress to my goal of. . . not sure what my goal is, but I will let you know when I figure it out.