Love means having to say you're sorry...

WARNING: Adult language in this post

I know, I know... That's not what what's-her-face says in Love Story.  Ali MacGraw.  The correct quotation is "Love means never having to say you're sorry."  Which I think is a shitty quotation.  What kind of douche are you if you don't apologize for the shit you do?  The bad stuff.  The unsupportive and biased things you do because you're blind to your own perspective and maybe don't have all the information, kind of things...  What?  Are your loved ones just supposed to divine that you feel remorse?

If you say mean-spirited things...  apologize!  If you hurt someone's feelings... apologize!  If you dissed a friend's new partner thinking you know all the facts, but the truth is you don't... you need to... APOLOGIZE.  And not just if you feel like shit afterwards.

Basically when you realize you're wrong... about ANYTHING - you need to fucking regroup and own up to it.   I'm not saying that you should just lie down and be someone's doormat when you know, deep down in your heart of hearts, that  you're right, but if something suddenly becomes clear to you and you know you fucked up?  You've got to own that.  You need to grow a pair and take ownership of your misguidance.  'Cause hurt feelings can create a chasm between you and your loved ones, which, if neither one of you moves beyond, will grow wider and wider until you can't even make out who's on the other side of the divide.  Life's too short to write friendships off.  Trust me.  Apologize.

Your kids are watching it... what are you doing about it?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Taken prisoner... Send painkillers...

This morning I awoke to the mother of all migraines.   She looked like this:

Meg Mucklebones from Ridley Scott's Legend

The 1 inch of sunlight from beneath the blind - that tiny amount of light - was akin to having good ol' Meg use her lovely fingernails to gouge out my baby blues.   I popped as many pills as I could * and crawled down the stairs, clutching a set of earplugs.

Why, one might ask, would I need earplugs when Rissa is away with her grandparents for the week and David works in near silence at his computer all day?  Because our roof is being re-roofed this week and there are 5 men on it, with stompy steel-toed construction boots and generator-powered air-nail guns.  Don't get me wrong, I love these guys, they're doing a freaking amazing job at putting what must be (given the cost of the project) gold-encrusted shingles onto my roof and they seem genuinely thrilled when I bring them lavender lemonade (which if you haven't tried, you have to) and key lime squares, but when the pain in your eye sockets makes you puke - construction noise doesn't help.

I staggered to the couch in the family room, pulled the blanket over my head and told David to wake me up in an hour and a half so that I could get ready to go to work.  At 9:00 a.m. when he woke me, I was  insensible from the drugs and speaking in tongues...  or so he says.    He brought me a sleeping mask and called into work for me to let my boss know that I wouldn't be in until the afternoon.

My Mom always knew when I was really sick - by how much I would sleep.  There were many a day when I would get to the end of the sidwalk on my way to school, clutch my abdomen and inform my mother that my spleen had to be removed, but when I was really sick?  I just slept.  Like the dead.  All pale and clammy and barely breathing.

This morning was one of those sleeps.  I was out for HOURS.  And when I finally awoke from the sleep coma, I was delighted to find one of the cats snuggled protectively into the curve of my body and daylight had ceased to make me want to hurl.  The worst was over - but I had the residual raven's claws around my eyeballs - just holding on, you know, to remind me that at any moment it could sever my optic nerves for fun.  Like say, if I caught the gleam of a piece of cutlery bathed in sunlight in the sink at the wrong angle - it'd be all over.  There are times when I have to wear sunglasses in the house or at even at night to stop the glare of headlights from... wait a second!  I can't believe that I didn't realize this before!  Corey Hart must suffer from migraines!   Just like me!  Just like JK Rowling!  Poor bugger was suffering from the pain of migraines and nobody knew because he was hiding it in his lyrics all poetical-like.  I feel so much closer to him now. 

*Yes, I am a pill-popper.  But I'm not a moron about it.  I'm not downing 6 extra strength Tylenol with 4 Avil migraine gel caps.  I take the absolute top limit of what won't a) erode my stomach lining b) destroy my liver c) put me into the hospital for a drug overdose.  Don't be stupid folks - take the recommended dosages - your liver will thank you for it.

I am not your sink whore!

4 days.  I left them for 4 days.  I tried.  I really did.  I was making a point.  My point: do your own frickin' dishes! There weren't even that many:  a frying pan Rissa had used for scrambled eggs, cutlery, some serving utensils, that green, silicone, paint-stick-style stirrer and some wee ice cream bowls.

I couldn't take it any longer.  I couldn't.  The stench got to me.  I can only hold my ground until there's a stench.  I caved.  I washed the dishes.  I couldn't leave them another day.  It was the stench.  I had to eliminate the stench.

Basically, it comes down to this - I am the only one in the house who cares when it is clean.  Just me. In our living room there is a box of old media - VHS tapes and DVDs with a couple of universal remotes and cables thrown in for good measure.  David put the box there 2 weeks ago.  It is not my box.  I didn't put it there.  And yet, I have this preternatural clairvoyance that tells me I will be the one moving it.  Because I will go crazy before the others do.

If I'm cooking in a mad dash and David comes in - he is horrified by the state of the kitchen mid-dinner  prep.  He'll put things away and say things like: "How can you work like this?"  But the house as a whole?  Neither he nor Rissa really give a rat's ass about it.  But if I try to play the 'let's see how long it takes them to notice' game - I'd be waiting until the SECOND FREAKING COMING before it would occur to them to clean up their shit.  'Cause that's the thing - it's THEIR shit.  NOT mine.  THEIRS.  Okay it's mostly their shit.  The chicken wire in the living room is mine, but that's there for a reason.

Dear Abby: I think my cat's into kink

Steve didn't show up for breakfast on Saturday morning.   Which worried the crap out of me because the last time Steve didn't show up for food, he almost died and we spent $1400 at the vet.  My heart sank.  I was going to find him dead.  I was going to go down into the basement and find my cat dead from a recurrent bladder infection.  Stupid cat.  My shoulders slumped.  I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs. 

"Steve?  Steve honey?  You okay bud?"

I peeked around the corner into our rec room.  My eyes widened.  Steve was lying by David's drum kit...  with a clear plastic bag on his head.  I thought he was dead until he let out a single pitiful meow.

"WHAT THE... STEVE!  STEVE!!!"

I rushed over and took the bag off his head, he didn't fight me, didn't look freaked out - kind of looked stoned.  I don't know exactly how long his head had been in the bag, but the bag...  it had water in the bottom of it from where, I'm just postulating here, Steve drooled into it.  I didn't technically find the cat with his pants down, 'cause cats don't wear pants, but I think we can safely say that this is what it looked like:  Feline Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation.  I know, I know... what grown cats do in their private time should stay private, but Steve's kink almost got him killed.  9 lives.  8 lives.  We're on life #7 folks, and if these things come in threes, I shudder at what I'll find him doing next.

HELP! I need a good psychiatrist!

Is what my friend, the OR nurse, thought I'd emailed her about.    (I'd sent an email message to a couple of my nursing friends, because I figured that they are the ones on the front lines and know the good vs bad doctors.)

My friend responded via email. "Very good news that your cardiac issues have been resolved, and about the referral, I am at a bit of a loss.  I work in the OR, so I don't work with any psychiatrists, but I know that the hospital does have a mental health division.  I can look into it more if you still need me to."

What I'd actually wanted a recommendation for, was a PHY-SI-A-TRIST.  Not a mind doctor*, but rather a doctor who deals with optimizing the body as a whole.  All the bits and pieces together: bones, nerves, muscles.  A physiatrist is your go-to doc, to get your body back on track when it's fucked up beyond all measure (dealing with post-stroke victims, pain management etc), but regular specialists (?!?) still can't figure out what your deal is.

What's really awesome, is how completely blasé she was about my having been labeled  a hypochondriacal fucknut, and then subsequently abandoned by a broad spectrum of the medical profession (which is kind of how I feel a lot of the time).  I'll bet that if I had asked if she knew anyone who could help me get rid of a body, she'd have said "When does it need to disappear?"  She's good people.

*ps - By the by, seeking out help for any illness (mental or physical) is one of the bravest things that you can do.  I don't happen to need a shrink right now, but when my existential angst kicks back in, I just might, and I hope to God that I'm brave enough, if/when that happens, to get the help I need.

I love when my boobs sweat.

This is a sarcastic dance.

You know what I'm talking about ladies.  It's awesome, right?   You're sitting at the computer before bed, trying to get some work done or at least check in on the state of the universe.  You're in some sort of nightie/chemise/tank top - sans bra - because wearing a bra in this heat would make you kill puppies.  You've got the overhead fan on full-blast, moving the hot air around you.

After about 30 seconds, you feel it start to trickle: boob sweat.  You pull out the front of your nightie/chemise/tank top and see the wet spots that have appeared underneath your boobs.  First they're just small - like the size of a quarter or loonie, but after about 5 minutes they have grown to the size of pancakes.  The last time I had to deal with wet spots that size on my torso was when my breast milk first came in.   After the wet spots appear, it's usually when you reach into your clothes, you know, to test the temperature underneath your boobs.  I took a thermometer and stuck it under my girls: 104.5 F!

And then you realize that your ass, too, is sweating.  And your inner thighs.  And your shins.  How can shins sweat?  There's nothing to a shin!!!   How are sweating shins even possible?!?

I found myself wishing that the semi-shag rug in the office was made of terry cloth so that I could tear off my clothes and roll on it.  I was this close to doing just that when I remembered that I hadn't vacuumed lately and if I did tear off my clothes and roll on the semi-shag carpet, my sweaty body would then be covered in cat hair and carpet lint.  Although, if someone took a photo essay of me doing that, maybe I could make it into 'art.'