Death from Within

I have spent the last four days laying on my couch and bitching at anyone who happens to wander into my frame of vision.

Namely, T. Thankfully for him, he had to work so was spared half the hours of the day.

Oh, I rallied. We went out for drinks on day two of my lamentations--but I still lamented, rum and coke or no.

I seemed to have done something to my stomach that offended it greatly. First, it felt like I really, really needed to burp, but there was nothing. Then it morphed into stronger flashes of ache--right in my stomach. Then heartburnish feelings--all in the same spot. My stomach. My real stomach--not the tummy.

It wasn't constant. I would fool myself into senses of safety and start to be productive--doing laundry or dishes, and suddenly, pain.

Rather than go to the doctor (Who has health insurance? Not me.) I played the ever-entertaining "Diagnose yourself via the Internet", which is more a game of "Emotional well-being Russian roulette", as the internet told me I could have any of these:

*Gastroenteritis
*Ulcer
*IBS
*Gallstones
*Food Allergy
*Cancer
*Liver failure
*Kidney Stones
*Diabetes

Great.

So I made a deal with myself. If I didn't feel better--Markedly so--By Tuesday, I would suck it up and go see the man about my stomach.

I ate antacids like they were candy. I ate mild, easy to digest food. I layed off the smoking, mostly. I abstained from coffee. (Seriously. Bigger deal than the smoking.) Nothing helped.

My stomach felt better if I was full, but I wasn't all that hungry. So I did something totally out of character--I drank water.

I never drink water. I know how horrible this is for me. But I don't do it--not on purpose, really, but I just, well, don't.

I started to feel better. Hours passed without pain. I kept drinking.

12 hours later (!) my body started to have some excess water--I peed. First time since the water consumption started. Still pain free.

I went back to the internet and demanded a second opinion.

It would seem that severe dehydration can cause symptoms EXACTLY LIKE MINE.

Sigh.

So I'm drinking lots of water. Hopefully I still feel better tomorrow. And I am definitely having coffee if I do.

(Please, pray I feel better. This shit sucks. I promise, Lord, to drink water like it's going out of style to the best of my ability for the rest of my days. And I really don't want to go to the doctor.)

Success! Also, I brake for testosterone

T and I (As well as the youngest of T's brothers, who is 16 and therefore ripe for exploitation in the manual labor variety) spent the last few days bringing a "Campaign of Terror" to his yard. We mowed, we aerated, we fertilized, we weeded....we tore out the "garden", which was more of an extension of the lawn, removed bushes, pruned hedges and other bushes....

And we planted. Planted planted planted. T is going to have the girliest front yard when my efforts come to fruition. Over 100 bulbs went into the now reclaimed garden....it shall be glorious.

Aside: We decided to plant daisies in the window boxes. Cheerful. The daisies, combined with a small blue flower that a random woman in Home Creepo loved, would immediately brighten up the front of the house.

That is, if T and I could count. THREE trips to the nursery it took us, THREE, to determine that in 4 boxes, we would need 8 daisies. Sigh.

Anyway, the yard, it's promising.



Today was a big day for taking pictures out the drivers side window of the car. Bear with me. (Also, please ignore the hose. I did.)

Anyway--notice the "Rambo" tulips--Those things have been through the wringer and they, through no effort of anyone, have survived. I had mercy on their fighting spirits and left them there. The rhododendrons, wild daisies and snail commune were not so lucky.


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I delivered lunch to T at work today, as he awoke this morning seven minutes after he was supposed to be on the clock and didn't have the time to pack it himself.

Before I would give him his lunch, I made him hold still so I could snap a photo, you guessed it, out the drivers side door/window of the car.




T works a manly job.

I appreciate this. Really. No, really. Yes. Like that.

If this manly job didn't require him to be covered in a nasty ass stink all the time, I might make him dress like this more often. (No, it doesn't really wash out. I have tried. Good lord, have I tried.)

Special guest apperances by:

Hello dedicated readership. I would now take this opportunity to inform you that your beloved author will NOT be scribing this post. She is, as of this moment, sitting in bed, reading a book and drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Take heart however, for she is not infirm and will be back to dispensing her usual wit in the near future. For now you are stuck with me, T, as a special guest blogger. I will only ask one thing of you, and that is to bear with me because I am not.a.blogger.

With that said, I would like to take you all back to a previous post about a particular trip to a particular place.

Preparations for the trip to see M's mother began some three days before we left. And I'm not talking about lists of things to bring or what chores to do beforehand. For myself my preparation started at my work place. You see my line of work requires me to do shift work. Some people would think "that' not so bad, right?" Fuck that.
I'm not talking only swing shift or even the graveyard.
Let me break it down for you real quick. I work four days every week and I work twelve hours every day and I get four days off in between. Still not bad you say?

Wrong.

Here's how the shifts really work. I show up at 5am my first day shift of twelve hours, and muddle through the day until I finally get to go home at 5pm. THEN, I get twelve hours off, after which I get to do that again. When I get off the second day I then get twenty four hours off, at which point I start work at 5P.M. and go until 5 the next morning. Then I get twelves hours off again and do that for another night. So in one "week" I work two 12hr days get 24hrs off and then work two 12hr nights!

It's a pain in my ass sometimes.

Anyway, our flight for this trip was scheduled for around noon the day after my last night shift. Our ride to get to the airport (because I insisted on getting a towncar to pick us up) was set to pick us up at 9 o'clock.... at my sisters house in our nearby metropolis.

So by now I'm sure you've all figured out this means I would 1) get off work at 5am 2) drive home to get M and our luggage 3) drive the two hours to the city (making it around 8am) and 4) hopefully not misjudge my driving time and thereby missing our only ride to the airport. (we didn't park the car there because I don't trust their security.... and I refuse to). So basically I get to be awake for the near 24 hours it will take us to reach her mom's place.


..............Fuck that.

So I did what all smart and resourceful people do when confronted with this type of situation. I faked being sick.

And I must say that I had a fair few of my co-workers convinced. So I started this ruse on my First night shift, laying the groundwork for the theatrics to come....

So I get off work go home and to bed. And when I wake up I make my move.

*ring*ring*ring*ring* " You've reached the foreman, sorry we missed your call, please leave a message...."
Uh... Hey, yeah, I'm not coming in tonight, I feel like shit. It feels like the eighteenth Russian Calvary spent the night in my head with all their horses. So, yeah.... *click*

I chuckled to myself at that point. Mission accomplished.



And so we arrive at M's mothers, and I am pleasantly refreshed from a good nights rest. She picks us up at the airport and takes us home.

Now, I'm not stupid by any means. I knew what this trip would entail, what environment I was getting myself into. M asserts that I am the hardest person to surprise. Well dear....

We walk in the front door and I am literally STRUCK by the powerful smell of stale cigarettes and cats. This smell was so intense that I was immediately thrust back to my childhood and the memory of one of MY mothers close girlfriends.... who smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarettes and cats.
This sensation thankfully passed rather quickly as I became more accustomed to it (probably owing to the fact that I am now a smoker too), and I was able to pass the rest of the trip in relative olfactory ease. I did however, have to become a pill popper because as luck would have it, I'm allergic to cats. Thankfully the claretin worked and all I suffered was getting licked and having cat hair on everything I brought with me.

So, with M having gotten as much a dose of her mother as she could stand, we come home. Thank. God. I didn't say anything, but I was going stir crazy having to spend SO much time there.

Within hours of our arrival home we began to get an idea of exactly how bad we really smelled. Having been confined in that RV with three smokers and two cats for four days, my once black fleece pullover had become white and the two of us smelled like ashtrays that have never been cleaned. *sigh*

Well needless to say we avoided as much contact with the public until we were able to make it home...... At which point EVERYTHING got thrown in the washing machine.

I still have cat hair on my pullover.

So on and So forth

I said that about 198 times on the phone with F the other day. It would seem that talking about the myriad of ways my mother has ruined my life will cause me to use redundancies. (It does seem a little fitting, as my mom is running quickly out of new ideas and repeats herself quite often.)

I am more than ready for my fucking chronic neck and shoulder pain that spirals into a migraine to break up with me. It's one of those relationships that has been dead for a long time, you know, where one party is more in love than the other, but the un-loving partner stays due to not wanting to hurt feelings and so on and just does ass-hatty things in hopes of pissing off the other party enough that they will end it and absolve the un-lover from any wrong-doing? Yeah. I'm trapped in a loveless marriage with my neck.


I am totally at a loss of something to blog about. Perhaps I should let loose a yarn about the white-trash-Mecca (Welcome, googlers!) I used to live in.

Hrmmmmm....there are so many to choose from. The dude that pulled all his own teeth? His brother, who cut his face in half with a chainsaw and walked out of the woods and then drove himself to the hospital for stitches and came immediately back to work logging? My ex's brother, the taxidermist, who had his ceiling 'raised' (Cut a hole in the trailer's ceiling insulation) to make room for the rack from his prize bull elk? (And yes, he used it as a gun rack.) How he and his wife were caught having sex in their 'garden' (Wife posted fake flowers in the dirt rather than plant real ones) by their son's friend at three in the afternoon? The 60 year old woman with no teeth who, for $50, sold her dirty panties to a stranger at the local bar?

Oh, I know.

Clown Faced Jimmy, aka 'Sparky'.

Clown faced Jimmy was an electrician of sorts. He wasn't licensed, to my knowledge, which never stopped anyone in that neck of the woods from doing anything. He was also famous for shitty work and being an alcoholic, which I believe is where his nickname came from.

Sparky, that is.

We called him Clown Faced Jimmy because, well....He looked like a clown.

Let me explain.

Jimmy was Canadian (I don't know how this applies, but my step father teased him about it a lot.). He was slender, about 5'9". He had insane black hair that stood up around his Stihl baseball cap at odd angles. He also had a very wide and pale face, and electric blue eyes. Like, not pretty blue, scary, 'there's-something-very-wrong-inside-this-man blue. And one tooth.

One. One of his front top teeth--that was it. The rest were small, worn, black nubs. They looked like he had fallen into warm road asphalt, come up with a mouthful and called it good.

Now, I know you are all wondering where the 'clown' part comes in. I guess I can't really do it justice by putting it in writing.....trust me. (I'm freaked out by clowns. Not because of Jimmy, but that fear may have something to do with the nickname.)

Anyway, other than questionable electricians work, I have no idea where Jimmy received any income. I know that he had a lady friend for a time who supported him, but I don't know where he lived, what he did with himself during the day or anything else.

Jimmy drank cheap ass beer and smoked cheap ass cigarettes. He laughed a lot, (Showing his road warrior teeth) and was generally a nice person. He was friends with a man who was quietly said to have a marijuana farm, but no one said for certain.

One day, in the middle of the summer, I was working at my parents store with my step father. I was about 17 or so. The store was busy-ish, it being the summer months. Our store was RIGHT ON THE HIGHWAY--not the busiest highway, by any means, but a major thoroughfare just the same. This is important.

So my step dad and I are working away, when we hear a rumbling 'Bang!' of a backfiring vehicle. We turn to look out the window and see just who it may be....

It's Jimmy. And his friend, the pot farmer. They have pulled into the store parking lot, next to the gas pumps, to reattach a tarp that was supposed to be covering the bed of the truck before they head to the nearest town.

They needed a tarp to cover the bed of the truck because the bed of the truck is piled, literally piled, with pot.

Now, take a minute and imagine this. Really.

My step dad and I just stood there, watching them use rope and tie-downs to cover this mountain of pot and make it road ready. The saw us, smiled, waved, and left.

In what reality is this even remotely possible? Plausible?

The best part? They didn't get caught. They drove through a town at 25 mph with a literal truck load of cannabis, cars all over the place, and no one thought twice about it.

I don't know whether to laugh or....be confused. I vacillate, really. At least we know how Jimmy supported himself.

No thank you

We're back.

Thank. Everything. Considered. Holy. Across. The. World.

Sweet Lord in heaven, never again. Never.

There are animals in the world that have wingspans larger than my mother's RV. AnimalS. Plural. Not that rare an occasion. Good God.

Anyway, my mother lives in an RV, and it's small. She has two cats, and smokes at least a pack a day per cat, more if she has something to celebrate. (I use that term loosely.)

While we were there, a mere three and 5/6ths days, my mother consumed (Not all at once, mind)

*Approx 4 bottles Pinot Grigio
*Approx 10 packs cigarettes (One carton, or 200 individual cigarettes, to those counting)
*One Hydrocodone, 5mg.
*Approx 4 16oz. Beers
*Approx 18 Ibuprofen
*Two prescribed blood-pressure reducing pills
*Approx 9 acid reflux pills
*24% of my sanity
*67% T's patience

(These are of course, not including what she drank and/or consumed while T and I were attempting sleep or, oh, showering.)

I hate to fly and I was counting the damn hours until we went back to the airport.

I had forgotten why I did all the driving. My mother is willing to put the car into third gear (If you're lucky)--No higher. She will happily go 35 mph, transmission screaming, down the left lane of a 70 mph highway.

I had forgotten how my mother loves to be catered to. I did all the cooking and shopping while we were there. (This is fine, but she demanded it. No "Oh, would you help me?" just a "You're cooking if you want to eat.")

My mother talks to the cats all day long. This is fine until it's 4am, you have finally drifted off to sleep on your prison-issue pallet of a mattress and are startled awake by high-pitched singsong talking, ten minute intervals of coughing and a cloud of cigarette smoke.

(I smoke. T smokes. But not like this. We don't smoke in the house, I don't give T cigarette 'Dutch Ovens' while he is asleep. Oh, and we don't live in a closet together.)

Sigh.

Anyway, more of that in a moment.

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This is Sprocket. Sprocket is a Taurus, enjoys being a terrible watch dog, chasing but not catching mice, and howling at odd hours. He dislikes being left alone for long periods of time and a man named Joe. His feelings on long walks on the beach and/or candle-lit dinners has not yet been determined.

Sprocket is also a wolf.

Sprocket is my mom's neighbor's pet. He is quite friendly, as well as huge.

Oh, and did I mention he is a WOLF?? (Does this strike a chord of mild panic and animal rights activism in anyone else, or am I weird?)

Anyway, I can now scratch "Get jumped up on and licked in the face by a wolf" off my list of things to do before I die. Also, wolves are huge. (Did I mention that already? I was raised with mastiffs--Huge in their own right--And I was impressed.)

This neighbor also has a lynx/tabby cat cross aptly named Bigfoot, who I did not have the pleasure of meeting.

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While we were there, T asked my mother for my hand in marriage. As she is the last living parent I have, and this is probably (God willing) the only time T would see her in person until an actual marriage occurred, it seemed like a good idea. (I'm speculating here. Attempts to get T to guest blog have been thus far thwarted--So I am forced to assume.)

We are not engaged. Please keep this in mind.

My mother, who cannot keep anything to herself for more than 13 seconds (The longest she has gone without speaking while conscious--I know this because we have timed her. Seriously.) took it upon herself to call everyone we both know and inform them that I am engaged, probably getting married this summer, and all sorts of juicy details ranging from the type of flowers I will have to what shoes I will wear.

I didn't know this until the phone calls started today. (People are thrilled, apparently, at my betrothal. I hope they are equally as thrilled when it actually happens.)

When I called my mother to tell her to lay off, she was totally wasted. When I explained my position to her, that I didn't realize that she needed to be sworn to secrecy about everything--Even common sense things like this--she was faced with a dilemma.

She could demur, apologise, and move on.....

Or she could get angry, start name calling and casting blame stones.

She chose that second one.

So now, on top of being engaged, getting married this summer and wearing flats while carrying daisies and/or peonies, I am a whore and a liar whom T is having to settle for.

(And for all parties interested, she did give her blessing. After asking T, "What are you going to do if I say no?" and him responding, "Marry her anyway.")

(See why we aren't going back anytime soon?)

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In an attempt to lighten the mood, more photos.








First off, the view from our holding area at the local one-gate airport.

Second, through the end, proof that anti-anxiety medication works--I was calm enough to take photos as we flew, rather than tear holes in T's hand and the arm rest of the seat.

Checklist, Referrals and Protection

We are leaving on Sunday to go see my mother.

We are flying. I hate, despise, abhor, detest flying. Terrified of it. (Basically I wanted to give my mental health a round-house-kick to the nuts by FLYING to see my MOTHER.)

Before we leave, there is a laundry list of shit I need to do. T is working up until nearly the moment the flight takes off (Flight leaves 7 hours after his shift at work ends. He obviously wants to destroy his mental health as well.) and considering T normally does all the packing (I am useless. I know.) I have made myself a list of things to do before we go, in an attempt to not wake up the morning of and run schreeching around my house flinging mis-matched socks and the toothbrush I use to clean the grout into a suitcase. (You think I'm kidding. T packs for a reason--I cannot seem to be able to retain a running tally of what I need in the suitcase vs. what is actually in the suitcase. I most often forget things like, oh, pants, underwear or shoes. Seriously. But I will think I have packed accordingly and put the kitchen sponge in there or something.)

This is my list.

-Finish laundry
-Put away/hang up all clothes
-clean top layer of crap off of house
-change sheets
-get books together (My mom wants a shit load of books. She cannot understand why we have to check our bags. She wanted me to bring a coffee pot. I have tried to explain TSA to her, the laws and so on--how things like that are more of a pain in the ass for all parties than it is worth {A coffee pot?}, but she doesn't listen. She hasn't been on an airplane since you stopped being allowed to SMOKE on them, so her views are a little skewed.)
-clean out fridge
-make secondary list of what to pack
-pack all things on secondary list.


This is what I have done towards the list.

2 loads laundry, which is sitting on my couch getting wrinkled. Stripped the bed. Written blog entry.

Poor T.

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I finally went to my sitemeter thing to see how you kids get here. (other than the obvious reasons, of course.) Here are some of the search-engine referrals, in no particular order.

*Purring Sound
*How to deal with explosions
*How do you know death rattle discomfort
*Twelveteen, a.m. homes
*Rattle fluid lungs
*Sweaty Hockey Pads
*Mullet eating habits
*Humped by a horse

I can only hope this site offered some insight into those pressing matters. I often ponder mullet eating habits myself. (Some of them would make rockin' band names, though.)

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My computer, being the Vista plagued beast that it is, can be a terrible pain in the ass. Since we purchased it, the Internet only went where it saw fit--some websites it simply would not show. It would load completely but show a blank screen. I ignored this, mostly.

A few days ago, the "Protection" hoo-dad thing updated itself. Suddenly, we could not use the Internet. Nothing would load--I did all the diagnostic shit thinking there was some bug or virus or something and it came up clean. I climbed behind the desk to make sure we were connected and in doing so cut a huge gash on my shoulder from the razor sharp metal corner on one tiny part of the desk, resulting in me crying from pain (something I have not done since childhood, thank you) and making T get out of bed to put a band-aid on me. (again, I'm useless.) Nothing worked. The computer was telling me to contact my network provider, which I knew was crap advice because the laptop in the other room worked fine.

I finally shut off the 'protection' thing (which I have since researched and found to be useless in and of itself) and the Internet is back. All websites work. Instant messenger works.

My computer decided the Internet itself was too big a risk to take. Sigh.

Southbound

So we're back from our little road trip to the Metropolis south of here.

It was fun.

The End.

No, no. I mean, yes, it was fun, but of course I have to tell everyone all about it.

We drove down on Saturday, with beautiful weather. When we arrived, it was 81 degrees. (Seriously? Thought something was wrong. Haven't been that warm outside in months, I tell you.)

We checked into our motel, and our room was situated out of the way, in a corner, with it's own little hallway. Slightly excited, we thought that perhaps Priceline was going to redeem itself after the plight that was our hotel experience at T's sister's wedding.....

Then we went inside.





I think they may have been concerned with us leaping to our deaths. Sigh. (It doesn't really matter. It's just the view. Our other options were the parking lot or the airport.)

Anyway, we went over to my cousin's house for a 'Southern Genteel' party, where we drank Hurricanes and I hurled an entire bowl of screaming hot melted chocolate to the floor and shattered it. (We did not have devils food cupcakes for dessert. You're welcome, dieters.)

Also, I swore a lot in front of a reverend (Sigh.), told the Vomiting Grandpa and Adult Boobie Sucker (Welcome, Googlers!) stories, and laughed. It was nice.

The next day we went back to my cousin's, for a rousing morning of crosswords and coffee.

Did I mention that my cousin has 4 cats? And T is allergic?



The cats don't care. T takes a lot of medicine before we go over.

Anyway, we came back through NOT 81 degree weather.....



And everything is fine.

We leave for my mom's on Sunday. God help us all.

(AnnieB--Please don't be mad that I deleted your comment. I try to discourage name calling in the comments--Given names, anyway. {And I know how stupid that is considering I post photos. I just don't want anyone searching for my name and getting this site--it's happened before and was really, really bad.} I should have told you that before hand. I are not smart. Anyway, I'm so glad you likey, and thank you. {You should come up with some weird moniker for me or something. Can you smell the freshness?})