Remember those old rechargeable batteries?

I don't remember when it was.  Sometime in the 80s probably, but Energizer or someone made rechargeable batteries.  (I have misspelled rechargeable twice now, btw.)

And I don't know if this is science or if I just half-listened to my dad explain how they work because he tried to give a lesson in boring shit to his already disinterested tween daughter right in the middle of my Barbie time.  Silly parents.  (Love you, dad!)  But didn't you have to sometimes run them completely down before recharging them or else they wouldn't "refill" properly?  Or something like that...  Put them in the freezer?  Zap them with a taser?  Am I just making this completely up or were they really like that?  Remember there was a plastic recharger/holder that was too hideous for the kitchen wall but you knew if you put it in the garage, the Y chromosome holders in the house would lose them within a week.  If you upgraded to the deluxe model, you got a multi-size holder/recharger so you could put the flashlight batteries and the remote batters in the same fugly case.

In a weird, hazy way, those batteries remind me of the plants you srsly can't kill.  Not a cactus.  The vine-y ones with the green and white speckled leaves that ALL of your aunties have in their houses (you know they do, don't lie).  Those goofy plants get all droopy and sad; you pretend not to notice for a day or so.  Finally you break down and water it.  A couple hours later, the near-dead plant looks perky and green.  Why do they do that?  HOW do they do that?  Is it a testament to the plant's physiology (do plants have that or is it some other science word) or is there a happy accident resulting from my bad slacker plant-keeping habits?

For real, I don't mean to neglect my plants but the ones I have at home are hanging plants and it's hard for me to reach them.  Mr. Buffie will water them for me but you try to catch him when he's not busy.  Human tornado.  It's nuts.

Uhhh.  Oh, a point.  Yes.  That.

So maybe insomnia is like those batteries or that plant and I have to just get a gnarly case of it on a regular basis so I can properly recharge my physical and mental batteries or am I only avoiding root rot because my dizzy cow of an owner (that would be me) forgets to give me water at least once a month?

Or perhaps the universe is really pissed at me for tuning out my dad and unintentionally abusing my plant.

Like kitty litter through the scoopy thing, these are the convos of my life

What do 'normal' conversations sound like anyway?  I think I've had them before but they never seem 'normal' to me.  They are strained, sometimes insincere or superficial.  Usually I'm having what I consider to be a normal conversation with the more traditionally conservative-ish (redundant term?) friends of my highly educated, world-traveled, faithful-church-attending, Democrat, youthful-senior-citizen in-laws.

Not a bad thing but awkward chats with family acquaintances never go much beyond weather or that lovely rendition of (insert name of dreary boring well-known hymn) that Missus Ethel Mae Blickerman played with her double-harp last week during a fundraiser luncheon to send the Bridge club on their annual Branson bus tour.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz  ~_~

According to the Chinese calendar, rabbits are the luckiest of all signs.  I happen to have been born in the Year of the Hare.  I'm also left-handed which some believe is a lucky charm.  Plus I'm an only child.  We're literally born into good fortune.  Siblings are cool and all.  More than once I have wished for a sister or a gay brother.  Buuut we 'onlys' just tend to be super lucky.  Well, we arrre.  =P

Piece from "Garden of Earthly Delights"
By Hieronymus Bosch.

Talks with Mr. Buffie often serve as reminders of my luck.  He hates harps too!  Like me, he thinks they look scary...  Medieval torture devices used by the henchmen of evil emperors that coincidentally could serve as a musical instrument.  Never trust a harp.  They're sneaky.

He does frequently wonder about the weather.  *eye roll*  But it's only because he's all uppity about driving Sir Hiss in the rain.  No one is perfect.

This evening Mr. Buffie was in the laundry room taking clothes out of the dryer when he found a band aid stuck to one of his fake ShamWows.  He picked it up and said something to the effect of 'oh this is very interesting and I would like to know more please, what are the origins of this band aid, is it name brand, who lost it, are they looking for it' instead of how the rest of the world reacts when they find a used band aid in the clean laundry.  "URH MAH GAAAAAHHHHDDDD that's one degree away from finding a severed fingerrrr! urmahgahhhdddduh  SICK!  Sick sick sick!  Throw it in the nearest object that will function as a temporary biohazard receptacle which can be burned in the fireplace!  Stat!"

This is the same Mr. Buffie who insisted I smell the bottom of his shoe a few days ago and pushed it toward my face so the discovery of a mysterious laundry band aid is an archaeological score in his mind.  For the sake of fairness, I begrudgingly admit shared guilt when it comes to fixations on things other people find completely unappealing.  For example...

Banged-up beloved pink

Tweezerman classic slant tip tweezers.

(Smudges are where the
Tweezerman lightning bolt used to be.)

"Look at my tweezers, my tweezers are amazing!  But NOT as amazing as the little removable plastic tip.  By some PsOV, that tiny nubbin is worthless.  To me, it is every bit as important as the expensive tweezers.  And I have to own 7 pairs of ridiculous $20 tweezers because I need a set in every room you know.  Tweezers are the Buffinese version of a Swiss Army knife.  They're a garden tool, a bookmark, a price-tag remover, a kitchen utensil (after thorough sanitizing of course) and obviously an implement of makeup application and personal grooming (also after thorough sanitizing... of course)."  ~  Buffie circa two hours ago.

Tweezer Nubbin

Hey, it's justified.  The piece of plastic protects those tweezers and kind of holds my life together.  Is this a haiku?  (O hai ADHDeee  Weee!)


While we are almost always civil to each other considering we've been married a bazillion years (in 21st Century terms, we've been married a bazillion years, I calculated) we still have our uhm... moments.

Mr. Buffie brought home dinner tonight because I didn't get home until almost 8 and I also brought work home and I still need to put dishes away from last night sooo... yeah.  It was either bring home hot food or enjoy your Triscuits and squeez cheez.

Looks gnarly but I promise it's delicious.

He opted for actual cooked meat and vegetables, imagine that.  As a favor for me, he also brought this weird concoction I like from Pancho's.  It's seasoned steak fries similar to the kind you'd get at a 54th Street restaurant type place.  Then they're covered half-and-half with sour cream on one side and guacamole (seasoned avocado puree style) on the other.  Shredded cheese is melted on top along with a couple fistfuls of chopped fajita steak.  A funky Mexican food in Kansas City version of poutine.  They're SUPER good, cost about $8 and I can eat on them for a good 2 or 3 meals because the box is giant and I have no qualms about reheating them in the oven even though the guacamole and sour cream strangely absorb into the fries the next day.

Anyway, the mister got a meal from Culver's and I spy shrimp on his plate.  Y'all know how I feel about shrimp.  They're my forbidden fruit.  *heart flutter*

So I ask him very sweetly if I can has a scrimp.  He just looks at me while he's putting 'buttery spread' on a sweet roll and doesn't say a word.  Now I'm all offended and tell him I CANNOT BELIEVE he isn't sharing at least one frickin' shrimp with me.


Buffie: "It's ONE shrimp!  You have at least 9 or 10 there.  Hook a sister up.  What is WRONG with you?  I asked nicely.  Why won't you share just one shr..."


Mr. Buffie:  "Because this is fishhh."

Buffie:  "You should have ordered the shrimp."

Knowing That We Know Nothing

I never met Mr. Buffie's grandma, but he remembers her well and talks about her fondly.  So it is almost like I know her.  She came from Paris, TN, was a fantastic cook and had unflappable faith in her beliefs.

Mr. Buffie says she was never afraid of death, because she knew she would go to Heaven.  Honestly, that sounds nice, comforting.

The part of me who believes unicorns might exist likes to think that when I die, my 'soul' becomes a magical butterfly and floats up to a puffy pink infinite cloud made of glitter and cotton candy.

Then the logical part of me comes along with a giant flyswatter...

Someone special died unexpectedly yesterday and I have a feeling she was a lot like Mr. Buffie's grandma.  She and I never talked about her faith but I knew she had it.

Today was surreal and everyone is understandably brokenhearted.  No one bothered to ask 'how are you' like they usually do because we all knew the answer.  We also know she would not want us to mope around like this for long because she would prefer we celebrate life and we will... after we compose ourselves.

Last night was sleepless.  I kept thinking about how (if) I could cope if the same thing happened to my parents or Mr. Buffie.  There hasn't been a lot of loss in my life.  Not the punch-you-in-the-chest-never-saw-it-coming kind of loss.  I'm completely happy with specific delusions I carry, among them that certain people (and cats) are immortal.  Please don't bother trying to set me straight on that because I am not interested in your real world truth and facts on this particular matter.

However, having never had to recover from profoundly devastating loss, I have no idea how other people do it.  I guess I assume they mourn forever, that the pain is always present and anything positive, joyful or fun that happens afterwards doesn't feel as good.

But I don't know.  How would you even ask such a question without sounding like the world's most insensitive bastard?  "Hi there, when your most favorite person in the world died, how did you get on with life?"  See what I mean?


I wish I could have known Mr. Buffie's grandma.  She would have answered my awkward questions about death and the seemingly impossible idea of being comfortable with it.  And she probably would have chirped in my lobes for being atheist.  Several times in my life I have sincerely attempted to make myself believe.  I now know it will never happen.  Some pills you simply can't swallow and my life is right without religion.


A point?  I don't really have one other than if you were thinking of doing something, do it now.  I can't tell you anything about faith or even a lack of it.  I can just tell you that you never know what will happen next.

A Cure for the Common Fattie

As we know, the bigger you are, the more universally hated you are.

I mean, even Carrie Fisher said the world is a hostile place for a fat person.  She is not wrong.

Yesterday I visited the endocrinologist for a follow up on my issues.  Got CAT scan results.  The good news - nothing is wrong.  The bad news - nothing is wrong.  Square one again.  Still have the pain and the hyperhidrosis but they dunno what's causing it.

This endocrinologist came highly recommended by several people, including my regular doc and my psychiatrist.  So I was expecting the best possible treatment.  First visit went alright.  He tried to push WLS on me, gastric bypass.  Told him no go.  He backed off.

Yesterday he brought it up again, as if he had forgotten I said absolutely not.  And when I reminded him that I wasn't going to do it, he shamed me by making a condescending remark that he thought it was "interesting" that my hyperhidrosis wasn't affected by my weight and sent me on my way.  He even had the gall to refer me back to the Revolving Door Dermatology Warehouse.

Anyway, I left in a huff.  Feeling like a substandard human because I am not small enough to be treated like everyone else.  Not my proudest moment.  I'm angry at myself for letting someone get to me and for allowing myself to feel that way.

Seems like I am seeing so much fat hate lately. More than usual.  I'm probably still miffed over the couple who openly made fun of me last week.  It's all weighing in my mind.  (Weighing... puns... I'm so clever.  *snort*)

Instead of whining about it, I've decided to just buy in.  If you can't beat them, join them, right?  That's what they always say and they always know what they're talking about.

Hate fat people?  Of course you do.  Everyone does.  So let's eliminate them.  These are the most popular techniques currently in use by the diet industry, Cosmopolitan Magazine and millions of commenters all over the internet.

First of all, insults make fat people thin.  I haven't seen this work with my own eyes.  But I know it has to be effective because it is socially acceptable to belittle and shame big people.  Remember the Bowflex guy who "gave all his FAT clothes to his FAT friends?"  That was a national ad campaign.  So that tells you right there that the entire nation can't think of anything worse than being fat.

Bullying, that's another one that really hits home.  Ohkay, this one didn't work on me unfortunately but it probably is helpful to the ones who actually survive it.  I know, I survived it too.  But I'm a bad example because ...  ...  Mmmm...  Hrmmm.  Well, I guess it must work because of science or something.

Alright, now we have the obvious one, diet ads!  Almost every single commercial break has at least one, sometimes several.  There are pills and gadgets and garments and meal plans and you can even hire someone to remind you on a regular basis what a foul, disgusting pig you are.  I think her name is Jillian Michaels.

Of course, you can't watch anything on E! or read anything in mainstream lifestyle magazines without having attention called to the fact that you're a horrible warty fat toad.  All the fashion trends are focused on looking as small as possible.  Smaller is better.  Always.  Amazing summer beach bodies perpetually belong to the stars who have hired a trainer, nutritionist, plastic surgeon and chef then spent all their extra time in their private home gyms to shed an extra five pounds.  And if THEY can do it with their busy schedules and tight budgets, then we slovenly blobs have no excuse.

The next time you are out and about and someone remarks on your size, you immediately apologize!  Then you thank them for helping you keep feelings of shame and embarrassment right under the surface.

Also, go to the nearest bathroom and barf up everything you've eaten for the past three weeks then sell everything you own and hire that trainer lady to scream about all your physical misgivings in your face while you sob on a treadmill.

Fuck.

All.

That.

Shit.

You know what needs a cure?  We do.  All of us.  I have so many friends who put themselves down constantly.  Stop it.  Please.  You're not accomplishing anything positive when you do that.

You read the magazines and think that's how you /should/ look when you roll out of bed.

Let me tell you something.  For 10 years I worked full-time as a makeup artist.  I've seen professional models at 5 a.m.  They have zits, bags under their eyes, scars, crusty cuticles, weird veins, hair growing in strange places.  EVERYONE DOES.

But after a couple hours of hair and makeup, soft lighting, professional photography and a gifted graphic artist retouching the picture, they look like what you see in the magazines.  IT IS ALL A FACADE.  It isn't meant to be lived day in and day out.  It's art.  It's someone's vision.  Flawlessness does not exist in anyone.

What you see as flaws in yourself aren't flaws at all.  They're part of being human.  Stop being so hard on yourself.  I've got to do the same thing.  I have completely unrealistic expectations of who I'm supposed to be and it causes me nothing but endless disappointment.

Fact: Fat people are big.  They're not dumb, they're not lazy, they don't stink.  (Yes, there ARE people in this world who are ignorant, unmotivated and smelly.  Those people come in all shapes and sizes.  Fat has nothing to do with it.)

Fiction: Hating and humiliating fat people will make the world a better place.

I don't know how to make this any clearer.  But the body shame has GOT TO STOP and I'm starting with me.

Maybe it's just a bad mood?

The idea of never leaving my house again appeals to me more and more every day.

I used to think it was because of how I was treated in high school that made me hate people.  That has something to do with it, but I am starting to realize I hate people because they're awful.

By people, I am talking specifically about mean, stupid people.  And usually mean people are stupid and stupid people are mean.

Does the stupid make them mean?  Not sure.  I've encountered below-average intelligence people who were delightful.  Perhaps the ones who are stupid by choice... those are the mean ones.

Yesterday, with some help from a co-worker, I finally busted a story tipster in a massive lie.  Biggest lie I've ever heard in the newsroom.  And it was a lie told about something tragic that affected thousands of people.  That makes it even worse.  I've had a gut feeling since May that the story wasn't true and to have two sources this week verify that I was right felt quite nice.  Renewed my trust in my own instincts.

Today someone called the magazine all pissed off because we keep addresses on file.  Dead serious.  He didn't think we should do that.  Never thought I would have to explain to someone that we need to keep their address so we can mail the magazine to which they've subscribed.  Is there some magic delivery service I don't know about?  Psychic Unicorn Express will bring your mail to you without having to know your address?

When my in-laws called this afternoon with an invitation to sushi, that temporarily lifted my foul misanthropic fog.  They suggested my favorite place, too.  Bonus!

Tonight they were running 10 minutes late but I parked and went inside anyway.  Not long after I sat down, a couple was seated at the booth across from me.  And they didn't even try to disguise their staring.  There are people in this world, in my town even, who look more unusual than I do.  So why the hell am I always getting the up-down eyes?  The staring was followed by whispering, more staring, more whispering then laughter.  I pretended not to notice, keeping busy with my phone.  Telling myself they're talking about something else, not me.  Stop being paranoid.  I busied myself texting Mr. Buffie and fiddling with chop sticks.

Once my in-laws arrived, the couple then broke out in hand gestures, confirming my suspicion.  The woman was trying to determine how big my chest was in relation to her own frame, looking at me and adjusting the length of her arms held out in front of her.  I continued to pretend I didn't notice.  My father-in-law was telling me about genetically engineered soybean crops... I think.  At that point, I was lost in my own head, angry, frustrated, desperate to escape.

It's funny because earlier today I read an article about restaurants who adopt a no-kids policy.  It reminded me of a few specific situations where I was dining out and was verbally harassed by groups of teens.  It has even happened with older people but it's usually teens.  Why are teenagers so hateful?  Was the teenage Buffie that hateful?  I had opinions about people at that age, but I don't ever recall making unprovoked statements to strangers in public.  Never had the urge to do anything horrible to someone unprovoked, I don't think.

In a way it was cosmic to read that story then relive something I've experienced so many times before.  Those experiences are always the first thoughts that flash through my mind at the mention of going out in public.

I was probably born predisposed to have anxiety or agoraphobia.  My mum tells me I was about 3 years old when she noticed I had an abnormal aversion to strangers.  Bullying and fat-hate exacerbated it and here we are.

People can't be changed.  You can't turn a mean stranger into a nice one anymore than a mean stranger can turn me into a thin person by insulting me.

But what do I do?  Continue to endure it?  That doesn't seem reasonable.  I don't know what to do.

All I know is the more I'm exposed to the general public, the more I only want to be around my family and friends or go only to certain places where I haven't had a scary experience.

Mr. Buffie, bless him, he has spoken up for me before and I truly appreciate it.  It was probably nine years ago that we were having lunch at Braum's when a table full of late-teen/early-twenties boys were having an obvious laugh about my body.  At some point, they were even talking (yelling) directly to me. As per my M.O., I ignored them.  Mr. Buffie walked over to their table and hit it with his fist.  That got their attention.  Then he politely told them to stop.  Know what happened?  They threatened him.  You know, the typical "how DARE you NOT sit there and tolerate my bullshit" bully attitude.  Ultimately they did leave without incident but for a moment, I was sure we were going to be physically assaulted.  So in addition to a couple other failed attempts to speak up, speaking up isn't looking like a practical solution either.

Sometimes I wonder if this rules my life.  I've blogged about it... a lot.  But it's because it affects me... a lot.  Maybe saying it rules me is too extreme.  However I can't deny that it does cause problems for me AND Mr. Buffie on a much-too-regular basis.

I want to be adventurous and spontaneous and experience new things but my anxiety swallows me whole.

Therapy helps.  When I have slacked off on treatment, the anxiety becomes remarkably worse.  So I know continuing to see the psychiatrist is the right thing to do.

I'm just not sure it's enough.  I have this goal, maybe a dream, that in the future I'll be fearless.  The problem with my dream is that I forget to include hate in my vision.

Thankfully, I'm happy in my own skin.  Life is good... better than good.  Life is great!  My family is incredible.  My friends are the best examples of humanity ever in history, no exaggeration.  I have kitty cats.  Even my job would be absolutely perfect if it weren't for dealing with strangers.  Then there are the material things, so many wonderful things.  I'm thankful for all of my possessions although they don't matter one fraction as much as family, friends and kitties.  Basically my needs are not only met but exceeded.  I live a fortunate life and I know it.

Hrmph.  It's a puzzle I can't solve on my own.

Mostly, I just don't want to hate the world anymore.

Don't know what you've got til it's gum.

Does this happen to you?

You're chewing some gum and your friend has a spaz as soon as they notice.  "Is that GUM?  Where did you get it?!  Do you have more?!!?!?"

They've just been handed the opportunity to achieve their lifetime goal, which is to chew gum and you're possibly holding their keys to a dream come true.

It's only gum, you both know this.  Anywhere that sells anything sells gum.  Hardly an endangered food species, kids.  You can buy it at the auto parts store!  Nothing has less to do with food than the auto parts store.  What does that tell you about gum?

Hold on though, it gets complicated...  If you /do not/ have gum, you friend will practically start sobbing like you ran over their family pet.  That level of disappointment is irrational, don't you think?

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.

Shit has been weird lately.  More weird that usual.  Hard to believe, right?

Several weeks ago, I decided I was fed up with having hyperhidrosis, so I went to the Revolving Door Dermatology Warehouse (where you never see the same doctor twice!) and the Flavor of the Week Nurse Practitioner referred me to another dermatologist in Olathe.  She all but swore on her life that Dr. Olathe was the answer to my problem.  If you don't know your greater Kansas City area geography, Olathe is an hour from almost everywhere on the Missouri side.

Of course I request an ass-crack-of-dawn appointment because the more work I miss the more it will pile up on my already buried desk.  And we all know how I LOVE to get up ridiculously early and fight obnoxious commuter traffic.

Once I'm in front of Olathe's Super Dermatologist, I tell her to please perform the treatment that Revolving Door NP claimed Dr. Olathe did.  Uhhh... nope.  Never.  Has never treated hyper-hell-drosis in the fashion that RDNP assured me she did.  At first I was peeved with the seeing of different people at every appointment and the getting up stupid early and the driving an hour away from home to the tune of almost $4 a gallon for gas.  But now I'm fully pissed off and I have a strong suspicion that RDNP referred me to Dr. Olathe just to get me out of her office.  Bitch.

That week got even more mega fun when I realized RDNP didn't give me a refill on the pill I take for my breakouts (and it is coincidentally a pill Nice Fat Lady Doctor prescribed to help my circulation for the steroid-induced vein damage from several years ago when my body decided to attack itself and produce awful itchy hives almost every day for two solid years... but when Nice Fat Lady Doctor moved to a different practice group, I decided to just get it from the dermatologists because they were prescribing the same thing even though it was for two different reasons).  TMI?  I thought so.  Moving along...

Call her office.  Request the drug.  Another nurse calls me back (ha, figures) and said RDNP won't refill until I get blood tests.  So I have to go to a lab (thankfully there was one within my home zip code) and get poked.  That was the day they took seven vials of my blood.  Waited a week, got test results.  Called RDNP because, of course, she isn't going to call me.  She says there's something wrong with my endocrine system.  No pills until I see endocrinologist.  I'm assuming since I've already chased wild geese in Olathe, maybe she'll send me to Wichita this time.  Perhaps Topeka.  Hell, what about Denver?  Guess I caught her in a good mood because the endocrinologist is in Overland Park.  Bad part?  Can't see me until almost a month later.

Here's the deal with the pills...  When you're on them, you don't even notice they do anything.  But once you quit them, gird your loins.  Pain.  Unbelievable pain.  Pain like I have never known before.  Whatever empathy or sympathy I had for people with chronic pain, it's a million times more now.  Holy shitballs, worst agony of my life.

After a week or so, I couldn't take it.  Called RDNP and literally begged her to give it back.  With a crap-ton of attitude and reluctance, she called in a refill.  FOR HALF THE STRENGTH.  Boo.  What a whore.

Screw her though, I'm taking two pills instead of one and I'm never going back to the Revolving Door Dermatology Warehouse anyway so I'll get my fix from the new Not-So-Fat-But-Still-Nice-Lady-Doctor I started seeing a couple years ago.  In your face, RDNP!

The health weirdness has persisted though and I am concerned.  Sometimes I'm stay-awake-all-night-and-fret worried and other times I think it's probably minor and this will be one very expensive quest to find nothing of significance.

Did I ever tell you about the time I worked for someone who had chronic pain?  She drove me batshit.  In the moment, I was certain she hated me because no matter what I did, it was always wrong or not good enough.  She probably could have conducted herself better but I probably could have tried harder to understand why she was always channeling Satan.

When the pain started, everything was on my nerves.  There's a particularly noisy neighbor on our block and they picked an amazingly bad week to turn it up to 11.  One night I had taken some Vicodin and just wanted to try and get some decent sleep.  Pain meds help but the only time during this ordeal when I haven't been miserable is when I'm sleeping.  It was between 10:30 and 11 p.m. on a Monday or a Tuesday night.  At this point, school is out for summer so all the teen fuckheads are running loose in the streets later than usual.

Noisy neighbor house is Teen Fuckhead HQ.  I think just one or two teens actually live there but at any given moment, there are at least five cars in the driveway and on the street.  A frequent visitor has a TRAIN HORN and likes to show it off.  Annoying.  Obviously compensating for lack of girth, if you know what I mean.  But if he feels the need to show it off in broad daylight, I can tolerate it occasionally.  It's when he uses it in the middle of the night that truly makes my blood boil.  Between him and the boom cars, it's a wonder anyone in this neighborhood sleeps through the night.

So yeah, I'm hopped up on meds and trying to escape the horror show that my body has become... on the verge of drifting off then HONK!  A few seconds later HONK HONK!  Another couple of seconds HONK HONK HONKHONKHONKHOOONNNKKK!!!

Are you fucking serious?  I look out the window and of course there is a teen fuckhead convention across the street and Honky VonHonkerstein is parked in front of a fire hydrant and attempting to summon someone inside Fuckhead HQ with her horn.  Aren't the little shits born with mobile phones these days?  Couldn't she text whoever was inside???  Of course not!  I mean, it's late in the evening and people are trying to sleep so the horn is the obvious choice.  Duh!

My rage took on telepathic powers because Mr. Buffie was out the front door before I could even get to the stairs.  Rude Teen With Horn got a piece of his mind.  I fully expect toilet paper in my trees any day now.  Haven't seen her car since that night.  Fine by me.

The Saturday after Honkpocalypse, I needed a pick-me-up so I went to the salon.  When I got home, I failed to notice Mr. Groundhog Day at the mailbox.  We call him Groundhog Day because, as nice as he is, we always have the exact same conversation with him.  Everyone does.  He will tell you about his job, his wife's health problems, his daughter and the Civil War.  In that order.  Every time.  And usually for half an hour.

It is officially hot in Missouri and people with hyper-hell-drosis are especially sensitive to heat.  The last thing I want to do after having a relaxing morning is stand in the sun and listen to Groundhog Day tell me about the Civil War.  I was in furious pain, melting and dying from boredom.  The situation was made worse by the fact that Mr. Buffie had lunch waiting inside.  So close, yet so far away.  Like being caught in a bear trap.  A Civil War bear trap stuck on repeat.  Once I chewed my leg off, I ran for the door like Flo Jo.

Poor Groundhog Day.  I feel badly for him but how do you nicely tell someone you've already heard everything they're about to say and you don't have an extra 30 minutes to hear it again?  You don't.  You chew your leg out of the bear trap and limp toward freedom.

Anyway, pain, work, more pain, no sleep, work, pain, and a week has passed.  (I'm back on the pills but it takes a while before they start doing their magic.)  It's Saturday again and a friend of ours has asked us to dinner.  He's a chef and he's making cochinita pibil, margaritas and some of the most incredible salsa known to humanity.

I'm getting ready for dinner, siting at the vanity in my bedroom when I hear sirens and horns.  An ambulance and a fire truck are in front of Casa De Groundhog.  Really wanted to rubberneck but I didn't want to be late for yummy goodness, so I went back about my business.

Then the night before last, I was in bed not sleeping as usual and heard what sounded like air brakes outside.  It was almost 3 a.m.  Got up and was able to see an ambulance in front of the Groundhog house again.  Strange because there were no sirens, not even coming up the highway.  I couldn't make out much else.  It was there for about 45 minutes and then left, again with no sirens, no flashing lights either.  What does it mean when an ambulance comes to your house at that hour and in such a way?  Mrs. Groundhog does have some serious health issues.  Dreadful thoughts lately and I'm sad for the Groundhogs because they are good people, even if I do actively avoid one of them.

Yesterday wasn't necessarily weird but it sure wasn't fun.  Went to the New Nice Lady Doctor for the routine physical.  Ladies you know the one.  NNLD has been keeping an eye on the vein problem in my legs for a while now and out of nowhere sent me directly to the hospital because with the recent godawful pain, she was thinking possible blood clot.  Needed that like a hole in the head.  Shot my entire day.  But a few hours later, another nice lady at the hospital said I wouldn't be admitted and she let me come home.

Today is where the weirdness came back.  Went to the psychiatrist for the usual anxiety disorder treatment.  He likes to take my vitals every visit.  My blood pressure was through the roof.  He didn't even want to talk about anxiety.  He immediately called NNLD and asked if she could see me or if I needed to go to the ER.  ER!?!  Hold up, Mr. Psychiatrist, you didn't say jack to me about the ER.  If my blood pressure wasn't already on the moon, it is now.  ER?  Hell to the no.  ER = lost time at work + expensive + potential for needles + no kitty cats.  No gracias.

I should mention that when I got home yesterday, I broke yet another toe.  Not too bad this time.  Probably just cracked it but that was another shock of pain that I could do without.

I explain to Mr. Psychiatrist that the BP is probably because of my toe.  He notices it's huge and purple but doesn't think it is bad enough to cause the BP to spike.  Asks me to chill for 10 minutes in a quiet place and he'll check it again.

Is this just a fat thing or do blood pressure cuffs hurt everyone?  He used a different cuff when he checked it the second time and it hurt so bad my eyes watered.  It was kind of him to apologize for that but he didn't apologize for the ER scare so I'm holding a bit of a grudge.

NNLD was able to see my this afternoon.  She was kind of tripping on the BP too.  I admit, it was high. Not as high as that day Mr. Buffie dragged me to the urgent care clinic in the snow because my little tumor thing was infected but it was close.

Third BP check, same result.  Chill for a while.  Fourth BP check, can you guess?  Ah yes, same result.  So she orders an EKG.  Nurse comes in and puts about two dozen sticky things on my chest, arms and legs.  I think it was really more like 10 but when she was peeling them off, it felt like someone jerking giant leeches out of my flesh.

Want to know what happens next?  BP check!  How do you think it went?  Same result!

Weird Alert:  EKG was normal.  Blood tests from yesterday's physical were normal.  Basically every other exam that's been done on me (other than the hormone/endocrine junk) has been normal.  Same as it ever was... same as it ever was, to quote David Byrne.

So why are my blood pressure numbers so high they require commas?  Yeah, my toe hurts but I have to agree with Mr. Psychiatrist, it doesn't justify this.

NNLD gave me pills, I see her again next week.  Another reason to lose sleep but I'm trying to put it out of my mind.

Now for what will hopefully be the end of a series of odd events... As I was driving home from the hospital yesterday, I noticed a car in front of me had 'RIP' written on the back window with shoe polish, along with a person's name and a giant heart.  I recognized the name as an acquaintance who had been pointedly and repeatedly unkind cruel to me about six years ago.  Elephants never forget.

When I got home, you know I went directly to Google.

Without divulging too much, I will say he was engaging in dangerous and illegal behavior and thankfully he did not injure or kill anyone else in the process.

I joke that if I could go back in time, I'd probably do some serious physical harm to the people who taught me all I know about hate, bigotry and bullying.  But I would never wish them dead.

Maybe there was a good side of him?  I never saw it, so I wouldn't know.  This is the first time I've ever been faced with the death of a known bully.  It's awkward and a little confusing.  By no means will I celebrate what happened to him.  But I won't lie, I am not mourning the loss in the slightest.  I'm sure his family loved him.  However I wonder if there are other big people he treated like shit, unprovoked, based solely on the fact that they're fat.

It's weird because I intimately know the profound life-changing damage people suffer at the hands of bullies and I am thankful for one less bully in this world.  But I also know bullies' families love them and his family is suffering the ultimate loss.

Perhaps there are times when death is neither a negative nor a positive.  It all depends on which side of the fence you're standing when it happens.

In my personal experience, death has always been sad, but also strange in some way.  This time, it is only strange.

If Catherine Zeta-Jones can do it...

... Then so can I.

Not that I've ever tried to hide my mental health issues but I'm always glad to see a celebrity speaking frankly on the topic.  CZJ is on a recent cover of People Magazine talking about treating her bipolar disorder.

That takes balls, big brass ones.

Even in 2011, there's still a lot of stigma attached to mental illness.  Seems like many people continue to misunderstand what it is; some question whether it is even a "real" problem and some even believe people who live with mental illness are responsible for having their disorder.  Absurd, I know!

Let me make it clear - it IS an actual, medical issue.  No organ is infallible, so why assume the brain is?  To the non-believers, do you actually think psychologists, psychiatrists and pharmaceutical companies conspired to create an imaginary illness just so they could have something to do?  Then would they get all the imaginary patients all over the world to fake all the same symptoms for particular disorders?  Come on now, be realistic... they wouldn't.

(At this time, I will acknowledge that some people do fake illnesses.  I think it's called Münchausen syndrome.  I'm not talking about those certain individuals in this instance.  Their existence doesn't prove that mental illness is 'fake.'  If anything, it proves the opposite of that.  Everyone on the same page here?)

I have an anxiety disorder and to a rather severe degree.  My parents noticed symptoms when I was about 3 years old.  At age 19, I began treatment with therapy and medication.  Don't ask why it took so long... it doesn't matter at this point.  Today I continue to take meds and occasionally see a therapist.  There is no cure but treatment does improve my quality of life significantly.  The daily struggle never goes away but with help, it's tolerable and I'm able to be a mostly functional member of society.

If you think you or someone you know has a mental illness, there is no shame in getting help.  If you have a friend who acts uncontrollably moody, depressed, nervous, paranoid, etc...  don't blame them for it.  Be supportive, suggest they talk to a doctor.

If funds are limited, explain this to the doctor.  There are ways you can treat your disorder on a budget.  Some doctors will discount office visits for people who don't have insurance.  My doctor did when I didn't have coverage.  He would also give me samples of the medication to help me out when I couldn't afford to refill my prescription every month.  If you can't cover the price of one-on-one therapy, there might be support groups in your area that cost little to nothing.

You don't have to suffer and you shouldn't blame yourself.  You might never be totally symptom-free but you CAN feel better, so get on the internet and find a mental health professional in your area.  There are people who understand what you're going through.  Catherine Zeta-Jones does and so do I.

Why are your bad decisions my responsibility?

No secret I love some Junk TeeVee.  It's nice to have mindless drivel playing in the background when I'm going about my domestic business.  Sometimes I find it entertaining between folding clothes or vacuuming.  Other times, it's just white noise while I do some bookkeeping or during nights when I work from home.

Recently I caught part of a show where a girl with money for $5-mocha-chino-lattes, fake nails, dining out, tanning, designer purses and other things receives government assistance.  Since when is it acceptable to spend money on happy ha ha fun time things then require the taxpayer to pick up the tab for her essentials?

These assistance programs provide a vital service to people who truly need help.  People who are physically or mentally challenged and unable to work but don't have the luxury of having a wealthy parent to buy them a home are the ones meant to benefit from government aid.  Then there are the working poor - people who can and do work yet don't currently earn enough money to pay for medicine or food.  Government assistance is intended for these individuals, sometimes permanently or long-term and other times temporarily until they can get back on their feet.

Government assistance is NOT meant to be used in place of personal accountability.  (Fer shizz, I really want an iPhone 4 even though a regular mobile phone will work just fine.  Unfortunately, I only have enough money to buy things I actually need, like groceries and gas.  BUT if I get food stamps, I'll be able to buy an iPhone 4.  Yay me!  I'm so clever.  Thank you, hard-working people who pay taxes so I can have things I don't really need.)  Many people are doing precisely that and to such a degree that some of these programs are now in danger of being eliminated.  How an able-bodied, able-minded person can abuse the system and sleep at night blows my mind.  Apparently it isn't too hard because it happens every day.

Money for these programs doesn't come flying out of a unicorn's ass.  People who work and pay taxes fund the programs.  Therefore, people who abuse the programs are committing fraud and stealing from taxpayers.


Since when is entitlement en vogue?  What's so glamorous about being a mooch?

Why do taxpayers owe help to someone who doesn't truly need it?

Fifty Pounds of Douche in a Five Pound Bag

I wish I could figure out what is wrong with some people. Then I remember there is indeed much truth to the saying 'ignorance is bliss.' But if I don't complain at least a little bit, I'm going to burst. This week has been such a pisser... literally.

Yesterday afternoon, there was a group of asshole baseball fans in the grocery store parking lot, drinking beers and relieving themselves right out there in the open, in broad daylight. I know what I think to myself when I see an intoxicated loser pissing in public - wow, how amazingly rad. I yearn to be so cool someday.

You do the Kansas City Royals damn proud, you pathetic lot of drunk-driving fuck ups. I would wish that you had both smacked your little silver compact car and your fine redneck limousine (aka truck) into bridge abutments or each other on the way home. But knowing what an upstanding bunch you were, I bet you don't have a lick of insurance so you'd be sucking off the hind government tit to pay for your injuries and I give a massive chunk of my income for that tit so... yeah... unfortunately, I hope you got home safely and without harming non-drunk-driving people.

Just wanted you to know my desire for your well-being is purely motivated by selfishness. If there were no such thing as undeserving fucktards on various kinds of welfare, I would't give half a shit what happened to you guys.

You saw me flag down an employee in the parking lot and you were keen enough to get the hell out of there because I think you figured out I was trying to complicate your evening. Congratulations, you have at least one active brain cell. Too bad we were on private property or else I would have just called the police instead of waiting for the store manager.

I think next time I see something like that, I will call the police. Now that I think about it, you got into your vehicles with open containers. It doesn't matter that you were on private property at that point, does it? Filing that away in my Mental Rolodex for sure.

For what it cost you to drive to the game, park, buy beer and food, you could have all shared a cab and for a few dollars in tip, the cab driver would happily have waited for you while you WENT INSIDE the store or a gas station to use the facilities. Royals fans? Not so much. More like Royal douchebags.

Sadly I can't say that's the only example of the shitty side of humanity I witnessed this week...

Tonight I'm driving home from work. At a stop light, there's a nicely maintained Range Rover. It's been tastefully 'pimped,' not overdone. Next to it in the left-turn lane is a little import of some kind. A Hyundai or Kia, not sure. They all look the same.

This one was especially cherry. Banged up mismatched body panels, with peeling, bubbled tint on the filthy windows and one of those big coffee-can angry farting bee exhaust pipes sagging under the cockeyed bumper. The back tire was gone and in its place was the smallest spare I think I've ever seen in my life. It looked like a stroller wheel.

From the general condition of the car and the fact that the engine wouldn't idle without you repeatedly revving it, I'm guessing that teensy tiny cute little miniature tire has been there for much longer than its intended purpose. And yes, it's impressive that I could hear the engine over the stereo. How is it people can afford these crazy loud speakers but they can't afford a tire? Is damaging your hearing and disturbing the peace really more important than your safety and the safety of other motorists on the road with you?

That itty bitty spare is precious but when it comes flying off your car at 70 miles per hour (I feel safe in assuming you don't realize you're not supposed to drive faster than about 40 mph with a 'donut'... or drive on it for 6 months) it can cause significant damage if it hits another car. Might even kill someone if it goes through a windshield. Fuck other people though. They don't matter. You and your shitty stereo are more important than anything else on the road.

I bet you're the kind of person who spends money on those stupid animated ringtones they advertise during "Teen Mom 2." You know you are. You text your name to the 5-digit number to see what your "Jersey Shore" nickname should be. You can afford $50 a month in extra phone bill fees for Miss Cleo tarot updates on your iPhone but you can't buy a tire for the clapped-out tin can you're driving.

You know something? Your crap tunes and POS car are easy to overlook. It's what you did at the stoplight that made my jaw drop. You and your passenger have small penises or your parents didn't give you enough attention as children. How do I know? I saw you both giving the stink-eye to the Range Rover.

The dirty looks just didn't satisfy you and your passenger though. No. You needed to make a point to that Range Rover because something about it made you mad. Made you jealous? Filled you with rage because it forced you to confront your personal misgivings?

So your passenger, in a move of pure class, deliberately extended his arm as far out the window as he could and flicked his cigarette at the Range Rover. SUCCESS! His cigarette did indeed hit the Range Rover although I doubt its millisecond of contact was enough to mar the paint. Aww shucks. Your little expression of hate turned out to be impotent, just like you.

The Range Rover driver didn't seem to notice either. That must have stung. What were you hoping for from him? Did you think he'd see your point, whatever it was supposed to be, then get out and hand you the keys?

Do I sound like a snob? I shouldn't, because I'm not. I joke about it, but I sincerely am not totally stuck up. Hell, I used to have a hoopty.

I've had a few ugly, cheap cars in my day but they were dependable. That was all I could afford at the time because I do this thing called "living within my means." That's where people spend their money responsibly. It isn't too hard either. Basically, you just refrain from buying non-essentials if you can't afford them.

Smart phones, cigarettes, speaker amps, animated ring-tones, satellite TeeVee and bling bling are non-essentials. A car in good mechanical order and safe tires are essentials. Shocking, I know. It is so simple! Why doesn't everyone do it? That's what I'd like to figure out. So you tell me.

In the cases of these individuals, I think it's safe to consider things like birth control pills, condoms and surgical sterilization as essentials. Top priority essentials even.

I realize no one is perfect. Perfection is not expected. But come the fuck on! There is no excuse for this particular brand of bullshit. Is there? Can it be justified? Try to explain this to me, I am honestly interested. I refuse to believe it is easily dismissed as 'stupid people.' There's got to be something more to it, right?

I'm looking for a cure. Humanity deserves better than this and without a cure, we're doomed because the douchebags are reproducing at a feverish rate... Meanwhile truly responsible and upstanding gay would-be parents are denied the opportunity to adopt or foster on a daily basis.

And people wonder why I'm a misanthrope?! Ugh. This is the part where I build a bridge and get over it.

Under the Covers

Recently a friend who is also a keen musician asked me what the best cover of all time was. After thinking on it for several days, I have decided there is no one song. It must be a list. Sort of like #TheShitThatKilledElvis except, you know, cover songs. The cover songs that killed Elvis?

Now some of you might not agree and that's fine. You can correct me in the comments and I will talk smack on you and your bad taste later. LoLz! ^_^

Here goes, I'll name the covering band, the song and the original artist and it's kind of not in any particular order but favorites will be closer to the top of the list.

• Stevie Ray Vaughan - Superstition - Stevie Wonder
• Keane - Under Pressure - Queen and David Bowie
• Phil Lewis - Fat Bottomed Girls - Queen
• Power Station - Get It On - T. Rex
• Presidents of the United States of America - Cleveland Rocks - Ian Hunter
• Gnarls Barkley - Gone Daddy Gone - Violent Femmes
• Love Spit Love - How Soon Is Now - The Smiths
• Katy Perry - Hackensack - Fountains of Wayne
• Lifehouse - Somewhere Only We Know - Keane
• Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen
• Gary Jules - Mad World - Tears for Fears
• Cake - I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
• Blues Brothers - Soul Man - Sam & Dave
• Fountains of Wayne - Baby One More Time - Britney Spears
• Scissor Sisters - Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd

I realize there are TONS more super great covers but these are the ones I actually know and ones where I feel like the artist covering the tune gives it a deliciously different flavor from the original.

*Buffie reserves the right to add to this list whenever she wants and without prior notice or crap like that.