I can smell it sneaking back - smells like chocolate chips and peanut butter

So depression and anxiety are trying to make their way back into my every day life. I noticed it the other night when, after the 4 hour nap i took when i wasn't even tired, i chose to eat peanut butter by the spoonful with chocolate chips stuck in instead of cooking the food i had bought. I noticed it last night as i was getting grilled about Riot Fest and, once again, made to feel as if my opinions about music are wrong (how many times do we have to go over that OPINIONS - even yours - are not FACT, so quit trying to act as though because mine differ from yours they are wrong) and as if my financial woes are anybody else's business and as if i'm a criminal for taking a night off work. I further noticed it last night during a discussion which was somehow deemed an argument into which i was only barely allowed to inject my perspective. And i noticed it today when i wanted to punch the face off of everyone i work with. Everyone.

This could just be my period coming on. I'm tired, i have a low threshold for bullshit, and the dullness of domestic work makes me want to scream and light shit on fire. Sounds like PMS - only this is beyond. I wanted to yell at a five year-old today for eating and talking at the same time. Talking with a full mouth is my biggest pet peeve in the world. This kid does it constantly. I politely remind him to chew with his mouth closed, finish chewing, and swallow before speaking. He doesn't get it. I finally convinced a teacher earlier this week to face his chair away from me, so that i at least don't have to see it, though i still hear it. So i'm hearing it today and i'm humming and trying to ignore it so as not to lose my shit when my boss comes into the kitchen area to get a burger, half of which she shoves into her mouth. And then...she starts talking. I'm standing there, knife in hand, watching globs of food fly out of her mouth and on to my food prep station - the station that is currently housing the food i prepared for the children to eat. Watching this grown-ass woman eat with no plate, standing in the middle of my work space, yelling to be heard over the kids, projecting the pure example of the heathen behavior we are trying to eliminate in the children, and spewing masticated food all over the freshly prepared plates of food i just spent 3 hours making. Slack-jawed i stared, loosely gripping my chopping knife, and over walks another teacher, mouth full of food, to converse with my boss. I put the knife down and left the room. I paced up and down the hallway chanting, "I hate this place. I hate these people. I hate my job. I want to die." for about 10 minutes.

This is not how i do. I love that job. My coworkers are mostly tolerable humans. I certainly do not wish to die. The kids are my favourite part. I may get frustrated, but i have never felt the concentrated hostility i did today. And now i am ashamed of myself, which makes me even more angry for some reason. And tomorrow i will be sad for thinking the things i thought and the shitty attitude i had toward people i really do like. Then i'll just want to sleep, which means i won't get things done, which means i'll get anxious and overwhelmed and i'll start being even shittier to the people i care most about. I am so sick of having to be hyper-vigilant  about my emotions. I wish i could have a couple days in a row where i'm just fed up and it's okay. But i know how fast this shit can sneak up on me and how quickly i can lose control of it. And i think i know why it started.

I went to Colorado two weeks ago to attend the wedding of a friend. I had a great time. True, i only went swimming once and that was in a pool and i didn't get to explore as much of the Denver area as i had hoped and all of the touristy things i wanted to do were impossible with the chaos of the wedding details. Not a big deal. The wedding was super fancy and i had a good time hanging with my friend and her family. Camping was a bust. For reasons outside my control, i only got to camp for one night instead of three. While it was the most beautiful night sky i had ever seen and the mountains surrounding us were breathtaking, i was disappointed to leave immediately in the morning without doing any hiking or even site seeing in the car. But i quickly got over it and enjoyed what was left of the trip. Since i've been home, though, i have stared for hours and hours at our campsite on the map of the Rocky Mountain National Forest. Just within 3 miles of where we were, there are a dozen little hikes that lead to mountain lakes - lakes which only a handful of people ever get to see. And i saw none. I had to pack up and just walk away from all that splendor. I realize that i am devastated and it is making me bitter and intolerable.

I suppose i should suck it up and figure out how to move past it or i WILL be battling depression because of my shitty attitude. No more peanut butter and chocolate chips for dinner. No more four hour naps. No more rants in the hallway. Time to hike up my big-kid underpants and move on.

This is my fist balled in anger

The next person who argues with me because i don't have a dick is getting kicked square in his.

This is a rant.

My toilet has been running for almost a week. I took the top off so it could be adjusted after flushing if the flapper didn't fall down correctly. The problem was simply that one of the rubber do-hickeys that connects the flapper to the arm dealy had torn so it was falling crooked and getting stuck. So today i went to a hardware store to replace the flap. I decided to get a hard plastic one so that this particular problem wouldn't happen again. (Fixing it myself is 20 times easier than asking my landlord to do it because he would call a plumber and it would cost a ton and then he'd raise my rent again. Or he'd think it was a bomb. He thinks everything is a bomb.)

Anyway, i picked the one i wanted and as i made my way to the check-out counter an employee goes, "Hey, little lady, are you sure you got the right thing there?" And i said, "Yeah. It should work fine." So he says, "I bet you have the wrong size."
"Looks right to me."
"No, no. Hardly any toilets use flappers that big."
"Mine does. This was the only size that looked right."
"I have more. Follow me. I don't want you to have to come back and feel silly."

Are you fucking kidding me? Little lady?! And that's just to start. I could've punched his lights out before he finished his sentence.

I follow him back to the aisle i had just left, seething. As i walked, i pulled up a picture on my phone that i had taken in case i needed to compare. He pulls down 1.5" flapper and i hold my phone to his face instead of taking it. "Well, i'll be. That's a 3 incher. You were right. Good luck fixing it though." Thanks, asshole. I hope he doesn't have any daughters. If he does, they probably can't even pump their own gas.

So i buy the hard plastic one and when i get home i realize it won't work because the hard plastic do-hickeys are too narrow to fit around the black tube ma-jigger where the water goes in to fill the tank, so i can't get the flapper to attach to the arm dealies. I realize that the rubber one would work because it would stretch out around the whatever-you-call-it. So i went back to the store. That motherfucker saw me coming and he said, "Told you so," and walked away shaking his head. I wanted to scream so much at him. He was off by HALF! I just picked the wrong material for the situation.

I know most dudes aren't assholes who think women are incapable, helpless retards. I know because i live with, work with, am related to and love a bunch of guys who are about the coolest dudes alive. However, here's an apparent newflash for the rest of them: JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE DOES NOT HAVE A PENIS, DOES NOT MEAN THEY ARE GOING TO CURL UP IN A BALL AND CRY AND START SCREAMING FOR A MAN WHEN SOMETHING BREAKS!
I open my own pickle jars too, motherfucker.

Drugs are fun - don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Case in point ~ My good buddy, Nellie, hurt herself a while ago and was in such terrible pain that she was prescribed both very powerful painkillers and anti-spasmatic (i made that word up, apparently) muscle relaxers. These on top of her being medicated for anxiety-related issues. I didn't understand exactly how fucked up these pills could make a person until i started getting texts from her saying things like, "I hurst my neck and mom gragged me to the ER where i had dr hot body with sexy soft hands" and "I cannot function. I've stabbed myself with the cats used insulin needle and fell on the dog trying to get her harness on. It took me two minutes to get up the stairs because i walk like a drunk hobo at the bus stop." I alluded that i might come and visit her the following night and she asked me to bring "fisting supplies".  ??!!  We straightened out what she had actually meant, and i assure you it had nothing to do with either of us slamming the other one in the butt. However, i decided right then that i had to go take care of her for a couple nights. At first, honestly, i just wanted to hear what kind of shit was going to come out of her mouth. And that was awesome. But she's also just really fun to hang out with and she's one of the few people in my life who don't give a shit when i unleash the big girls and run around her house with my boobs bouncing and poking all over the place under a tee shirt. What a gal!

Anyway, she did say some pretty funny stuff. Some of it i was able to understand, most of it - not so much. She had two twin-sized air mattresses blown up and laid up against her huge sectional when i arrived. She had no less than 10 pillows and 5 blankets and she looked cozy as hell. She called it "Floptopia" only she slurred the shit out of the name and it took me a minute to get it. She wanted me to go get her some Skittles (yeah, let's say skittles) because she thought, for some reason, that skittles would make her feel even better. With that many drugs in her, i can't imagine how a tiny puff, er...nibble, of skittles would make any difference, but whatever. I told her i didn't have enough gas to go running around for skittles and she said i could take her car. I said i wasn't going to not smoke for that long because she has never allowed me to smoke in her car. She replies with, "Well then smoke and then drive your drive my your my car and smoke." And she looked at me like i was stupid. Then she lays back and pats the mattress next to her and says, with the thickest slur i have ever heard and been able to understand in my life, "Are you gonna drive me in Floptopia later?" Nellie then winked at me. After the fisting business, i was a little concerned she was forgetting that she is a straight girl or that i am a woman. Anyway, i drove her car but didn't smoke. She got her damn skittles. I did not drive her anywhere else, thank you every much.

She said, "Wattle dottle playum" to herself about 60 times and i never figured that one out. "Searslajusslookadatmayun" = "Seriously, just look at that man". She was showing me a picture of "Hoctor Dotface", which is Doctor Hotface who is the very same Dr. Hot Body with the Sexy Soft Hands, apparently. I wish i could have gotten more documented but i started to feel a little bad about barking laughter in her face and scribbling in my little pad. Not that she noticed. Hoctor Dotface, ha! I sure do love my crazy, drugged-up Nells.

Survived the Ice to Go Down on Cement

Ok. I didn't post a lot in March because it turned into February and sucked. When it's winter for 14 years a person gets a little down. And speaking of down... i fell pretty hard at the end of March. Not on the ice, but on my neighbs cracked-ass cement stair. Sure, i was drunk, but not the drunkest. Sure, i went down the middle of the steps instead of the side as i normally tend to. And sure, i was wearing slippers instead of my cowgirl boots. But the fault lies with the sonofbitch landlord. He's lucky i didn't break my gawddamn ankle. It was terribly embarrassing and now i'll be scarred for life. I am posting pics so that you can also be scarred for life. You're welcome.
                                                         Right after it happened

The next morning

The swelling started days later - and the bruising

It kept getting bigger, and grosser

The swelling went away but, my gawd, the scab is atrocious

This is what it looks like today, 3 weeks later. I just unwrapped it so it's all gooey, but it'll turn black again soon.

And to think, it used to be a happy foot:

The moral of the pictorial is, never leave your house in slippers. BOOTS FOREVER!

Holy Social Suicide, Bat-faced Man

I'm pretty sure i hate every single person on FaceBook right now. Or at least, ....oh yeah, ALL OF THEM. I can't say that there so i'm saying it here. Probably, it's just what time of night it is, but i don't care how many pounds of the food you posted pictures of you ate for dinner or how happy you are about falling asleep next to whoever or how awesome your dumb baby is or how you can't wait to wake up and go to the gym. Fine. My posts tend to be boring and/or drunk+confusing this late too which is why i don't make them public. FaceBook should be fun. It's not all about your every thought. That's what blogs are for. So get one. And then see how many people choose to read your poorly thought out bullshit sentences. Not many. I take that from experience. BAM! Right back at me!

Wuddaya say? I said this:

I work with children. Children are people. My Momster taught me A) not to lie to people, and B) to stand up for what i believe is right. Today, a conversation broke out amongst the child-people about girls liking girls and boys liking boys. Being a staunch believer in letting people express and explore their opinions, i decidedly sat back and let it play out until it reached a point where my experience and open-mindedness would be helpful - or until someone was rude or hateful.
At one point a very young girl told the room she had a girlfriend. Another, older, girl said something about how that wasn't weird because friends that are girls are called girlfriends. She was quickly corrected by the first girl who informed her that she liked this girlfriend more than a friend and she felt like they might get married when they turned 11 - because she had been told it wasn't illegal after you turn 11. As i was opening my mouth to clear up that misconception, one of the other girls went, "Ew!"
I got mad. I did. I didn't convey my anger, in any way. I did, however, respond to both things.

~No one can get married unti they're 18, not 11. And if you marry her when you're grown, that's fine. It's not gross or "ew". People who love each other get married sometimes, and that is awesome. Whoever thought that was gross, people are who they are and they love who they love - that's their business and not anyone else's. We aren't discussing this any further.

All of the kids eventually filtered away from my area, but the little girl with the girlfriend hung around. When no one else was in earshot she asked me if i thought she was gross. My heart just sort of puked inside me at the thought that someone so new in this world already was doubting and feeling badly about herself. My mouth said,  "Not even a little. I think love is a hard thing to figure out. I still have trouble and i didn't even start to try until i was way older than you. You're fine."

I hope she heard that.

Nice try, February

So February tried to kill me yesterday. I think it gave up because i twarted it so thoroughly with my bad-assedness. It's partially my fault for continually expressing my complete loathing for this most putrid of months, but mostly it's February's fault for sucking so hard. Anyway with 12 hours to go i refuse to back down. Give me your best shot, dick-month.

Here are the two most obvious ways February tried to extinguish my life yesterday. Possibly there were other times my demise was planned, but these two things stuck out:
First, i had to open the BASP yesterday. So instead of rolling out of bed at the last second and trudging over to my boss-neighbor's already warmed up car for a ride, i had to get up early and preheat my own car. It was -24° with wind chill. My car door was frozen shut so i was exposed to the elements far longer than i had planned when i ventured outside in just a hoodie. That could have been an attempt to kill me, but we can all agree it was weak so i'm not counting it. I She-ra-ed the door open and all was well. When i actually started driving to work my brake light came on. My brakes were a tad soft but i wasn't too worried. I knew i probably just needed some fluid - something i could easily remedy between shifts. After the BASP i was driving home, going down Dodge Street hill/curve when BLAMMO! no brakes. None. Gone. Car in front of me, going 35, headed right for a red light. Miraculously, the light turned green and i skidded around the right turn without killing myself or anyone else. Stupid February didn't realize there was no school yesterday. If there had been, i definitely would have slammed into a minivan driven by a parent who had just dropped their kids off at the school right there or plowed through some family walking through the cross walk. I didn't touch my gas and luckily no one was coming from the opposite direction, so i made the left onto Gilbert just fine. I had to blow the stop sign at Fairchild too, and once again lucked out as no one else was at the intersection. I had enough momentum to make it to my neighborhood service station and rolled to a stop inches from the owner's truck. Nice try, February.

But, wait! It wasn't quite through with me. After filling the completely empty brake fluid chamber, my hood wouldn't latch. The main latch was stuck, but the manual one was holding so i decided i could worry about that after works. And i did. I doinked with the piece of shit for 15 minutes and got the son of a bitch to close all the way. Or so i thought. After closing BASP hours later, i hit the interstate to meet up with Reester and Silly Seesters for drinks, dinner, and some games. First semi passes me and BLAMMO! the main latch gives. The manual one held, but the hood was flapping like hell. I put on my hazards, slowed my roll, and got off at the next exit which was 6 white-knuckled miles down the road. I jumped up and down on that motherfucker and banged the shit out of it with a ratchet. It just would not budge. I took the back roads at 45 and avoided having the hood flip up, break my windshield, obstruct my vision, and kill me. Again, well played, February, but i win this round too.

First thing this morning i yanked open that hood and slammed it shut with all the force of a Hulk Smash. Fixed it. Works like a goddamn charm. Guess i just made February my bitch.