Two Oh Two Whoah

What could be more fun than having precarious health and no sense of direction, other than having precarious health and no sense of direction in the middle of a pandemic. Oh, and living in the second most COVID-19 infected state in the most infected country in the world. Thankfully I’m at least in the part of New Jersey that is considered a suburb of Philly rather than in the north. (Actually I’m always thankful for that since, as anyone from New Jersey will tell you, the north and the south hate each other.) But yeah, it’s been one hell of a month.

I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half trying to think of how to make this a cohesive post and I can’t do it. The Depression Monster is bearing down on me and while that usually breeds better writing for me, that’s not the case today. Being one of the vulnerable members of society meant that I had to begin social distancing before most people even knew what that was, but then I managed to come down with a fever the Friday before last and that was a complete nightmare. The chances that I had contracted COVID-19 were slim but I still had to isolate as if I had it, and of course because of the country’s ridiculously limited resources, I wasn’t able to be tested to prove otherwise. The scary thing is that I was most likely experiencing a Lupus flare, and thank God that it didn’t become complicated, but it made me realize how fragile I am – a fact that I still do my best to ignore. That realization, along with the current state of things, has me in a funk. I don’t do well just sitting still. It’s a skill I’m trying to develop but I’m not good at it. However if there was every a time to embrace the art of being still this would be it. So much like the rest of the world I’m sitting, which is probably for the best since I don’t even know where I’m supposed to be going yet. I suppose none of us do.

Dribs & Drabs

  • As you can tell I am writing these entries without any regard to SEO, readability, or images because I would use all of those as an excuse to not write. This entry is shit but at least I wrote.
  • I again made it by the skin of my teeth by posting my monthly entry on the very last day. Hopefully the day will come again when I’ll write for inspiration rather than obligation.
  • Stay inside, everyone. If you do have to go out, wash your hands like you ate a bag of Cheetos and have to put your contacts in.

20/20

You know you’ve been neglectful of your so-called blog when a friend who has been following your blog for nearly ten (holy shit!) years sends you a message to see if your blog has been hacked because she got an email that a new post has been published. It of course didn’t help that said post was one from ten years ago that I tweaked last month when I did my annual Year In Review and it somehow published as if it was new, but ultimately my protracted absence is to blame. And because I assured her that not only had I not been hacked, but was going to aim for a post a month now, I’m blathering this out now.

I’ll just put it out there: I’m in a weird place right now.

When I began checking out of the blogging scene in 2013 it was because the tip of gigantic iceberg of health issues had appeared on the horizon for me. I was, at most, marginally concerned, and only that much because I didn’t have health insurance. But the thought that it would change my life, that I’d have to adapt so much, that despite my astronomical force of will I wouldn’t still be able to do whatever the fuck I wanted didn’t occur to me. I’ve had health issues my entire life so it was old hat to me, in fact it had felt almost abnormal that I’d gone as many years as I had without an endless schedule of doctor visits, tests, and procedures. So, much like the Titanic, I cranked up the engine and plowed right into that iceberg, feeling the same shockwave as the ship felt when it realized it was not indestructible.

So yeah. Health could be better. But it could be a lot worse, so I always remind myself of that whenever I started to feel sorry for myself, which I will admit has been more than a handful of times particularly since early 2017.

Unfortunately when your health is compromised it pretty much means your entire life is compromised. My professional life is in a holding pattern because I don’t know what I’m physically able to handle. My beautiful flowers –

And that’s where I had to stop because I just broke down sobbing. Don’t feel bad; I needed to do it because, in addition to my physical and professional states, my mental state could be better. I’ve a problem letting my feelings out so when I break down like that – suddenly and when I’m alone and can ugly-cry without embarrassment – it means that the pressure valve on a pot that I didn’t realize was boiled has been released a little. This is definitely not the worst I’ve ever mentally felt though and that is a huge blessing – though my professional self might argue that at least I write better when I’m depressed. I will say that I’m just really tired and all I see every way I turn is work to be done. Physical work to try to get my malfunctioning body to perform better. School work to get a stupid degree that I don’t really need but just want. Emotional work dealing with the major changes that happened in the past two years. Spiritual work to know I’m doing what I’m supposed to do.

We’re two months out of this year already and I still don’t know which end is up, but here’s hoping that 2020 will be the year that I see clearer.

Dribs & Drabs

  • I updated the (anti)social media links in the widget. I sometimes still on Twitter but I’m not clever enough to be on there often, and I’m never on Pinterest, and G+ went down the tubes (big shock), and ironically the one on the most is Instagram and that was missing so those are updated
  • If you do follow me on Instagram don’t expect much. It’s basically dogs and cake. (Though what else do you need, right?)
  • I started baking. I’m going to be very un-hip here and say that it’s not a business, I have no intentions of making it a business, and I couldn’t make it a business even if I wanted to because I’m not very good at it since I’m adapting recipes to be allergy safe.
  • Thank you, Trish, for seeing if I had been hacked. Not only do I appreciate the concern, but by talking to you I was held accountable to write this entry which only made it into February because it’s a Leap Year. Hope you are enjoying your trip!

More Shit That’s Pretty Cool!

I feel like lately my posts sound like a first grader coming home from school hyperventilating to their parent about everything that happened that day.

“And then this happened and this happened and then THIS happened!”

But a lot has happened already this year and I’m still trying to organize and process it, and I’m bringing you all along on the ride because who likes to go on road trips alone right? I mean, it’s a lot easier to siphon gas from people’s cars when you have a lookout.

That said, I’ve mentioned in passing that I have some heart issues.

Over the past twenty years I’ve been to half a dozen cardiologists, tried a number of medications and had surgery twice. It seemed like the last surgery I had in 2010 had done the trick until about June of last year when I started to really feel like shit again. I didn’t want to have another surgery I had to go down the medication experimentation route–and let me tell you how much fun this was because I’m one of those people where if there’s a 1% chance of a bizarre side effect I will be that 1%.

Over the year I ended up trying so many different meds that I was seriously losing track of which one I currently taking. In April the doctor decided to think outside the box and prescribed me two new meds. The first thing that I noticed when I picked up the meds from the pharmacy was that the one bottle was a lot larger than usual. I unscrewed the cap and made a face at the contents.

“Holy shit these things are huge! Are you sure they’re meant for humans and not for horses?” I asked him.

“That’s them,” he replied without looking up.

“Well there should a Linda Lovelace instructional video that comes with them because I have no idea how I’m supposed to get these down my gullet.”

The eighty-year-old pharmacist finally gave me his attention and gave me a dirty look. That was good enough for me so I grabbed my bag of horse pills and left.

I took the pills as soon as I got home–which was not the best idea since I was going to fall asleep soon but I’m impatient like that.

And this is going to sound cliched but when I woke up the next morning I already felt like a different person.

Seriously it was like this:
awwww yeeaaa riding on a t-rex

Over the next three months I continued to feel better but it wasn’t until I happened to see a recent picture of me next to a picture from a few months ago in a Facebook album that it I realized just how shitty I had felt and how shitty I looked this past year.

I’m not completely fixed–I still get tired and I still have the occasional arrhythmia–but I’m feeling so much better and most importantly I’m writing a lot more efficiently since I’m not fighting to stay awake all the time. That right there is worth choking down some horse pills every morning.

That Awkward Moment When You Want To Maim Someone and Buy a Hat Instead

Remember that time you were invited to a Derby themed bridal shower and you went to print out the gift card from their online registry and found that your hamburger-humper of a brother had used all of the ink in your printer and you didn’t have any choice but to break your vow about never going in a store that ended in “Mart” unless it was to burn it down to buy ink and then have your patience severely tested by a total fucking asshole?

Oh wait, no that was me.

My mother and I had a bridal shower to attend yesterday morning and in true Kat fashion I waited until the last minute to get our gift. In my defense I’m busy as a motherfuck and it also should have been very simple since the couple had only registered for gifts for their honeymoon so it was only supposed to be placing an order online and printing the gift receipt to put in a card.

(Don’t try to fathom this kind of registry–it belongs in a world where bridal showers have themes and the hors d’heurves are lobster tails and I feel like friggin’ E.T. whenever I visit.)

But of course nothing is ever that easy and so I discovered at 8am on a Sunday morning when no stores are open that I was out of ink. The shower was at 11am so I had to go to the one place that was open: K-Mart. My only hope was that most of the morons of the world would still be asleep.

HA!

After nearly being hit in the parking lot by a jackass driving across the parking space to beat me to a parking spot, I made it into the store. I grabbed my ink and was making my way to the check-out when I passed the accessories section. We had been informed on the shower invitation to wear “our fanciest Derby hats” and even though I was originally going to be a brat and wear my Wonder Woman baseball hat, I decided to play nice and grabbed a hat for my mother and me.

There was only one register opened and already three people waiting when I reached the check-out but luckily the first two people moved quickly. And then came the third person. I knew he was going to be an asshole when he dumped a pocketful of change on the counter as the cashier scanned his item.

“6.40 please,” she told him.fucking angry

The fuckface gestured at the pile of change. “Count it out,” he grunted.

The poor girl sorted the pile and informed him that he needed another two dollars so he pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and another pile of change that she was forced to count.

“You still need fifteen cents,” she said meekly. She sounded so sorry that I wanted to slam the guy’s head on the counter for making the girl feel so uncomfortable besides wasting my time.

The guy rummaged around in his shorts for a few moments and then shrugged. “I gotta run back to my crib and get some more,” he finally told her.

My first thought was that there are approximately twenty-two and a half feet of intestine in a human being so if I yanked his out through his nostril I would have more than enough to strangle him with it, but then I thought of the girl at the register and how she would have to void his sale and then have to go through this again when the asshole came back.

“Here!” I finally snapped digging in my bag and producing a quarter.

The girl gave me a grateful look while the motherfucking douchebag asswipe who I had just helped walked away with his bag and didn’t even look at me much less say thank you.

“You’re a really nice person,” the girl told me smiling as she rang up my two hats.

“No I’m not,” I snarled. “I’m a bitch and I’m going to run him over when I see him in the parking lot.”

The girl laughed.

And I sighed.

It’s impossible to be terrifying when you’re buying two frilly Derby hats.

***

Three quick things:
I sound like a broken record but I’m still crazy busy, in fact I’m covering at my “part time” job and working doubles. The good news though is that kickassness is happening, but I’m waiting because it warrants a post of its own. Stay tuned for awesomeness that will probably include putting a Wonder Woman crown on my dog.

wonder woman, eskimo dog, wonder eskimo

 

The Ballad of Seamus O’Horny

So…
Having a boy dog has been quite a learning experience.

As I mentioned in my last entry, I adopted a boy Eskie and I wasn’t aware of how much I had apparently forgotten about boy dogs in the twenty years since I had one.

My first episode of male dog ignorance happened only a few days after I adopted Seamus when I came home from work and he greeted me by rolling over for a belly rub. As I was rubbing his belly I noticed two lumps on either side of his peen. Being the calm, rational person that I am I immediately assumed that he either had undescended testicals or lymphoma. Luckily I checked Vet MD and it turns out that Seamus was just rather happy to see me. Apparently this swelling can happen even if your dog is neutered, however I was soon to discover that Seamus is not. How I discovered this charming fact is because our family dog, Lily, was in the middle of her heat when I brought Seamus home.

Fuck my life and fuck it hard.

american eskimo dog, west highland terrier

I just about pee myself laughing every time I look at this pic. Lily is pissed!

Lily being in heat wasn’t an issue at first because Seamus was too nervous about his new surroundings to pay attention to Lily’s state. This was despite the fact that Lily was walking by Seamus and wiggling her ass at him like she was in a Ludacris video. As Seamus became more comfortable though he began to notice Lily’s booty dance and the next thing I knew Seamus was trying to get jiggy with it. Once he became interested then it became a fucking circus to keep the two of them apart. Lily would fluctuate between jumping at Seamus and shaking her ass to growling at him to get away from her. Seamus, on the other hand, was acting like a sailor on shore leave and would not stop sniffing, pawing and above all whining incessantly at Lily to get it on with him. This is what he would do while she was laying down, but he would kick it up a notch when she got up to walk somewhere by adding some pretty impressive acrobatics to his wooing. To my surprise I discovered that dogs can bounce–I’m talking all four paws leaving the ground at the same time in a vertical propulsion. Those Pepe Le Pew cartoons? Not an exaggeration.

Luckily Lily’s heat cycle is pretty much finished and Seamus has chilled out however we are keeping Lily’s little knickers on her just to be safe because she’s still having bouts of trying to seduce Seamus. (And before anyone considers getting sassy with me about Lily not being spayed I’ll add that yes she should have been spayed but she wasn’t and she’s going to be thirteen years old next week so it’s not happening; I’ll likely have Seamus neutered but my brain is still too fried from Kira’s vet adventure in March to think about it right now.)

Other than my horny dog, I’ve been writing away and my next post is actually going to be about that and not my dogs.

Probably.

And Then I Ripped Out a Kitchen Faucet With My Bare Hands

Aside it being super-duper crunch time with my manuscript, another reason that posts have been sparse is because I have been so busy with super-duper crunch time that I haven’t been engaging in the world outside of my computer enough to experience the usual what-the-fuckery that inspires a good deal of my posts. Well if Mohammad won’t come to the mountain then the mountain will apparently come to Mohammad because there I was minding my own business in my own home on Saturday night when bullshit struck.

After putting in a nine hour day at my part-time job as an optometry tech, I sat down at my desk in the dining room to get some writing done. (There’s nothing like nine hours of dealing with whacko patients to inspire me to get work harder at my writing.) My mother was at her computer in the same room flipping out at Farmville.

“Did you start writing yet?” my mother asked.

“Not yet, I was still catching up on responding to tweets from Wednesday about my hair cut,” I responded.

“Oh good. Can you hit my Farmville request before you start?”

I opened another window on my computer and responded to another tweet as I waited for the game to load.

“I should have assured people that I wasn’t chopping off my hair when I mentioned getting it cut,” I told my mother. My brother had turned on the faucet in the kitchen and raised my voice a bit to be heard over the water running at full blast. “I got several messages telling me to keep it long.”

“What?” my mother asked over the sound of the water from the other room.

“My hair,” I said louder. “I should have made it clear that I never cut my above my shoulders because I like to keep it long enough that it covers my boobs if I ever forget to wear a shirt.”

“What the hell?” my mother asked.

“I know, that’s absurd,” I snickered. “With my amount of boobage I could never grow enough hair to cover them.”

“No not that,” my mother answered looking toward the kitchen. “What’s your brother doing in the sink?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like he’s rising it out.”

“Mike, what are you doing with the sink?” Mumma yelled.

“Nothing,” he shouted from the den.

My mother and I looked at each other and then bolted for the kitchen. We ran in to discover a small waterfall pouring out of cabinet under the sink and a massive pool spreading in front of it. I ripped open the cabinet door and stepped back just in time to avoid being burned by the scalding hot water that was spraying all over under the sink. I glanced inside and saw that the hot water supply line had burst. The water was now pouring out of the open cabinet only that it was too hot for me to turn off the water supply under the sink.

“Turn off the main water supply!” I shrieked.

Mumma ran into the laundry room but by the time she got the valve closed the burst water line had turned the kitchen into something out of a Kevin Costner movie. And much like a Kevin Costner movie I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I had never seen the disaster in front of me.

“I don’t feel like dealing with this,” I groaned.

“Mike you fix it!”

“I can’t. I’m drunk,” my ever-helpful brother replied. I happened to glance at the kitchen table and saw the remains of a Long Island Iced Tea sitting there.

“No you’re not,” I sneered.

“Well I’m buzzed,” he insisted.

I’ll fix it,” my mother interrupted.

angry jaguar

“I WILL EAT YOUR FACE, SINK!”

“You are not getting under a sink with scalding hot copper pipes!” I bellowed. And that was how it was decided that I was going to be spending Saturday night fixing a kitchen sink.

My mother emptied the cabinet and then I wedged myself into the cramped and soaking cabinet to survey the damaged. It was fairly easily to disconnect the supply hose from the water pipe but I could not reach the other end of the hose attached to the faucet.

A slight footnote here: the kitchen faucet had been most shittily installed only a couple of years ago and had been leaking. I had fixed it somewhat (with a broken hand at the time ’cause I am a rockstar like that) but it was never exactly perfect. My mother had bought a new faucet in preparation of a friend promising to instal it however that douche canoe kept blowing her off until she gave up.

“That’s it! We are getting rid of this piece of trash right now and I’m putting in that new faucet!” I yelled.

“Just leave it for now, Kat. We can do it in the morning,” Mumma said calmly.

“Like hell! Give me that wrench!” I again wedged myself into the damp wood of the cabinet and began banging, unscrewing bolts and cursing loudly.

“Are you sure that you’re going to be able to get it out?” my mother asked.

I wriggled out from the cabinet–which, between the garbage disposal and my aforementioned ridiculous chest, took the skill of a Circus Soleil performer–grabbed the faucet and ripped the fucker out of the counter top. “Yes,” I replied dropping the faucet into the garbage bag on the floor.

I’d like to say that all went smoothly from there, but though I am a fast learner, I know next to nothing about plumbing so that when I ran out to Lowe’s to get the needed supply line THAT DIDN’T COME WITH THE NEW FACET I bought the wrong one.

“What the fuck does FIP, MIP, OD stand for?” I snarled at Google.

Once I had figured out with a degree of confidence I realized that Lowe’s had closed. Again my mother urged me to leave the sink until the morning but there was a Home Depot not too far away and they were still open so I took off again.

“I’m 99% sure that I have the right line,” I announced when I got home thirty minutes later holding two braided silvery pipes. “And they better be,” I said shoving myself once again under the sink, “because the next time I crawl out of this cabinet I’m not going back in. So I might be sleeping in here.”

Fortunately it didn’t come to that and while it was a pleasure describing the tools I needed Mumma to hand me which I had not brought under the sink with me, I managed to install the new faucet before midnight.

new sink

The new faucet. (Also my GoT glasses kick ass.)

So that was my weekend.

(Try not to be jealous of my glamorous rockstar lifestyle.)

Dating Over Thirty And a Follow Up To The Wrongest Story Ever

I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and tumbles out of my mouth by telling her that the number is probably that high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.

She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.

As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t feel the frantic need to be in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea – I’m not one of those women screeching that she never wants to be in a relationship again while at the same time her head is swiveling in every direction for a Y chromosome – but rather, I’m okay with being on my own. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the caliber of guys that I’ve dated since my liberation. I can’t argue that they haven’t been a bunch of toads, but at least I ended it when I kissed them and they didn’t turn into a prince. I am. But apparently this is an avoidance tactic of my part.

However, I think I may have recently discovered the true reason why I’m not in a relationship ship, and this is thanks to a resurgence in popularity of the Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You post. The first time I published that, the general consensus of comments agreed that it was indeed a very wrong story.  Since the second posting though? I have received a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but imagine my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”

I replied with, “I have not.  But then I don’t date much.”

Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”

And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will probably never be in a relationship: I can honestly say that I will never, ever find someone with whom I am so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees. In fact I will happily demonstrate my love by telling him that’s his rodeo and he can handle his own lasso.

But seriously, you all have some weird relationships – which is fine, but I just don’t want to know the details of them.

Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.

true love funny

The Time I Got a Brazilian Bikini Wax at a Jewish Community Center

I’ve wondered if my life is such a fucking dramedy because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because my life is such a fucking dramedy.  Granted some of it is a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a complete innocent bystander.  I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery.  I can’t make this shit up.

For example, I was given a certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas. (Don’t ask, just go with it because that’s a story in itself.) I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo the aesthetic torture of having a stranger apply hot wax to my nether regions and then yank it off, but was assured that it was the best.  With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate.  The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website.  It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address.  I happened to notice there was a “JCC” in the address, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”.  It wasn’t until I typed the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.

wtf, what the fuck, cat

I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center entailed, but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include chocha grooming.  Since I’m well-versed in life throwing me the perverse, I just rolled with it and called to make my appointment.  When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building.  Good thing since I planned on praying through the entire procedure.

The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge.  Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive.  I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building which thankfully turned out to be correct.  After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa, but then I wandered the halls for ten minutes searching frantically and afraid that I was going to have to ask someone where to go. I finally stumbled in a panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised.  There was an elderly gentleman receptionist who assured me that I had found the correct place.  (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an elderly Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)

As shocking as it might sound, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic.  Aside from being aware that there were small children just a room away in the daycare center as I had my business all out there, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.

In other news, I’ve started edits on my book.  I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down by every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it and be willing to show it off.  My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can read, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum and I’m still adapting on keeping up with it.  It’s a lot of work–I pretty much live on my computer–but I love it.