03.26.09
internal combustion
Somewhere between work, fake money poker and a recovering husband my time (and my life) no longer feels like my own. Oh how I long for the endless days of loneliness and peace. Oh how I long for full paychecks and oh how I long even more for someone else to clean my frickin’ house! Alright, maybe I take him (a little bit) for granted, or at least his homemaking abilities but that is his fault, he set the housework precedent. Since his hernia surgery he’s not allowed to lift anything over five pounds or do anything even remotely strenuous which includes vacuuming and laundry… and apparently sex as well unless I do all the work and it’ll be a frosty day in Hades before that happens. He is also not allowed to work for the next six weeks. He does get a pittance from his insurance but it’s not even enough to cover the basics which digs us deeper into the abyss of debt. Fuck. I didn’t plan this to be a whiny post, I’m having a bad week. And if there were ever any doubts as to what an insensitive bitch I am, read on, I fully intend to dispel them all.
As if the hernia surgery wasn’t bad enough, Heiny had to endure the insult added to that injury on Friday when he had his heiny probed. He could not eat anything after dinner on Wednesday, he was only allowed clear fluids on Thursday and then that night he had to drink a gallon of colon blow. Actually the stuff was called Golytely, which I understood to be “go lightly” but my husband informed me that it’s pronounced “Goalie Telly” because there is no “lightly” when you go. The poor bugger was on the toilet for hours and hours. He was still peeing out his bum the next morning and starving, still tender from the surgery plus as an added bonus… anal chafing. Oh happy day. Who wants to come for a visit??
The good news is that his ass is clean… not just from the super duper pooper gooper but the colonoscopy itself was clear. They found no polyps or masses. *gag* I would hope after that amount of flushing (literally and of his system) that there would be none of THOSE kind of masses.
The bad news is that he is making me mental. He’s been home too much lately as it is what with that whole not working thing and wouldn’t you know it now that he can’t work he could be working. Apparently things are looking up in the laminated veneer lumber industry. This is good news (for once) from his employer and we’re hoping the trend continues once His Highness goes back… in four more weeks. Four more long weeks.
Why is he bugging me? At first it was the whining. When I am sick I want to be left the hell alone but when he is unwell he wants me to be his damn mommy. I said he should go live with her and let her take care of him. Unfortunately (and more than a little bit troubling at the moment) his mother is in bad shape herself. She fell a couple weeks ago and has been in a lot of pain. She’s seventy years old and we know her time will come soon enough but she’s always been in pretty good condition mentally and physically despite being a little overweight. She keeps pretty active and involved and until recently her memory has been great. The X-Ray showed nothing broken after her tumble but she has not been right since. She told me she cries a lot (which is very unlike her) and my husband and the man she lives with have both noticed her mind slipping. She is forgetting things like having eaten or taking her pills or when someone stops by. I am very concerned and my husband is beside himself over it. His mom is important to both of us and while we know it is inevitable neither of us are prepared to face her decline… especially when it appears to be happening so quickly.
But I digress.
Once the kvetching subsided it was replaced by the constant pressure of his incessant presence. I love my husband, I wouldn’t be married to him if I didn’t but fuck me with a football there is such a thing as too much togetherness. He’s been around a lot in the past year and I am tired of entertaining him, being his buddy and answering his idiotic questions (What are you doing? How was your day? What’s on TV tonight?). Seriously dude, you have eyes, you can see what I am doing, my day was just fucking fine and you know how to work the switcher, check the damn guide yourself! OK, maybe I am being a little pissy but I am feeling a little pissy and that is how it manifests. I am under a lot of stress and there is no relief (or release for that matter!) in sight and he’s not helping the situation(s) at all. In the last two weeks he has been his own seven dwarves, Mopey, Groggy, Crabby, Stinky, Whiny, Bored and Watchful. In case you haven’t noticed, I am no freakin’ Snow White. I have no patience for that Hi Ho shit.
Wow, I need therapy.
Speaking of snow, that is not helping my mood lately either. The sun has been making regular appearances, and most of the white shit is gone in town but there is still a couple feet of it covering my world and I am so over it. I have spring fever something awful, I want to be gardening (I did start some seeds indoors already) I want to be outside and I so want to be camping… although that in itself is another sore spot. Since we’ve had such a shitty year financially there is no way we can afford to finish the cabin any time soon. We’ve been arguing about spending another season in the Bluebird Hilton. He says we’ll have to, I say not. The cabin at this point is just the shell, there is nothing (besides the insulation) inside. It needs walls, flooring, paint, stairs and the kitchen and bathroom to be finished, but I can get by with much less just to make it livable. He says we’ll be living in the bus until the cabin is complete… in ten fucking years??!! Again, this is so ridiculously petty but it’s just another thing bugging my shit.
And while I am admitting my trifling annoyances…
Trixie and Harry and the kids are on vacation in Palm Springs with her parents for the entire month of March. I’m more than a little jealous and I am trying not to be bitter but she calls me every couple days to tell me what a great time they are having. It’s like tabasco sauce in the wound. I am not having a great time and I don’t get a vacation, let alone a month of shopping and hanging by the pool. My parents left for Vegas yesterday, Trix and family are meeting them there tomorrow and they have all sorts of fun stuff planned… without us. Ok, I’m bitter.
One of my oldest and dearest friends (or so I thought) was due with baby number three before I even found out she was pregnant plus she just got married two weeks ago and I didn’t find out until after the fact. Granted they tied the knot in Australia (where they’ve been living for several years) and she knows we could never make it over there but still I felt completely slighted and left out.
I want out of this funk and I am trying to find a bright side, we have tickets to see Nickelback with Seether and Saving Abel next week but I have huge financial guilt about that too. We should sell the tickets, it’s going to cost us a lot to spend the night in the city, gas food, lodging et al. I feel selfish about going when we really can’t afford it. I told my husband we should dump the tickets but he insists that it’ll be worth the guilt. If it was just about Nickelback it would be easier for me to let the seats go since I have already seen them a couple times but this concert is more about Seether for me. I really love Seether and I never expected I would have the opportunity to see them live. Again, I know it’s a silly thing, but my world is full of silly things… it’s time one of them made me at least a little happy. This is precisely why wine has recently become my bff. It is more bitter than I am, it’s cheap, it makes everything feel better (at least temporarily) and it never lets me down… or asks me what is for dinner because if I am into the wine, it is dinner.
03.12.09
the “f” word
I have a new distraction… like I NEEDED another distraction! If work avoidance, slacking and procrastination were art forms I wouldn’t just be Michelangelo, I’d be all of the fucking Ninja Turtles!
So what is my latest obsession?
Texas hold ‘em.
The first time I ever played poker was with my cousin Jess and a bunch of his friends a couple of years ago. He taught me the basics of the game (ha! the very basics since the bastard just wanted easy prey!) five minutes before everyone else got there. I lost. Surprise! The next time they invited us up for a game I did only marginally better. Once the first four of us were eliminated we started our own side game. I beat the three drunk guys that went out before me. It was no great feat, they were shit-canned, one of them threw up down the front of his shirt ten minutes later.
That was the last time I played the game until four nights ago. My husband is working this week but he gets his hernia fixed, removed, scooped out with a rusty spoon or whatever they do to it next Monday so he will then be off for six weeks after that. That will be six very long weeks (for me) since he won’t be able to lift or do anything. I’ll be cinder-fucking-ella by the time April rolls around. I’m a very good patient when I am sick or under repair but I am a terrible nursemaid and have no patience and scant sympathy when someone else (my husband) is ill or recovering. I’m not mean or anything, I’m just not exceptionally nice. Some people have the Florence Nightingale gene and some don’t. I don’t. Anyway, His Highness is starting work at 5 am this week which mens he kicks me out of the bedroom at 8 pm. There was a time when I’d watch TV while he slept but apparently I wasn’t able to keep it quiet enough so I was banished from the boudoir. The volume was his fault, if he didn’t snore like a frickin’ chainsaw then I wouldn’t have had to crank the telly. Look at me, I am mad at him already and he hasn’t even been for the surgery yet. The cherry on top will be that he has to go for a colonoscopy four days after his hernia. That’ll pop his cherry. He will not be a happy camper and I will be looking for an escape hatch. But I digress.
I could go downstairs to watch TV after 8 and sometimes I do but it’s a lonely existence down there in the dungeon so usually I come into the office and putter on the puter. There are plenty of things I SHOULD do with all of this spare time (my office looks like it’s been ransacked) but I have neither the inspiration nor the motivation to bother. The sad fact is I can’t be bothered with a lot of things right now. My blog mojo has jumped the shark (again) and my attention span is non-existent for anything else. I am chalking it up to cabin fever. It’s been -30C (-22 American) here for the past few days… it’s March for fuck sakes, could someone give the weatherman a frickin’ calendar?!? And once again I digress.
So it was while in this malaise that I received a notice via Facebleh to come play poker with my old boss. At first I rolled my eyes and thought, “Fuck that, I suck at poker.” But then I figured what the hell, it’s not real money and at least it was something to do. In a few hours I went from 750$ to over ten grand. I thought I was a damn shark until I dropped back down to five hundred the next day. Up and down like a whore’s drawers went my chips for three days. And when I say I played for three days, I mean several hours each afternoon and several more at night. My former boss has already suggested an intervention and he was my pusher to start with!
While I am really enjoying the challenge and excitement of this game what completely cracks me up is how often I get hit on. At first it made me very uncomfortable, almost insulted, but now it just makes me laugh. What kind of man tries to pick up women in phony poker game? So far as I can see it, he’s the kind of man that wouldn’t have a hope in hell of picking up a woman in real life. These were my two favorite conversations…
Someguy: “B u r very beutful women.”
Me: (rolling my eyes) “Thank you.”
Someguy: “What is your martial statues?”
Me: “My what?”
Someguy: “Are you merried?”
I had to fold my hand because I was pissing myself laughing. Maybe that was his strategy.
Twins: “Hi B you are very preety.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Twins: “How old r u?”
Me: “How old do you think I am?”
Twins: “32”
Me: “You are exactly right!”
Twins: “How old you think I am.”
His profile photo showed two identical men… which would explain his name.
Me: “Which one are you?”
Twins: “The one in blue.”
I was howling and he didn’t get it.
Me: “I think you must be about 34.”
Twins: “I am only 28.”
Me: “Oh, I must have been looking at the other guy.”
He still didn’t get it.
Twins: “No, that is my brother!”
It’s cheap entertainment if nothing else.
I’m sure that my poker preoccupation will putter out promptly, I tend to get bored with my obsessions quickly… usually. I still have a lot to learn about the game though, it’s just too bad that Kenny Rogers wasn’t more specific with that whole knowing when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em thing, I could especially use a lesson or two in the folding part. Then again after I do all of the laundry for the six weeks while my husband is in recovery (sounds like rehab) I am sure I will never want to hear the word “fold” again… and chances are I won’t just want to walk away, I’ll want to run.
03.02.09
heavy petting
My cousin Trixie (the pornstar manicurist and my partner in work and crime) and her husband Harry got a Maltese/Shih-Tsu (Multi-Shit) puppy about seven months ago. He’s a little white and beige ball of fluff and energy. I like big dog names for little dogs so I suggested a few monickers for the new beast. Brutus, Killer, Fang, Butch and Fredo were pooh-pooh’d but they did like “Max” so that became his name. Now we call him Maxwell Dumb, Max-a-million, Max Power and Maxi pad… because we’re like that.
Max’s mom and dad are brother and sister which makes them his aunt and uncle as well. I still shake my head over the fact that they paid 350$ for this inbred mutt. Trix thought it was OK to be your own cousin in the dog world but I assured her it is not OK in any world. I also assured her the dog would be retarded, and I (of course) was right. The woman who sold them the dog claimed that the breeding was accidental but if that was the case then she should not have sold them. There were five pups in the litter originally, one was still-born and two died a few days later, Max was born with a hernia and he’s as dumb as a bag full of hammers and the people who bought his sister are having all kinds of problems training her as well. See, retarded. Trix and Harry are not dog people, they didn’t know any better, they just wanted a non-shedding, hypo-allergenic pet. See, suckers.
Since they had no idea what they were doing, combined with the fact that the dog is mental, house training was a nightmare. The only good thing was that since the pup was so small his poops were easily scooped off the carpet and his piddles were rarely more than a squirt. I love my cousin and her husband but consistency is not in their vocabulary. Some days they’d take the dog out often, other days hardly at all. On the days that I worked I was taking him out more than they were and it took a long time at that rate to teach the mutt that outside was the place to do his business.
About the time they thought the dog finally understood that he wasn’t supposed to piss in the house he started marking his territory… in the house. A little squirt here, a little squirt there and suddenly their “baby” became “that little fucker”. I admit it made me laugh, until they brought him out to my house and he peed all over here too. It was also about this time that Max discovered his hump reflex. We bought him a squeaky duck for Xmas and that was his favorite object of affection until he discovered my dog’s leg and the neck pillow on Trixie’s bed.
They hoped (beyond hope) that getting him snipped would curtail his marking and the incessant humpage. Three weeks ago they took Max to have his hernia fixed and his smarties removed. The poor little pisser had no idea what happened to him but his nose was out of joint and his tongue was in his crotch for days after. My husband said if he had been able to he would have licked his nuts after his vasectomy too, nobody understood Max’s pain like Heiny did.
The dog was so preoccupied with his knackers (or where they used to be) for that first week he didn’t have time to think about marking his territory but once his wounds had healed he began lifting his leg on everything once again. It also didn’t take long for him to get back on the squeaky duck and the neck pillow.
I don’t like boy dogs. The pink thing creeps me out. I can deal with the whole humping thing, Mika (my bitch) started humping things after we got her fixed. We knew we were true hillbilly’s when we’d tell The Boy to crawl across the floor and we’d piss ourselves laughing while the dog tried to mount him. The difference is that when a girl dog humps it’s innocent, when a boy dog does it he’s looking for satisfaction… and the lipstick pops out. It’s gross.
The other night Max was going to town on the neck pillow, he had his front paws wrapped around it and his tongue out in an obscene hug while his hips rode that poor cushion like he was the pony express. Trixie said he humped like there was no tomorrow and when he finally collapsed from sheer exhaustion his pink thing remained unsheathed. She said he looked all depressed, she figured it was because he was left unsatisfied, but when his willy didn’t retract she got concerned.
“Harry, there is something wrong with him, call the vet!”
Harry didn’t want to call the vet. What does one say in such a situation? I personally would have googled it before calling anyone but Harry does what he is told so he picked up the phone.
“Hi Dr. P. Max was humping his favorite pillow and now his dingle won’t go back in.”
No formalities, no chatter, right to business.
Apparently when a boy dog gets his groove on it can dry out and then the little hairs around his “dingle” prevent it from going back into its sheath. The vet told them to put some petroleum jelly on it and it would retract as it should.
Trixie didn’t hesitate, she grabbed the lube from beside the bed, flipped her pet onto his back and gave him a squirt and rubbed it in. It didn’t take long for Max to return to whatever normal is for the little handicapper and for his pink thing to go back inside.
We harassed Trix something awful about her heavy petting and said that what she did would be considered bestiality since she didn’t wear a rubber glove. No glove no love! And I also told her that if the whole nail business thing doesn’t work out she can always get a job wanking animals and collecting sperm for artificial insemination. She isn’t licensed but experience is everything. We also thought maybe she could get her own TV show in competition with Caesar Milan and call it “The Dog Wankerer.”
Harry has been left feeling hurt and dejected ever since the incident as his wife is never as quick to give his wood a rub as she was the dog’s.
