Baby Got a Frozen Back

Before I begin, here is a little back – (ha!) – ground, so that you don’t think that this is just about my booty. The lower part of my back is frozen for a number of reasons, one of which is that the damage to my spine has caused me to lose the natural s-curve of a normal back. It’s most apparent in my lumbar spine where it’s very noticeable how flat it is. (Or at least it’s very noticeable to me, and it makes me self-conscious.) Part of my physical therapy is to strengthen my core enough to keep this from becoming worse. But just “keeping it from getting worse” is not good enough for me, so even though it’s a long shot, I’m working extremely hard to make my core strong enough to pull my spine – at least somewhat – back into shape. I’ve been doing the physical therapy since July, but I started taking pictures in December to document my progress for when I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing. I was comparing December’s pictures to my current ones when this conversation happened.

“Well, get ready for people to ask if you’re half reindeer,” I told my mother as she blasted past me on one of her laps around the first floor of the house to get in her steps.
“What?” she asked rounding the corner and going into the next room.
“Half reindeer,” I shouted knowing full well that she had no idea what I was talking about, but this is the kind of antagonistic shit I do.

Another bit of back – (ha!) – ground is that I have nerve damage in my spine that extends into my flanks. The right side is the worst, but the left isn’t exactly stellar either. The nerve damage made it so that I was not contracting my glutes and quads – which in turn contributed to weakness that further damaged my spine, and you can see how this is a vicious cycle… But when muscles are not contracting they start to atrophy. This is what happened to my glutes, however I need to point out that my healthy butt never actually got smaller, it just spread lower.

“Oh. Okay,” my mother answered as she turned the corner back into the kitchen where I was holding up my phone.
“Because of my ass,” I finally told her.
“There’s nothing wrong with your ass,” she said as she continued down the hall. “Would you rather have no ass? Those flat asses looks terrible.”
“That would be impossible for me, but look!” I yelled after her.
She went around the other room and came into the kitchen again.
“Look at what my ass looks like now compared to a few months ago.” I stood in her path so that she would be forced to re-examine the side by side picture I had created to compare the curvature of my spine.
“Wow,” she said taking in the picture a moment and then stepping around me to continue walking. “It’s like an Oompa Loompa,” she added over her shoulder.


“It’s like a what?” I gaped at her retreating back. My mind whirled with visions of Oompa Loompas. I could see them in their little white overalls. Did they have big booties under there? Is she saying that my ass itself looks like an Oompa Loompa? What the hell did she mean?
“An Oompa Loompa! You know,” she shouted back. And part of me wondered if this wasn’t retribution for the “half reindeer” I’d thrown at her a minute earlier except that, unlike me, my mother is not a tool.
“Yes, I know what an Oompa Loompa is,” I told her as she came back into the kitchen. “I just did not know that I had one for an ass. I gotta say that’s one I’ve never called before.”

And here is where I would like to pause and just throw it out there how much I take exception to all of the women who are now doing workouts to grow their booties after the hell they put me and my friends through for having an ass back in the day. All you Beckys can just sit down on your Spongebob asses and have a seat.

My mother paused in her stride and gave me a completely affronted look.
“I did not say that your ass looked like an Oompa Loompa,” she insisted. “What I meant was it looked like an Oompa Loompa should appear because of the way it blew up!”
I was dumbstruck.
“You know how they appear and sing a song after Violet blows up? Well it looks like they should be here to do that with how fast your butt blew up.” She didn’t wait for a reply, continuing her walk down the hall.

And that’s when I went rolling across the floor.

via Gfycat

And since it’s mostly just friends (Hi Joann!) that come on here now, I’ll even share the incriminating photo. And yeah, I’ll admit that, even though it wasn’t a goal, my booty does look better, but the reason that I made this side by side has to do with the doorknob behind me. The doorknob is the frame of reference I use to measure the curve of my back, and though it’s difficult to see…

My back is curving slightly more into place than it did three months ago.

I’m not crying, you’re crying.

~fin~

If you want to read more ridiculous conversations I’ve had with my mother, you can click the My Family is Crazier Than Yours category. This will bring up stories with all of the characters in the asylum, or you can just jump to everyone’s favorite story about my mother, “When Mothers Yell to Bite Them“.

Have a Social Distance Christmas

For no good reason at all I wrote this little ditty “Have a Social Distance Christmas”.


Much like my COVID19 holiday card suggestions, I’m trying to use humor to get me through this social distance Christmas. The phrase “social distance Christmas” lit up my brain so much that I ended up muttering it to the tune of Burl Ives’ “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas”, and then I just couldn’t be stopped. I ended up bastardizing the entire song into a cautionary tale about staying away from your loved ones this Christmas, and am presenting it to you all. Yay for new Christmas carols!

(The radio plays “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” a bajillion times between November and New Year’s, but in case you’re not familiar, here is the song, including the original lyrics.)

Have a social distance Christmas
And did I say fuck this year?
2-0-2-0, boy did you blow
And you can kiss my rear

Have a social distance Christmas
And when you walk down the street
Say hello? Oh hell no
I don’t care there’s six feet

No, no, no mistletoe
Do you want to get COVID19?
How far does that swab go?
Oh just wait you’ll see

Have a social distance Christmas
And in case you didn’t hear
Oh by golly, you just better keep your distance
This year

(Have a social distance Christmas
A middle finger to this year…)

Have a social distance Christmas
Just stay off my street
Say hello? You’ll catch an elbow
No hands but you’ll get beat

Oh, no, you just gotta go
It’s your face I don’t wanna see
“Somebody waits for you”
Nope. They’re not seeing me

Have a social distance Christmas
And in case I wasn’t clear,
Oh by golly I just better not see your ass
This year!

Now that you’ve finished it, I’d just like to say I’m not sorry.

Five Sentences

After talking to a friend who has, what appears to me to be, a nice, simple life – been married thirteen (?) years, has one son, one daughter, goes on vacations every year, they both have good jobs and they’re all healthy – I had a bit of a sulk where I thought that’s what I want and why couldn’t I have had that? It didn’t help that I’d had yet another disappointing appointment with a new doctor just a few hours before, but I decided that I was going to give up (again) on the road less traveled and forget all the reasons that I stopped working full-time because it’s not helped me control my health conditions any better and nothing is working out how I thought.

Then a neighbor posted in the community group that there was a baby raccoon in his driveway and what should he do about it. Most people suggested the wildlife refuge that was about thirty minutes away, but he said that he called and no one could come out for it. I asked if they would accept the baby raccoon if someone drove it there and to my surprise the guy said the refuge would if someone wanted to come over and get the baby and transport it to the facility.

So less than two hours after deciding to just trying being normal and having a normal life, I’m driving through the middle of the woods with a baby raccoon in the backseat looking for a wildlife refuge as daylight quickly fades away. Thankfully the GPS in my phone didn’t crap out – which it usually does in these cases – and I found the hospital with minimal incident. Judging by my semi-trained eyes, Baby Rocket somehow lost his mother and was suffering from dehydration and a slight eye infection, but unfortunately I won’t be able to get an update for 90 days.

I’ve had a few people ask me why the guy who found the raccoon didn’t take it to the refuge himself and to be honest I don’t know and I didn’t ask. There were two younger children in the backyard of his two story gingerbread house and maybe no one else was home to watch his kids while he drove thirty minutes into the woods with a wild animal. Or maybe he didn’t care enough. There are people who “do” and people who “do not”, and since we don’t know why people do not, it’s better to leave it alone. I told my mother – as usual she was drawn into this adventure despite my protests for her to stay home – that I felt like this baby raccoon needing help was God’s way of saying to me, Really? You want an easy, simple life? Or do you want to be a person who jumps in the car and rescues a baby raccoon on a Friday night? Of course we both already knew the answer.

Thank you to my dear friend, Stacy. Last night – even before the raccoon rescue – he encouraged me to write even five sentences a day. I gave five paragraphs this time, but yesterday was a big day. This is about the best readability you’re gonna get though.

R.I.P., sir.
Pic that was posted of Baby that started this all. Doesn’t give a good reference to his size because he’s only about as big as a large kitten.

Hammered, Head & Obnoxious Dogs: Moving ala Kat

I’ve discovered why people lose things during a move.

It’s because that while you start out packing things all nice and organized–Wonder Woman collection in one box, nunchucks and other weapons in another box, handcuffs, vibrators and flavoured body paint in a third–you eventually get to the point where you don’t give a fuck where things are packed as long as they are in a box and the hell away from you.

It’s particularly unwise to be disorganized while packing when your mother is offering to help you unpack.

(“Kat, I was unpacking your towels and came across a box labeled “Sir Thumps-alot” that was mixed in with them.  There’s a buzzing sound coming from it.”)

Despite my mother’s help, I’m still settling in so I’m way behind on my blog roll and on returning the comment love.  I’ll catch up soon though.  I usually wouldn’t do another post before I’ve caught up, but writing helps me maintain what semblance of sanity I have so I’ve decided to tell you about the moving day madness.

Moving day was as I imagine childbirth is like in that during it I was sweating, cursing and the male members of my family were terrified that I was going to flip out and scream and cry at them, and that by the end of the day I was exhausted and bleeding.

I awoke at around 4:30am on moving day.  And when I say “awoke” I mean that I just decided to pull my zombie ass out the bed since I hadn’t actually slept in over a week.  I had a few things to finish packing before my brother and BFF arrived to help with the move, so I got out my pile of newspaper to begin wrapping.  Kira, however, decided that I wasn’t under enough stress so she decided to play “Let’s Be As Obnoxious As Possible”.

This game begins with your dog blasting into your pile of newspaper like a fucking maniac and scattering them all over the place.

scattered papers

Thanks, Kira.

Then she grabs your Domo stuffed animal which you are trying to pack along with the other Halloween things and takes off with it.

(Seriously, Kira does not play even play with her own stuffed toys so this was completely just her being a brat.)

((I don’t have a picture of this because I was too busy chasing Kira down to get the damn animal back.  I eventually decided that I didn’t care and let her shake the shit out of it.))

Finally, when your BFF brings you doughnut for breakfast (because pink doughnuts are the breakfast of champions, ya’all), your dog proceeds to smack around the bag containing the doughnut with a fury that would be the envy of any pimp.

american eskimo dog, pink doughnut, dunkin' donuts

Kira wants this doughnut. Oh yes she does.

After playing this charming game with my dog, I then heard tales of my mother trying to take apart and move an old entertainment center from the spare bedroom where I would sleeping.  Apparently the screwdriver wasn’t working so she just took a hammer and smashed the bastard apart.

smashed furniture

The remains of the battle left by Mumma’s Hammer

I was unaware until that day that, not only had I received my love of slutty boots from my mother, but also my destructive nature.  To prove that the psychotic apple doesn’t fall far from the insane tree, I too employed a hammer about an hour later when I was trying to take apart an inversion table.  The only difference is that I called my hammer Mjolnir and declared myself to be Thor while doing it.

We were in the final process of carefully moving haphazardly throwing the furniture into my mother’s house when I nearly split my forehead open.  BFF was holding my iron coffee table frame with the legs facing out and I decided to headbutt the bottom of one leg.  This was not BFF’s fault at all, I’m seriously just a major klutz who walks into shit like this.  And what made the situation even worse was that while my mother and BFF searched in panic for a bag of ice to stop the swelling I could not stop laughing.  Again this is about par for me to be laughing my face off while blood trickles down from a huge goose egg erupting on my forehead.

Once the swelling subsided, and the final pieces of furniture were moved, we went to do what I do best–drink Tequila–because when you have a possible concussion it’s a good idea to suck down two margaritas as quickly as you can.

margarita

I held it against my forehead to keep the swelling down so this was for medicinal purposes.

I might not have drank my ‘ritas as quickly except that our waiter was totally vibing on BFF and kept bringing us booze.  And I drank it because that’s the kind of friend I am to sacrifice my liver to get my bestie some nookie.  Unfortunately BFF was not drinking so the efforts of our enamored waiter did not impress him at all.

Don’t worry, I still drank enough for two people.

Thus concluded Major Moving Day.

Mini Moving Day Mini Post tomorrow.

The Hazards of My Bed

Even a badass, independent chick such as myself sometimes really needs a guy in her bed – namely Mr. Sandman.  He’s been avoiding me for the past few weeks and if he’s cheating on me with some slut, I will find him and cut off his sandbags.

Mr. Sandy should know better than to test me because I’m always a dangerous individual, but even more so when I’m in an insomnia phase.

The Reign of Kat’s Insomnia Terror began when I was about twelve.  (Yes Sandy and I have been in a dysfunctional relationship since I was twelve years old.  He couldn’t even wait until I was a teenager.  The fucking pig.)

It started when my parents couldn’t figure out why I was having difficulty staying awake during the day.  The mystery was solved when my mother woke up in the middle of the night to find me trying to get out the back door.  When she asked me what I was doing I replied by making some kind of unholy snarling and grumbling.  My mother called a priest and after being assured that I wasn’t possessed, she concluded that I was just sleep walking.

My parents thought that a change of location might cure my nightly excursions so I went to live with my grandparents after this.  The plan seemed to work until one night, about a week after I’d moved in, my grandmother was startled from her sleep to a scream of, “Oh SHIT!” followed by the sound of someone shaking her huge antique writing desk in the den.  (FYI, this was during the brief period between my profane toddlerhood and adulthood when I was not prone to foul language, so my grandmother was pretty shocked by my outburst.) My grandmother asked me what I was doing and in an annoyed voice told her I was looking for my sister. Since my sister lived fifty miles away my grandmother concluded I was sleepwalking. 

The next night, my grandparents were still awake when I took my nightly jaunt.  I silently sat down with them at the dining room table with a glazed look on my face.

“Are you okay, Kat?” my grandmother asked.

I continued to stare at the wall.

“You’re sleep walking, Kat.  Why don’t you go back to bed?”

I answered my grandmother by picking up their ashtray, which by that time of night was overflowing with the remains of two chain-smokers depositing ashes into it for the entire day, and then taking a deep breath, and spitting as hard as I possibly could into the ashtray, causing an explosion of ash to erupt from the tray and cover my grandmother, my grandfather, the dining room table, the carpet, and the dogs with cigarette ash.

After a third night of my roaming the house (it must have been uneventful because I never heard the details of it) my grandmother took to booby-trapping the house because, since I showed no signs of discontinuing my nightly constitutionals, she was afraid that one night I’d make it to the backyard. She strategically placed chairs and puppy gates in the hallway to my room as well as the front and back doors, saying that this way she would hear me when I tripped and crashed to the floor if I tried to get out…  Somehow, even though I continued to sleep walk throughout high school, I made it through without ever tripping and breaking some part of my darling body.

Nowadays Mr. Sandy and I still are often at odds, though I at least don’t sleep walk anymore.  No, as was discovered during the time that I was living with my ex, my insomnia has taken an even more dangerous aspect.

One sleepless night I was feeling particularly frustrated with my insomnia, so I poked my ex in the back until he woke up.

“Oh you’re awake!” I said as he rolled to face me.

“You were poking me,” he grumbled. “What? What do you want?” .

“I can’t sleep.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well…” I batted my eyelashes and twirled a lock of hair.

Ex rolled his eyes. “I’m tired. Just close your eyes and you’ll eventually fall asleep.”

“No I won’t!” I pouted.

Actually I did, which was a fucking miracle since I was frustrated on two fronts at that point. Unfortunately, as often happened when I managed to doze off during an insomnia phase, I had a nightmare.  In this dream a old man in a wife beater and boxers was kicking me.  I wasn’t kicking his ass back because he was an old man and it wouldn’t be fair, so in the dream I was finally caught his leg and dug my claws into his calf so he couldn’t kick my anymore.

“OW!” he screamed and tried to squirm away.

I dug my nails deeper as he struggled to kick me again. “I just want you to stop kicking me!” I yelled at him.

“OWWW!” he screamed again. “OWWWWW!  STOP! STOP!

At this point I woke up to discover that I had curled up against my ex – as I would often do in my sleep to his annoyance – and using all of my finger strength to sink my claws into his shoulder and back.

“Why did you do that?!” he screamed.

“I was dreaming!  I’m sorry!” Unfortunately I was laughing my face off while apologizing, so he doubted my sincerity.

This is why when a girlfriend of mine was recently talking about how she has a “no sleep over rule” with guys because she doesn’t want them to get clingy, I told her that I have that rule, only it’s for their own safety.

 

In closing you might have noticed that I tend to go through insomnia when I’m particularly stressed.  And what with moving, packing, working crazy hours and putting a deadline on finishing my novel, I can’t imagine why I’d be having difficulty sleeping.*

*Only another week or so of Kat’s moving bullshit and then we’ll be back to regular bullshit.  And posts that’s aren’t quite so long–geez!