Wellbutrin Aggression

A few months, weeks, months, something ago, Mr. Buffie was chirping in my lobes that I'm emotional and bitchy even though I practically walk around with a Cymbalta drip.

Two, maybe three visits ago, I told the shrink he was on my case and she was like, fuck all, you don't seem as bad as you have been. Her mouth didn't say 'fuck all' but her eyes did. Cymbalta is a tricky med and she needed time to research a cocktail companion for it that wouldn't side-effect me into zombification or kill me with serotonin syndrome.

Welcome to Wellbutrin.

First few weeks, eh, don't really notice much. A bit more energy maybe. Definitely more manic, which I seriously don't like. But something new has cropped up. Wellbutrin aggression.

If all my family and friends were to make lists of the top 100 most aggressive people they knew, I don't think I'd make it onto a single person's list. That probably isn't the case so much these days.

I've always been a snot. Maybe even a brat. I'm an only child. That's what we do. It's who we are. What are parents going to do if there are no other kids around whose needs must be met? We onlys can hardly be blamed for it if we got all the things, all the attention, all the time.

Now if you're feeling sorry for Mr. Buffie, fucking stop it.

He knew immediately that I am a princess. How? I told him. I'm a princess. Oh, you want to date me? Well, jump through these flaming hoops first, prove you are employed, housed, vehicular'd and worthy, then I'll discuss it with my parents and consider it.

Snotty? Yes. Aggressive? Not even. More like matter-of-fact, simple, silly.

Lately though. Tonight for example, on the way home from some local Italian place that isn't going to last until Halloween, he told me that dad is thinking of upgrading his still practically new Mercedes. RAGE! I saw red. I actually screamed. Mr. B knew WHY I was mad but he couldn't figure out how I arrived at /that much/ mad.  (Daddy and I are close but our relationship, especially when it comes to money, is complicated.)

Next time I see my dad, he better hope he's not in anything newer than 2010 or made in Germany or I am going to beat him with a tire iron and take away his wallet.

And there's a dickhead in our neighborhood who has been severely butthurt for the past six months about the retiree across the road who parks his POS Suburban in the street because there's not enough room for it in his driveway between his boat trailer and his wife's little econocrap. And their garage is too full of old people crap for the boat trailer or the wife's car to fit in there.

What does dickhead do? He or she hoooonks every time they drive by. Morning, noon and night. It's a blue Ford Explorer. They drove by at 9:47 tonight.

You, whoever you are reading my shitty blog, anyway you know I have fibromyalgia which means I don't sleep well. And the retiree is a nice man who likes to go fishing at 4 a.m. but otherwise, he keeps to himself, doesn't hurt anyone. Next door to us is a quiet, young family with a special-needs toddler in addition to a baby. Across the street is a woman recovering from a heart attack. Across the corner street is an older, single woman who keeps her house and lawn perfect and doesn't bother a soul.

So Honking Dickhead is irritating all of us with this BULLSHIT because they have to move a few feet into the other lane to go around 4 a.m. Fisherman's Suburban?! IS IT REALLY THAT MUCH OF A PROBLEM, DICKHEAD? I don't think Fisherman is getting your point, either. Because you've been doing this for a long time now and let me look out the window... Hey, there's a big white Suburban right there, legally parked in the street. Current tags, operational, fully inflated tires and all.

Wellbutrin has had enough of the honking. Wellbutrin doesn't want them to honk anymore. Wellbutrin is just about to set up camp in the driveway and shoot out their motherfucking tires if I hear one more honk within 15 miles of this whole damn town. The scope on my .22 rifle is ridiculously accurate and the high-capacity magazine will give me more than enough opportunity to perforate that mostly-plastic SUV and if tires don't send the honker a message, maybe shooting out the glass will? Maybe I'll make myself a set of stop-sticks with some gutter nails and a nice piece of wood, painted black so they don't see it at 9:47 in the p.m.

Wellbutrin aggression is just getting warmed up. My middle finger has never been so busy. Shitty drivers, you are all STILL on blast, btw. After the uninsured wonder twins made short work of Sir Hiss and my truck last fall, I remain convinced Mr. Buffie and I are the only people in Kansas City with insured vehicles. I operate my car under the assumption that no one else on the road has it. If someone so much as sneezes near Ramon, Imma be on the evening news. "Crazed suburban fat woman was jailed today after using a very large purse to beat a man..."

Those are a few examples. I feel like I should try to sleep but frankly, I'm still kind of pissed off about the Italian restaurant (I told him it was a bad idea) and my dad's pending NEEDLESS vehicle upgrade and the honking, and the people whose driving was so terrible, I was a legit 10 minutes late to work this morning, my brain is a soup of irritability, I can't even...

If you're the honking asshole in the blue Ford Explorer, I joke about shooting at your car. As a responsible gun owner, I will only shoot at you if you try to break into my house or try to steal my purse or threaten me/my family/my cats physically in some way. HOWEVER, your days of disturbing my peace are numbered. I haven't decided yet how to deal with you (law enforcement in these burbs is a joke, it's all about grabbing cash, not protecting nor serving) but when I do, let's hope for your sake I'm off the Wellbutrin.

Shit is dangerously close to getting real, f'real. I've been depressed before. I've been manic before. I've been angry before. But typically not all at the same time, not for such long periods and never at this level of intensity.

Wits end... That's where Wellbutrin Aggression lives. And I'm there.

Whine and Spirits

That's not a typo.

I've been in an uncharacteristically nettled, horrible mood recently (and a teensy bit currently but it's receding) and it was crippling, more than any physical ailment I've ever had.  Totally wore me down.  Maybe I'm over it?  I hope so.

Here's the whine...  I have a voicemail I'm actually afraid to hear.  I've never listened to it but that vile little red circled "1" won't leave the icon unless I do.  And it isn't even from a friend or a relative or business relation sort of person.  It's an I've-only-met-you-twice acquaintance.  I'm a scaredy cat; this is widely known among those who know, y'know.  LoL  That circled icon peeves me to no end and was a big mean old contributor to my bad mood.  And I don't feel like blaming myself so I would much prefer someone else fix it.  Mehhhh.

Sometimes I almost think I believe in ghosts.  I believe in the possibility of ghosts, I guess.  But actual spirits, who knows?  It's weird to see departed friends on the FB.  Remembering them makes you smile but you can't avoid saying goodbye again, every single time.

Occasionally I will forget, just for like 5 seconds, maybe less.  I will forget about goodbye and in that tiny moment they're alive again.  What is that all about?  It's so bizarre.  Is that a ghost or only a misfire of neurons and static electricity in the brain?  What if it is both?

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.

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.

Your Fluff Welcome Here

"Aw, look, poor thing, they won't let her shop. Yeah - like those salesgirls in Beverly Hills aren't bigger whores than she is." ~ Romy White, "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion" (1997)

I bet more than just fluffies can relate to this:

You show up to an establishment you've never visited only to discover you're a fish out of water, like a group of Mennonites at a frat boy's bachelor party.

In my experiences, it involved discovering the hard way that a certain biz was either not fat-friendly or straight up fat-intolerant. Not naming names *cough*cough* The Plaza *cough*cough* but I have stumbled across a few such places and it never fails to surprise, disappoint and incense me.

As a gesture of consideration to my chunky brethren and... uhhh... sisteren? (That's not a real term is it? Pfft. Do over! See next sentence.) In support of mah fat peeps and their sizes-other-than-fat family and friends, I would like to give those living in or planning to visit my adopted home town of KCMO a little guidance to the more chub-accessible attractions.

Noms... this city has some good ones. Nice variety too, if you can tolerate the irritating lack of good Cajun food.

Asian food:

Saigon 39

According to some reviews, they serve substandard pho. I like pho but that isn't why I go to Saigon 39. Their chicken fried rice is wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-craving-it good and if you like peanut sauce, theirs is superb (but pricey).

Fat Tolerant: Has tables with metal chairs and booths. Chairs do not have arms and booth tables are not affixed. Crowd is always a mixed bag but not too teen-infested. Restroom is spacious. Staff is polite but don't show up close to closing time because you may have to get it to go.

Minuses: Not really wheelchair accessible and parking can be a bitch during peak hours.

*LGBT Friendly Bonus Points

Asian Tiger

Super yummy traditional and modern sushi, ah-mah-zing pan dishes and one of the best non-bar cocktail menus in town.

Fat Friendly: Has tables with wood chairs and booths. Chairs do have arms but they are wide-set and only partially the length of the seat. Booth tables are not affixed and seats are comfortable. Charming, pleasant usually-quiet atmosphere. Haven't seen a big group of teens dining unsupervised there yet, which is a Buffie-Bonus. Staff is polite and respectful. Wheelchair accessible.

Mexican food:

Pancho's

Simple but satisfying and inexpensive menu. Very casual local chain with 24/7 drive thru windows.

Fat Tolerant: I admit, I almost never dine in at Pancho's because drive-thru rocks and I'm always in a hurry. I view drive-thrus at places that aren't national chains as a nod (intentional or not) to the chunky monkey customer. The location I frequent has fixed-table booths only. I can squeeze into a booth if I can't avoid getting take out but it isn't comfortable. Staff is polite and respectful.

Minuses: The location on Main is not the best place to be for people traveling alone after dark. Have had close-encounters of the potentially intoxicated/violent/generally criminal kind one too many times in that area.

Sol Azteca (now called Sabor Y Sol)

I haven't been since they remodeled but I have it on good authority that it's the same management and menu, which leans Tex-Mex. *giddy* Excellent price/portion ratio and leftovers heat up beautifully for lunch the next day.

*UPDATE*  I've been to Sabor Y Sol a couple times since they re-opened and it's everything Sol Azteca was and more.  They now have made-fresh-when-you-order-it guacamole that will land your ass in rehab.  The interior is much brighter now.  Tables and chairs are still fat-friendly.  Staff is great.  FOOD IS INCREDIBLE and more than reasonably priced.

Fat Friendly: Has tables with metal chairs and booths. Booth tables are not affixed but the spacing can be tight depending on how busy they are. Ladies' room is spacious. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is polite and respectful.

American noms, like burgers and steaks, yo:

Courthouse Exchange

Best freaking burger on earth next to OKC's Belle Isle Brewery Honey Pepper Bacon Burger. Onion rings so incredible they won over notorious hater of onions, Mr. Buffie.

Fat Tolerant: It's down a flight of stairs in the basement of a historic building, so it's totally not wheelchair accessible. Has tables with wood chairs and booths. I think some of the booth tables may be affixed but I don't remember. Crowd is adult but can be lively later in the evening. Ladies' room is spacious. Staff is polite and respectful.

Hereford House

It's a KC staple known for incredible steak. Pricey but if you're craving a /real/ steak, it sooo fits the bill.

Fat Tolerant: I only rate it a "Tolerant" and not a "Friendly" because the staff (usually just the hostesses) can be on the rude teen/mean girl side. Has tables and booths. I think some booths have affixed tables. Crowd is sometimes overly yuppie but that's at every "classy" steak joint, right? Ladies' room is spacious. Wheelchair accessible.

Barbeque, (spelled the right way - with a q) also known as BBQ:

Rosedale Barbeque

This was my first experience with KC BBQ and it was love at first bite. Beef sammichs, ribs, burnt ends (which is a clever but unjust term for delicious chunks of smoked brisket), cole slaw and the most sinful french fries in nom history. Definitely has a "dive joint" vibe but isn't filthy gross or anything like that. Respectable selection of very cold beers.

Fat Friendly: Has tables with metal chairs that generously outnumber the fixed-table booths. Ladies' room is spacious. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is polite and respectful.

BB's Lawnside BBQ

Hybrid restaurant and blues bar that has, of all things, an amazing meatloaf dinner on the menu. Also try the BBQ nachos... yes NACHOS! Bar has both liquor and beer for those who prefer a cocktail instead of a brew with their smoked meats.

Fat Friendly: Family style tables with an assortment of metal chairs. Crowd is varied but never teen heavy. Ladies' room is spacious. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is polite and respectful.

Multifariousness for the multifattieousness...

More noms:

Waldo Pizza

I am generally NOT a fan of pizza but I am coo coo crazy for Waldo Pizza. My fave is a spicy beef and sun dried tomato pizza with honey-wheat crust and extra sauce. The ultimate combination of savory, cheesy, sweet, hot, crusty and chewy. Westport Room special ranch dressing contains crack, I'm pretty sure. Never tried to actually shoot up with it but the idea has crossed my mind. Impressive beer/liquor selection. This ain't your average Chuck E. Cheese folks.

Fat Friendly: Has tables with wood chairs and booths. I'm not 100% sure but I think the booths have fixed-tables. Crowd can attract teens and kids because pizza seems to have that effect but I have never been disturbed to the point of panic. Ladies' room is spacious. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is polite and respectful.

*LGBT Friendly Bonus Points

Movies:

Tivoli Cinemas

Mostly independent films. Some of my favorite movies I've watched here.

Fat Friendly: Theaters are on the 2nd floor but there's an elevator. Smaller size means every seat has a great view. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is wonderfully polite and respectful.

Minuses: Seats are older and on the small side but I'm able to wedge myself into them without much discomfort. Sit in the back if you need to stand up a couple times during the flick so you don't block the view of the people behind you. Decent leg room despite the seat width.

*LGBT Friendly Bonus Points

Bars:

Knucklehead's

If you're from KC and you long for the old Grand Emporium, Knucklehead's is a most suitable substitute and a regular Candye Kane tour stop. Blues, beer, liquor and noms. What else do you need?

Fat Friendly: Totally mixed bag of tables, chairs and booths. Crowd is fun but mature. No fratmosphere. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is polite and respectful.

Missie B's

Gay bar featuring delightful drag shows with unforgettable emcee - Dirty Dorothy.

Fat Friendly: Tables with regular chairs and bar stools. Ladies' room is spacious. Staff is polite and respectful, and in Dorothy's case, family.

*LGBT Friendly Bonus Points - Duh, obviously! LoL

Glamorousness:

Blo Salon Studio

If you think I have awesome hair, and I do (not bragging, just saying) then go to Blo and get some, too!

Fat Friendly: Salon seats have arms but they're wide set. Restroom is spacious. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is polite and respectful when it counts and devilishly hilarious the rest of the time.

*LGBT Friendly Bonus Points

Oasis Tan

Shut up, I know excessive tanning is supposed to be harmful, dangerous, whatever. I know, I know. But I don't overdo it and I cheat with spray tans. Speaking of spray tans, they have VersaSpa, and it's kickass.

Fat Tolerant: Variety of beds feature some larger, more spacious models. There is a weight limit and the staff I've dealt with answered my weight-limit questions professionally and respectfully. VersaSpa booth easily accommodates BBWs and most SSBBWs. Restroom is spacious. Wheelchair accessible. Staff is primarily young women who don't give off that "mean girl" vibe at all. That is a rare find in a tanning salon.

Shopping:

Mary Kay

Skin care and cosmetics that will rock your socks.

You know I had to put MK on my list. Hello! The consultant comes to /you/. Does it get more fat friendly than that!?

Lia Sophia

High quality costume jewelry sold via home parties. Like MK, LS consultants bring the shopping to you. Many of their necklaces are extra-long. Measurements for necklaces and bracelets are listed, eliminating the guesswork when it comes to fit.

And those are a few of my favorite things. By no means is this list complete. I would imagine there are many more fat friendly/tolerant places to haunt in the KC area and as I encounter them, I'll gladly share what I find.

Peace, fluff and equality,

~Buffie

I have become "memorably" numb?

Tonight I had my first "you might be fat if..." experience.

You might be fat if...

...The lady who used to work at the donut shop sees you 2 years later at her new job where she's a hostess and she recognizes you but you don't have any idea who she is.

That was my big clue this evening.

Backstory: I go to this one donut place mayyyyybeeeee 4 or 5 times a year. (Not saying I only /eat/ there 4 or 5 times a year but usually Mr. Buffie just runs in and grabs a half-dozen on the way to work while she-who-is-not-a-morning-person waits in the car. So I personally don't step foot in the donut shop all that much.) /end Backstory

Tonight we went to grab a bite after an obscenely long day at the office and the very nice hostess lady says "Hi! Haven't seen you in a while!"

I'm thinking "Hi, haven't seen you... uhm, ever."

Then she says she knows me from the donut shop, where she used to work 2 years ago.

What does that mean???? Who has a memory like that? Does that mean I'm memorably fat? I've always jokingly wondered if they have fat "Wanted" posters in places like Chinese buffets and donut shops (like John Pinette says) but now I'm thinking - do they /really/ keep tabs???

Mr. Buffie is the one who pops in there 90% of the time and she doesn't seem to recognize him at all.

Not exactly paranoid but definitely perplexed and possibly even intrigued....

What makes someone memorable? (I know what makes someone memorable to me but what's the general consensus? I feel bad for not remembering her. She was a nice chick.)

Are you "memorably" fat? What was your first clue?

When Bad Weekends Happen to Good Buffies

Last weekend was probably the worst damn string of events ever to happen to me. Or at least the worst that could happen without anyone dying.

But I learned something.

And it really wasn't "worth it". (How is "worth it" determined anyway?)

Friday night, for reasons I don't feel like discussing, I had to attend a high school football game. This involved 3 things I really fucking hate.

Outside.

Football.

Teenagers.

Some people are sexist. Some people are homophobic. Some people are elitist. Some people are racist.

Buffie is teen-ist.

I think that's a made-up word, but I don't know the real word for a person who hates teenagers as much as I do. Even when I was one, I hated it. You know why I hated it? Because of other teenagers.

I've said this before, but I'd rather face off with all of the Taliban on a bad turban day than have to spend 5 minutes with a person between the ages of 13 and 19.

Is it wrong of me to think like that? Yeah.

But you know what was MORE wrong??? How those fucking bastards treated me when I was a kid. So I feel like I have bloody earned the right to hate teenagers. I have also earned the right to hate frat pukes and other people who generally behave badly in public and in the presence of a fat person. All of them can go eat a scoop full of rat turds.

There were thousands of the sons of bitches there. One screamed in my face, completely unprovoked, and thought it was funny. Mr. Buffie considered knocking him the fuck out for a moment but thought better of it, what with the possibly going to the jail for the assault and all.

Poor Mr. Buffie. I practically rode him piggy-back all the way through the crowd. He had to hold onto both of my hands to assure himself I wouldn't randomly start smacking the ones who got too close to me.

You'd be proud of me though. I survived an entire 30 minutes before making a wild dash to the car and I didn't hit, poke, choke, kick, trip, shoot or shove a single one of them. I might have maybe kinda sorta perhaps accidentally shoulder checked a couple, but hey... you get in my space, I'll get in yours. Turn about is fair play, yes?

Mostly fair play.

They shoulder check me with a wimpy little piece of shit teen shoulder. I shoulder check back mad-fat-chick style and teen asshole spins like a top. I win! hee hee

Did I mention I have had bronchitis for two solid weeks? At the time I didn't know it was a flare up of bronchitis. I thought I was just really effing sick with the cold from hell and my mood was certainly not improved through abuse of NyQuil and obscene amounts of hot tea and whiskey. So let's add that to the weekend I hope goes down in history as the worst there ever was.

That sums up my Friday night.

Saturday I spent in a stupor, tissues shoved up my nostrils and a pillow over my face wishing for all the congestion in my head and chest to either turn to sand or explode and end my misery.

Lying down was completely futile because all the fluid nastiness in me made it impossible to breathe, meaning I got about 3 hours of actual sleep Saturday night.

Then there were the convulsive coughing fits that shook the foundation of my house and made me feel like I would literally pull the Kleenex away from my mouth only to see a chunk of my lung on it.

Now the sickness and the teenagers were really quite enough to make my weekend a total waste of time but ... unfortunately ... that wasn't all.

Guess what I got to do Sunday morning??!!

Wake up early.

Isn't that cute? A foul, snarling, snorting swamp beast being jerked out of slumber after only 3 hours of sleep.

Guess why!!?!?

To go to CHURCH!

Know what happens when you wake up a grumpy, ill, atheist, put her in uncomfortable "church" clothes and make her sit through the most awkward and dreary two hours of "I done so wrong and Jeeesus is pissed but he loves me anyways 'n I shure don't deserve it, oh Lawd, can you puhleeze fergive me and now let me sing to you some of the most depressing music you'll ever hear"?????

My Sunday. That's what you get.

I never understood why someone would be "militant" about something. That's why, even though I feel the way I do about religion, I would never ever in a million billion years have considered becoming a militant atheist.

Well, now I get it. I SOOOO totally get it.

Militant atheists probably don't get invited to church by their friends and family.

The dear people who invited us to church on this particular day, they mean the world to me. This certain day was extra special for one of them and they said it was so important to them for us to be there.

These same dear people asked me point blank, back in 2001, what church I attended. I politely explained I didn't. They wanted to know why. So I told them why. They said, "oh, that's alright, everyone is different."

I took that to mean they understood how I felt about church. I felt confident that I had explained my position on religion. For all I knew, on that day, it was made perfectly clear that myself and these wonderful people had different upbringings, different views and we were still cool with each other.

But over 8 years and a number of denied requests to attend church later... I'm starting to wonder if they didn't get the point.

Both of them were made aware back in 2001 that I was not looking for God but if I ever changed my mind, they'd be the first to know. Both of them assured me there would be no pressure. No attempts to convert me.

For the most part, they've stuck to that agreement. However, I have to wonder. Why keep inviting me to church???

It isn't like something happens there that a person like me wouldn't experience in Jesus-free settings. If I want to hear weepy awful music sang by a pleasant but off-key group of seniors in robes, I would go to a nursing home and host a singin-in-the-shower karaoke contest.

(BTW, why does there always have to be that one church lady who thinks she missed her calling to be on the stage of an opera as the star soprano and now she takes it out on everyone else in the church choir?) Whhaaaaaaaaaaaa Jeeeeeesssssuuuuuuuussssssss whaaaaaaaaaooooooaaaaa!!!!! Haaaaalllll-aaaaaaa-llllllooooooo-yyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! *BANG* (That's me, shooting myself in the ear.)

If I wanted coffee and donuts before a meeting where people cry, I would join a group therapy session that takes morning appointments.

If I wanted to sit in an uncomfortable chair while someone stands in front of me telling me how I do bad shit but they love me anyway, I'd go home, do something to piss off my mum then perch on a stool covered in thumb-tacks and listen to her chew my ass.

If I wanted to have my already suffering sinuses be put through torture by the smell of old, mothballs, furniture polish, dried flowers and too much stanky perfume, I'd visit Hobby Lobby on senior discount day on a July afternoon when the store a/c isn't working.

See? No church needed to experience any of the same church-things and I can do all of that shit minus Jesus stories... which in my opinion don't make a damn bit of sense anyway.

I don't know what Jesus really said. He didn't write any of that stuff in the bible. Other people did. And just as sure as I'm relating to you now the wretched things I went through this past weekend, if Mr. Buffie wrote the same story (cuz he was there through it all) I fucking assure you, his spin would be different than mine. So why should I have to trust what other uneducated people wrote down about shit they didn't understand in a time when there was no scientific thought put into much of anything and read a version of it that has been translated who-the-fuck-knows how many times by people who may or may not have been sticklers for accuracy and believe it's not only true but the like pinnacle of all truth in life? Uhm, no thanks.

Hey, if YOU wanna believe it, do it. More power to you. Oh please be my guest. And believe it with all your heart. Just don't ask me to believe it with you. Besides, your faith isn't affected by how I think, so don't worry about what is going to happen to my soul when I die. I'm not.

Now these people who invite me to church on a not-infrequent basis, they're usually rather understanding (as they should be) when I say no. They kind of make a squishy face and pretend to have momentarily forgotten the whole "Buffie doesn't do Jesus" thing. But lo and behold, they'll invite me again in another 6 months and we go through the confounded awkward mess all over again.

This one time though... I thought dammit, maybe they'll leave me the hell alone if I go just this once, and it should count in spades since it's a special occasion and all. Maybe this will make them happy and it'll be over with. I can consider it my good deed for the DECADE.

But no. No, no, no. Not not but no. Hell to tha no.

Now that I've gone this one time to appease them, I've been invited to come back by all the nice people there and even my dear (and I really don't say that sarcastically, I freaking love these people) friends (they're actually family) are inviting me again.

Listen, friends (technically relatives, but whatever, I consider you friends, too)... I adore you. I truly do. You're two of my favorite people in this whole world and I'd do damn near anything for you. Shit, I have gone to church for you. I'd almost rather set myself on fire than go to church, so appreciate that gesture for what it was. But ya gotta get it through your heads. This isn't something I care to repeat. Ever. I told you before, if I change my mind, I'll be all up in yer churchin. But that day hasn't come and if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath.

I know you two love Jesus and I am positive Jesus loves ya right back. I realize church is a huge part of your lives, but it isn't the ONLY life you have. Like it or not, we're family. That means I'm part of your lives, too. And you're both a big part of mine. A part I love and cherish. We do tons of stuff together and we have a blast and the other stuff we do doesn't make one of us horrendously uncomfortable. Can't we just keep doing those things? Why does it have to be church?

Tell you what, if you're going to insist on inviting me to church, I'm going to start inviting you to blues concerts and burlesque shows. I know loud music and scantily clad chicks shaking their asses isn't your thing but tit for tat, hey?

I'll even trade you one for one. For every time you go to a dive bar or a nudie show with me, I'll go to a meeting of the God Squad with you. Fair?

Getting my point now?

That's what I thought.

Since being a militant atheist isn't really my style, I'll just return your church invitations with requests for you to join me for cheeseburgers at the Shady Lady or I'll ask you to a Rumblejetts show.

Because I know you two love naked tits and raucous jams as much as I love bible time. (Holy shit! This blog is long.)

In the end, I learned that if only my weekend had more strippers, beer and rockabilly music, and less teens and apostles, it probably wouldn't have sucked such a huge bag of dicks.

All Aboad the Bipolar Express!

If mood swings were amusement park rides, I would be more fun than Disney World.

Thursday was awesome. Friday I felt so... judged. -shudder- It was like high school all over again.

Have I ever mentioned how fucking awful high school was?

Back then, I didn't understand how much those people would ultimately not matter to me. It's not that I wanted them to like me and it's not that I agreed with their opinions of me. I just wanted them to leave me alone. To me, it wasn't asking for the world but I wanted so badly to be invisible to them. I figured people couldn't effectively attack what they didn't know was there.

They hated me for being fat. Put me down. Told me I should hate myself for it. Told me I needed to lose weight, change how I looked, change how I dressed, blah blah blah... They did it every single fucking day. Even physically assaulted me from time to time. Pushing me down, knocking my books out of my hands. They taught me how to hate, that is for sure.

Yesterday, I told a friend about going to my first HS reunion and how I never planned on going until Mr. Buffie talked me into and I just resisted the whole way there. Only stayed for 45 minutes, but in that time I learned a lot.

I learned that the people who really went out of their ways to treat me like shit were living miserable pathetic lives. Makes sense, they were miserable and pathetic in high school and zebras don't tend to change their stripes.

I also learned that we underdogs moved on and were stronger for surviving the experience. Seemed like most of us geeks, nerds and dorks are doing just fine.

The attempts to bring us down by the miserable, cruel and hateful ones didn't have much success. For me, it was motivation to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible and get on with life in a world where they didn't exist.

So far my plan is working. Hee hee hee.

Heads up to you "popular" mean kids in high school, those of you who think you're so damn cool and get a bang out of humiliating your less-than-trendy classmates ... enjoy it now because after graduation, it's all downhill for you. Next time you're at the gas station, take a good look at the person selling you cigarettes with your fake ID. That's you in 1 to 4 years and it will continue to be you until you die of loneliness or go to prison for your 5th DUI or defaulting on your child support, whichever comes first. If I were you (and I'm glad I'm not and never was) I'd be a little nicer rather than suffer the wrath that karma is going to rain down on your designer knock-off ass later.

Today I don't feel judged anymore. LoLz Glad that passed. Guess a distant memory came back to haunt me for a second and now it's gone. Eventually it won't even be a memory because if I keep trying really hard, I will someday kill those particular brain cells with prescription meds and lots of alcohol. Kidding! Only kidding. You guys know I don't drink that much. Ha!

From the ashes of the most insignificant thing I’ve done all day... 07Aug08

If you know me, or if you're at least familiar with me, then you're probably aware that I'm not exactly "serious". Sure, I fuss and complain a lot, but it's mostly for fun.

There isn't a lot worth taking "seriously". Life is too short to live without humor in massive amounts. A light heart is a happy heart.

But, being a sensible girl, I do hold a few tasks in rather high regard when it comes to seriousness.

One of those things is driving. I ~heart~ horsepower, but I'm not willing to risk my life or someone else's life by using horsepower foolishly. Going fast is for race tracks or places where you pose a danger only to yourself and even then the chances are slim. Horsepower is for a controlled environment.

Driving means driving. Not texting, talking on the phone, eating, putting on make up, dicking around with the iPod, gawking at things that aren't on the road, not the place to be if you've been partying with adult beverages or other substances.

Tonight I was at a red light, a notoriously long one. So I used that moment to call home and let someone know to expect me soon. Just in case I should be kidnapped en route or something. (As if someone could actually do that.)

I used the time at the light to make a simple call and put my phone back in my purse in the passenger seat. After the call ended, I hung up the phone and checked the light. Still red. I opened my purse. Checked again and the light was green. I hesitated, just long enough to make sure I dropped the phone into the open top of my bag. I pushed on the pedal. The car crept forward. (Like I said, even though I -could- treat every intersection like the starting line at the drag strip, that's a waste of gas and just kind of dumb.)

Then my windshield was dark, yet only for a moment. For just a whisper of a second, I was engulfed in the shadow of a commercial truck hauling a container. Full speed ahead. Woosh. In it's wake, it left a quiet but powerful wave of air that slightly rocked my car as it blew past, less than a yard from the forward edge of my car. Perhaps closer.

I can't remember now if the container was grey or that faded rusty red color so many of them seem to be. I am pretty sure the truck was dark blue. But at that moment, things were happening so fast and so slow at the same time. For some reason, my memory forgot to record in color.

My mind hasn't been so clear in years. I remember every song I heard on the way home. I remember thinking of all the things I would have done for the last time, had I not hesitated at that light. I thought about the last phone call I had with Mr. Buffie. I thought about all the mundane things I did today and how I have every intention of showing up tomorrow to do them again because I've become so arrogant in my thinking that I feel entitled to the future.

The future is just a theory. Just an idea. It isn't "real". Only right now is real. Only right now is a guarantee.

It took hours, minutes, days to digest what happened. I let off the gas and just sat there in disbelief. I looked around at the other cars to see if anyone saw what I did, like catching a look at bigfoot and wondering if you were the only one who noticed. I don't even remember what I saw. There's just a blur and the moment really only lasted a fraction of a second but felt like a wait in line at the DMV.

I did go through the intersection eventually. And I think I kind of floated home.

People joke about being run over by a bus or getting hit by a Mack truck. I joke about that stuff, too. I joke a lot about being plowed over by a crazed, distracted, pill popping soccer mom speeding in her giant SUV while she's on her cell phone, eating a power bar, and yelling at her kids.

I will probably joke about it tomorrow. But it will never be the same. Because sometimes, that red light really is just a suggestion to someone. Why am I so sure this was almost Buffie's Last Night in Town? Think about it. The speed limit on that highway is 45 to 55 depending on where you are. This is a huge commercial truck, and I have no way of knowing (thank goodness) whether he was loaded or unladen. Still, that's a lot more iron and steel than my Z28. I don't even have a real roof on my car. I have glass t-tops. Total pancake scenario.

(Disclaimer - The vast majority of commercial truck drivers are experienced professionals who would never dream of doing something so dangerous and STUPID. In fact, stats show that in accidents involving passenger cars and commercial trucks, the PASSENGER CAR is *at fault* MOST of the time. I have a lot of respect for truck drivers and what they mean to life as we know it. If it weren't for truck drivers, we'd be going to the train depot to buy groceries, clothes, and electronics. No thank you.)

Who would ever guess that the most insignificant task could have an impact on whether you live or die in a given moment. Putting my cell phone in my purse. I hesitated to make sure it actually fell into my purse, instead of on to the seat. Had I not done that, I would have accelerated just far enough for my hood to be under the front tires and the passenger compartment to absorb the impact of the radiator and engine.

Coming home tonight was like coming home for the first time. It's like waking up and not knowing where I am now. This near-encounter has blown a fuse in me and now I'm not as familiar as I used to be.

This is so dumb. Am I overreacting? Am I not reacting enough? I've never been so numb and I've never been so cautiously aware of my world. I'm equally glad it happened and wishing it would never have happened. Experiences like these... what can I really learn from it? I'm already a very good, careful, responsible driver. (Not perfect, but a damn lot better than MANY people with whom I must unfortunately share the road.) If nothing more comes of this than a weeks long episode of insomnia, then what's it for?

Does it have to be "for" anything? Does everything truly happen for a reason? Tonight has been both an argument for and against that philosophy. Perhaps hesitating with my cell phone happened for a reason, because I was not in the intersection when the truck ran the light. However, the truck ran the light and this is the closest thing I have ever had to a near-death experience (and something I do NOT wish to repeat).

Tomorrow is going to be the same as it ever was, but it isn't going to look at all how I expected.

We can smell our own. 08Oct07

Phobics are such a trip. I can say that because I'm phobic. Kinda like it's ohkay for fat people to make fat jokes. We come from a place of understanding and there's heart in our humor... not hate.

Phobics don't really hate things. They're AFRAID of things. Significant difference. 

Spiders... I don't really hate spiders. I say I hate spiders, but that isn't really what I mean. I'm scared shitless of spiders. But it's less embarrassing to say I hate them. 

Fat... some people don't really hate fat, but they're scared shitless of it. Therefore they say they hate it because it's less embarrassing to them. 

I can relate. Not about the fat thing specifically... because I'm not scared shitless of myself, but I can relate to the not-wanting-to-be-embarrassed thing. It blows.

Get sick of me rambling about the same 4 topics again and again? Fuck you! It's my blog! I do what I want! =)

Just kidding about the fuck you part. 

TV, movies, music, art... life would be a lot more interesting if we were more honest with each other. Imagine the diversity. There would be so much to appreciate. So much variety. It would be like adding colors to a rainbow or cramming more deliciousness into chocolate. 

We wouldn't be fed the same tired ass images over and over and over the fuck again. We'd see more color, more sizes, more curves. We would see diffferent abilities and talents. People would feel more free to express themselves. There would be a greater sharing of thoughts and ideas. It might be a more innovative world if we were honest enough to replace the word "hate" with the word "scared shitless" and then learned to get over our fears. 

Usually, I like Talk Soup, but they're making fun of Liz Taylor and for some oddball reason, I'm 100% not cool with that. She's effing OLD y'all. And look at her. She's amazing. She isn't just old because she's lived a lot of years, she's done a hell of a lot of living! I can say with absolute certainty that I won't experience in my whole life what Liz experienced in one marriage... even a short one. So what if she gives wacky interview answers these days. Wouldn't your lame TalkSoupSmug selves get fucking sick of answering the same fuckadoodle mindless questions asked by hairsprayed glossy forgettable numbskulls 3 days a week for the past 40 years? Uhm, yeah ya would. And eventually, in order to keep yourself from going batshit with boredom, you might start giving loony tune answers to those dim dull questions because ya just plain feel like fucking with people. Jokes on YOU, Talk Soup. Liz is the master. Can't keep a good bitch down.

Speaking of fucking with people... I've been naughty. Have to confess. One of the skeezy bitches who tried to make a mess of me last year doesn't know that I know she's a member of the "guilty party". She's a really sad person and I should be the bigger individual and show her kindness and forgiveness and junk. But I'm not really in that snuggly place just yet. For now, I'm content to make her uncomfortable with intense eye contact and saying "HI" too loudly and for no reason. Geezus, I'm being a real snot. Pfft. She started it. I'm so mature. NOT. LOL Anyway, saw her recently in someone else's corner of country-fuck smokey town and said "Hhhhiiiiiiiiiiiii" in the weirdest possible way. She was visibly disturbed! It was GREAT! Best b-day gift I could have given myself! The foul, perpetually frowning little scab of a girl actually -shuddered-. You could see the chill grab her by the back of her bony, grumpy, stiff, frigid neck and shake the boogers right out of her stuck up pinched-looking nose! 

Maybe bullies do it because they get a rush from rattling the nerves of others. Then again, bullies are typically unprovoked. I'm a provoked person, so maybe the satisfaction for me is in taking back a bit of my power? I don't know. Regardless, it was a brief, sweet moment I will cherish for the next couple of days before moving on to something else and forgetting her completely. I feel sorry for forget-able people. What were we talking about? 

That's the duality of Buffie. I'm a sincerely nice girl with a big heart and as sensitive a soul as the day is long. But screw with me like some people have; that brings out the asshole in me (my choice to respond that way and that's how I like it) ... You might get away with it, but I won't take it lying down. I used to... but I don't anymore. Chances are, I'll ignore it and forget it ever happened. But if I get bored, I might decide to return the favor. The best part is, I have the allllll, yes ALL the strategic advantages and I'm smart enough not to tell anyone what those advantages are. ~Giggles~ 

The Spice Girls are on a reunion tour? No kidding? That's cool. Ginger Spice was my favorite! Don't know why.

Hmm... the View... If Talk Soup wants to rag forever on the View, I think I'm 100% alright with that. It's completely pompous. Take it down a notch or two.

Yep, my world here. I decide what's right, holy and just. Buffie for President 2008. This time vote for someone who doesn't suck.

Homesick. 17Sept06

You heard me, I'm homesick. 

KC is great. I've got my girlz here and a great job and Mr. Buffie likes it better here and all of that is just fine. But I feel like I'm a million miles away from everything I used to know. 

It all remains completely unfamiliar up here. Going places gives me horrible anxiety because I get lost. The roads are a twisted maze of knots and hills which completely fucks my sense of direction. How many times have I tried to go to Misse's house and had to call because I took the wrong exit or turned on the wrong street? Dozens! Forget going to Kathleen's new house by myself, I would never find it alone! I can't even get to Westport and back without help. My freedom feels so limited because I can't just get in the car and go somewhere. I have to have maps and directions and drawings and a cell phone and a search party. 

Going home doesn't even feel right anymore. Almost everyone (like me) has moved away. Our favorite bar closed a couple years ago. There are still a few of the old familiar joints, but none of the old familiar people are there. 

~pout~ I don't remember who said you can't go home again... but I would like to kick that person's ass!