Holiday Spirit Can Kiss My Ass.

Well, here we are, folks; another December, another holiday season, another month of consumer excess and vanished courtesy.  I write to you from a little suburb of Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love and Drive-By's.  In the little apartment I share with my husband and our rescued cat, my days are usually spent locked up tightly inside, creating whatever my hands and heart come up with that day.  On the rare occasions that I do venture outside, it is to work with a friend who makes beautiful cakes - my official title is "Cake Bitch", which I think is mighty appropriate. 

One day, a few weeks ago, I was called to cake-making duty and spent 8 hours having a lovely time with fondant, food colouring and a toddler who makes the most hilarious non-word noises I've ever heard.  Upon returning home, my husband and I walked through the screen door that encloses our building's vestibule where mail is delivered daily.  We came inside, mrrow'd at the cat, and I realised that we should have received a few packages that day!  I walked back out to the entryway and saw no packages.  As it was late on a friday night, I couldn't do much about it at the time, but come monday I was on the phone with several different people concerned in the affair.  Namely, the company I'd ordered 2 items from and UPS, who had delivered them.  On friday. 

It took me about ten seconds to realize that someone had stolen the gifts.  Some asshole, some fuckstick walking past our home had glanced in, seen the boxes, and taken them.  We can't lock our screen door because a. none of us have a key and b. the mailman wouldn't be able to deliver mail, so anyone can just walk in whenever they please.  Well, someone did, and they walked out with the only gifts I was (at the time) able to afford to buy my man. 

Things turned out in a way, though, as the company sent me a free replacement of one of the items, and another place had the other item for $8 cheaper.  Today, we were both home and received the free replacement, which made me feel better.  However, today was also the day I realised that the custom wedding band the hub had ordered for me hadn't arrived either.  Cue detective hat: I contacted the artist, he gave me the shipping info and lo and behold, it had also been delivered the day the other gifts were stolen.

So some fuckstick out there has my wedding band.

After a few moments of deep sadness and anger, I re-ordered the ring, to be delivered to my mother's house instead of here.  The artist was very nice and sent me to his website (instead of the craft-site I'd ordered it from originally) where I was able to order the ring again and this time, free shipping.  So it all worked out in a way; we're out the money we couldn't afford to lose, but there were some kindhearted people willing to cut me a break.

The moral of the story?  People steal shit in December, and there's not much you can do about it.  If you see it happening, STOP THEM.  They're ruining someone's holiday.

Fucksticks.

Well, dang; it has been a while.

Because I like lists so very, very much, here follows a list of things I am bitchy about lately:

1. Why are there able-bodied actors playing disabled characters? There ARE disabled actors out there, people; try thinking outside the ableist box, okay?

2. Seriously, enough with the fucking rain.  (I am aware that I am bitching to the skies here, folks. But you're reading it, so...)

3. Body, we are at a point where I'm getting closer and closer to having you replaced with a jar and a label reading "Abby Normal".  I've been sick with a cold, sick with an infection, sick with pain and nausea, and I'm goddamned sick of being sick! It's been months since I felt close to my norm - which, for the record, ain't that "norm" after all - and because of you, my old Body, I missed the deadline for NaNoWriMo, among other things.  So shape the fuck up or I'm shipping you out!

4.  You know, I don't have a number four.  That's kind of nice.

I'm going to veer off into namby-pamby-land here for a second and tell you what I am not bitchy about:  my husband and his amazing work ethic, wonderful laugh and ability to make my life shine; our cat, who is adorable even when dive-bombing us from high shelves in the middle of the night; my family, who put up with me and still love me; my friends, few they may be, but solid; and finally, the myriad other assholes out there with sensitive stomachs who paved the way for my gimp ass to be able to eat bread made without wheat and beer made without gluten.

Salute.

Just keep throwing pills, one'll stick...

Today is not a good day, not at ALL a good day. Depressed, sad, teary-eyed and moody, sleeping off the depression like that'll help, blah blah blah.  Spent 2 hours cleaning in the hopes that would stave off this madness, but all it did was force me to nap for the same amount of time.  The Zoloft I'm on for my PMDD helped for the 2 weeks I took it, but now that help has fluttered out the window and into the rainstorm.  Maybe I should take it every day; maybe I should welcome the oblivious feeling that pills give my brain.  Maybe I should just shut the fuck up, take the goddamn pill, and surrender.  Maybe I shouldn't have been born an artist, a sensitive little shit who feels every fucking thing so strongly.  Maybe I should just take the pills.

But the pills take me, and I have never, ever liked where they've taken me.  Commercial breaks from existence, mainly, and zoloft has quite the reputation for zombifying people.  I just don't want to lose what little creativity I've got left.  Where is my scrying glass?  Where is my crystal ball, to show me how my future will turn out if I willingly take these little pills of complacence?  After all, this bout of the creeping sads has only been around for two days; maybe tomorrow it'll go away.  It'll pass.

That's been my mantra for so long now, I can't recall the first time I thought it. 

It'll pass.  It always does.  Fucking pills.

Ghosts of my Past and Other Trite Titles

My therapist gave me some homework to do this weekend, wherein I was to list all of the traumas I have survived and then explore the feelings associated.  He (therapist) has suggested that I am detached from those emotions as a coping mechanism, and he is not the first to make that statement.  He is also right, and it is up to me to break through that barrier.  When certain people experience traumas, some of us file those moments away in our minds as something akin to a movie once seen on late night teevee; it didn't really happen to us, so we don't really have to face it.  Unfortunately, these moments never go away.  They ripple out into our lives for a long, long time, and if we stubbornly refuse to digest them then our every decision is skewed as a result.  Or so I've found.  I, like my father, am a compulsive list maker.  Outlining, numbering, bullet-pointing - these are the comforting routines for organisation in my life.  This list I've made today is not a comforting list.  It is on one hand a sad and scary account of a hard life; on the other hand it is a testament to strength and resilience.  I survived rapes, I survived molestations and I survived physical and mental abuse.  Goddammit, I survived.  That is something to be proud of, no?  But I can't be completely proud, because this shit all happened.  It was no story book, it was no late night movie on the teevee, it was my life. It still is, actually.

This morning, my husband left to go to work and returned one minute later to tell me that someone broke into his work van and stole his GPS unit.  Not the thousands of dollars worth of electrical equipment he carries for his job, not the cds, not the sundry other items worth more than the van - just the GPS.  Two neighbors in our building have apartments facing the van, and there is no doubt that they heard his alarm going off whenever it occurred, but they didn't do anything... they didn't say anything.  They let it happen.  What is wrong with this world?  No one wants to risk a moment of their time to help another human?  Le sigh, true believers; le sigh.  Had one human stepped up to help me in my times of dire need, maybe I wouldn't be so scared of men, so fearful of disapproval and so yearning for acceptance.  Maybe I would be strong enough to face my past head-on, instead of in a dodgy little list.

Not really a Bitch, per se...

Today I ran into an old friend from High School at the local TJ's.  The last time we saw one another, I was using my cane to get around and she was working there.  Today, I was in my wheelchair and my husband was pushing me around in the store as we hunted for suitable noms.  I saw my old friend and said hey! and when she turned around, it was obvious shock on her face.  She asked how I was and what was with the wheels, so I briefly explained that my conditions had deteriorated in the past few years.  After a very awkward few moments, we said goodbye and I rolled back to the man.  Since I don't go out very often (aside from visits to my Mommala and Gran's house), I forget sometimes that others aren't used to seeing me in Good 'Ol Jack Burton*, so there is always a moment of discomfort.  I'm glad it happened, though, because it was a lesson to be gentle and pleasant, calm and cheerful in these situations.  It seemed to make it easier on her, and on me as a result.



* Good 'Ol Jack Burton is the name of my wheelchair (each one I've had, actually).  If you've ever seen "Big Trouble in Little China", you'll know who I mean and if not - go rent it this week.  80's cheesy kung-fu action with Kurt Freakin' Russell.

Small Victories

Remember that piece of shit I mentioned previously, the woman who faked her disabilities to get money?  Stupid bitch.  Well, we have vindication!  It is nice to see the government stepping in to stop liars from getting benefits they don't deserve, but I'd like to see the government start giving benefits to those to do deserve them.  Just sayin'. 

Still, though, this is a wee little victory in my book.  Now if I could just figure out how to de-brain the shithead upstairs neighbor, I'd be in business.

A Barrel and a Heap

My last post was written with coeval grief, and thus only held a small amount of anger toward Pedo Piece of Shit.  He did survive the funeral, as I decided that it was better to silently put the malocchio on him than upset my family.  At one point, he sat next to me.  At the memorial.  Less than 6 feet from the body of my shining, stellar, beautiful Godmother.  Luckily, my mother is aware of what Pedo P.o.S. did to me and to others, so she quickly motioned for me to sit next to her, thereby cutting him off from any chance of conversation with myself.  As we all said our final goodbyes at the cemetery, Pedo P.o.S. broke down and said he wasn't ready to let her go, which at the time seemed so genuine... so real.  Not one month later, we all found out that he has a girlfriend.  That less than one hour after she died, he told her brother that he'd have to find a new woman. It seems sadly realistic that he had that girlfriend the whole time my Aunt (who was actually my cousin) was dying.  I cannot waste any further emotion on him at this time.  What I can do is share with you some of the lyrics to the song she sung to myself and all of the other children who were graced with her light as we grew up.  I recently watched "Julie and Julia", and this song was part of the soundtrack; I was unaware of that, and when I heard the first few notes I began to cry and didn't stop until the last note was played. 


Doris Day - A Bushel And A Peck Lyrics

I love you a bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck
A hug around the neck and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap and I'm talkin' in my sleep
About you, about you
'Cause I love you a bushel and a peck
You bet your purdy neck I do


I love you, Aunt Patty, a bushel and a peck.  I'll miss those hugs around the neck.

Grief Sucks.

**This post was originally written during the week of June 21, 2010.**

Oh, dear reader(s? not likely.).  What a week it has been.  My godmother died on Monday evening, after a very long battle with cancer.  Her husband, Piece of Pedo Shit, hasn't lifted a finger to help her all the years she's been fighting to survive, and if he is able to leave the funeral friday without my cane wrapped around his head, it'll be a miracle. My godmother, Aunt Patty, was a source of beauty, joy, laughter, smiles, love and a perfect touch of sarcasm.  She was an Italian-English marvel with a grin that made you feel loved and worthwhile.  Cancer killed her, but not her spirit or the bright and shining memories we have of her.

I had a list in my head of things to bitch about, but it just isn't as important now.  When my other Aunt called to give the sad news, I cried for a bit but clamped it down (bad habit, I know). My husband just held me and then I decided to paint.  When I paint, I can process without being beaten with thoughts.  There are not enough words to express what painting does for me, nor to state how much my godmother meant to me. 

More bitchings to follow in the near future, I am sure.

What Was I Saying?

Here we are, month of June, and I've got something to say.  Um.  No, I know I had something to say...it was important enough to blog about...huh.  Guess it's a good day today.  I woke in a bad mood due to a terrible nights' sleep (thank you, Fibromyalgia!) but that has been the norm for the past oh-jebus-forever, so I decided once again to push on through it to the sunshine.  What's that?  There is no sunshine today?  Well, I'll just have to make my own then, shan't I?  Yes.  Yoga!  Yoga really helps.  Water!  Water really, really helps.  Instead of starting my day with tea and GF toast, I began with 20 ounces of filtered water and a half hour of slow, gentle, lovely yoga.  Then I put on a pot of brown rice to soak and subsequently cook, and after pushing myself probably far too hard, I cleaned up a bit of the ol' homestead.  Boring, boring, boring... to you, perhaps.  To me, it is an accomplishment.  I haven't been able to clean properly in Quite Some Time, so to be able to vacuum (a tiny apartment), trash some more un-necessaries from my past and go to the local store for papier du toilet are victories in my life!  True, tomorrow will bring more soreness and probably another IBS attack, but I'll take what I can get.

That's the key, you see; take what you can get, make the best of it, and move forward.

Last night I began re-reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's "Sara Crewe", one of my most loved books from childhood.  Sara starts out as the Very Rich Daughter of a British man in India.  He takes her across the Big Ass Pond to England, to be enrolled in a school for proper young snots.  After several years of being treated as the star of the house, her father dies and leaves her penniless.  You'd think that would break a little girl, wouldn't you?  But no; Sara's imagination takes her through each day with strength and determination, love and humour.  These are the things we all need to get past the icky parts of every single day.

Try it:  Imagine you are stronger than you think you are (because dude- you are.).  Imagine that your determination, coupled with that strength, will undoubtedly bring you to the best life you can live.  Love yourself, if for no other reason than you can, and then?  Laugh.  At yourself.  At life.  At that weird guy waiting at the bus stop who you think may secretly be wearing a tu-tu under that suit.  Once you've done all of that, do it again, and again, until it becomes second nature.  The ambiguous "They" say that if you do something for three weeks straight, it becomes natural and normal.  So try, for three weeks, to love yourself and all of your strengths, weaknesses, determination and procrastination, and then laugh your fool ass off every chance you get.

We're not going to get out of this life alive anyway; may as well enjoy it!

Oh, You Stupid Fucking Liar.

You can strip, but you can't wait tables?  You fought your way to get disability and you lied the ENTIRE TIME, just to be lazy??  You are the reason I can't get disability, you stupid fucking liar.  People just like you, who lied to the government because you're too fucking lazy to work - people like YOU are why those of us who are genuinely disabled can't get the help we need! Because you fucked it all up for us!! 

Consider yourself incredibly fucking lucky that I am disabled, lady, else I'd be driving up to your town and calling you out.  Fucking slackass bitch.

Just one little thing...

Oh, okay, you caught me; it's really a few little things.  Well, maybe a couple of little things and one semi-large thing.  The little things - a relentless toofache, the realization that my body does not like wheat (which is half of my goddamn fucking diet), and the landlord stopping by to say the township inspector will be here next week ("and by the way, I'll be dropping off two smoke detectors and a range hood for you to install yourself!") - well, the little things I can handle.  I'm invincible, dammit, I can handle ANYTHING.  Which is a Very Good Thing, dearios, as the semi-large thing is that the government decided that I am not disabled.

Yeah... they decided after meeting myself and my lawyer once, for 45 minutes, that I'm not disabled.  They decided that I could TOTALLY work in a factory, doing repetitive tasks, or that I could flip burgers somewhere.  Well, my dear, darling fucking asshat government, I'd like to explain to you why I (like so many other genuinely disabled folks) am UNable to do those kinds of jobs.  For the sake of anthropomorphistic glee, we're going to assume that the government is One Stupid Person, not a million marginally moronic fools.  That said, Government, do you know what Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, Bi-patello-femoral Syndrome and IBS are?  No?  Well, imagine that your wrists are trying to detach from your arms while your muscles all ache as though you were beaten to a pulp 5 minutes ago, and that your knees are also trying to detach from your body - then imagine that the painkillers you so desperately need in order to function are not even remotely digestible because your stomach rejects EVERY FUCKING THING you try to put in it.  You got that, Government?  Good.  Because THAT is my life, on a daily basis.  I would love to go back to work! I miss working the way, well, the way you miss having the blind support of a nation.   When I've tried - repeatedly, for the past four YEARS - to get hired, I am turned down.  Why?  BECAUSE I'm FUCKING DISABLED!! You stupid fucking pricks!  YOU wouldn't hire me, so what makes you think anyone else will??

Gaaaaah!!!!!

Wine. NOW.  I need to go out, drink some wine - which is wheat-free, and thus "safe" for me - and calm the fuck down before I start spluttering and drooling in the corner.  Again.

The Daily Bitchen's

Today, dear friends, I do not have much to bitch about.  No, I know - strange but true!  I have a roof over my head, a refrigerator in my kitchen stocked with food, a husband who loves me and just happens to have the hottest ass on the planet, and we recently moved back over the rainbow to Pennsylvania.  Obviously, I am grateful for all of these positives.  Being grateful, however, does not negate the crap that comes along with being a sentient human being.  As much as I would like to be a perky, happy, chipper little person, it is not always easy.  So I strive to just be real.  That said, being real generally includes eating and digesting food.  You people out there who can eat what you want take it for granted, but those of us with pissed off guts are at the mercy of our digestive tract on a daily - nay, hourly basis!  If we are out and about and feel that familiar sensation, we can't just buy a packet of chips and a soda.  Our bodies are physically unable to process that shite, and honestly - that is okay by me.  I don't want to be a part of the unhealthy masses!  I don't want to suffer from malnutrition while shoveling pre-packaged crap into my mouth.  I don't want to die at an early age from heart disease, obesity, diabetes or any of the other myriad food-related disorders.  Now, I know that diet is not the sole reason behind those disorders - but come on, folks!  If you CAN eat food that fuels you, why choose to eat non-food that makes only one part of your body happy - your tongue!  Why eat something slathered in chemicals when you can experience the intense crunchy sweetness of a fresh carrot?

Okay, okay... now I'm off of the deep end into granola-head territory, but you know what?  I like carrots.  I do!  They're fun!  They're versatile!  They are a part of so many traditional family meals, in so many countries including ours!  What the hell is wrong with a little love for our ground-grown orange friends?  You know what else?  Potatoes are a vegetable.  Not french fries, not chips, but real, honest-to-gods potatoes.  Baked, mashed, souped and sauteed, potatoes are damn tasty.  TRY ONE.

It appears that today's gratitude-fueled post has deviated into my seething distaste for the easy-quick-cheap food mentality.  When I see people trying to leave a fast food joint, begging to be able to merge into my lane, I'm a total bitch.  I don't let them.  Yeah, I'm one of THOSE assholes.  Because you know what?  While you're horking down your heart-attack-in-a-bun, you could be savouring a bag of fucking carrots and getting some actual nutrition.  You could be fostering the healthy habit of a lifetime in your children, who will pass it to their children and friends, making the whole fucking future a healthy prospect! What the shit is wrong with fast-food eaters?!!

Okay... okay, I need to step away from the keyboard before I make enemies.  Aah, fuck it - you don't like my views, you don't have to read 'em.  You like your fast food?  Well, you go on an enjoy it!  I'll be sure to leave some edible flowers on your grave.

Let me explain. No, s'too long; let me sum up:

I doubt anyone is reading this, so that leaves me free to let loose.

I.  Am.  Disabled.  Three little words that are heavier than a Texas-sized elephant to me, but mean near nothing to most people.  Being disabled isn't an excuse to slack off for me.  It is not a way to sit on my ass and eat fucking bon-bons all day, either.  It isn't an easy out to sponge off of my family and husband.  What it means is that I wake each day in searing pain, and prepare myself mentally to spend the rest of the day that way.  It means I can't go to the fucking grocery store alone, because I can't drive there anymore, and even if I could I'm not able to lift my wheelchair out of my trunk.  It means I can't go to the doctor unless my husband takes a day off of work, and that's a near impossibility because we need every penny he makes in order to survive.  What it also means is that I get dirty looks from strangers, because I am in my early thirties yet look like I'm in my mid-twenties and well, I mean, no one THAT young could REALLY be disabled!  She must be lazy!  She must want to be waited on hand and foot!  She must just be another waste of space!  Well you know what?  SHE is NONE of those things.  She comes from a long line of strong Italian women who served their men, who cooked every meal, who cleaned every corner.  My great-grandmother was a goddamn pioneer in women's rights!  Back when she was a teenager, in the 19-teens, her parents arranged a marriage - because that was what was DONE back then.  And this woman, who I idolized and admired and strive each day to emulate, this woman said NO!  That if she liked the guy, sure, she'd marry him, but if not then she was taking the free trip to America and would make her own way in life!  THAT is who I come from, and THAT is who I fight to be - an independent, strong woman who can take care of herself.

But I can't, not anymore.  I need help to take a shower.  My husband, who is a red-meat-eating, cheese-inhaling kind of guy, is learning how to cook vegan food because I can't cook anymore and I can't eat meat or dairy.  I am unable to carry a simple bag anymore, and I am ashamed each and every goddamn day.  EVERY DAY. I had plans, I had desires.  I had a passion to open a book store once, and now?  Well, now that dream is dead.  All but one of my dreams are dead and rotted, because my body decided to take a sharp left turn without consulting me about it.  The only dream I have left is to paint, so that is what I do.  I try to make it sound glamorous and well, it is pretty wonderful, but is it going to bring in the money needed to buy food?  To pay for an MRI I need?  To get the medications I need?  No.  I hardly sell any artwork, and there are many, many more days where I'm simply unable to paint because of the pain.  I keep my chin up, my face to the sunshine and my brave face on because there is no other choice.  I HAVE to be strong, because no one is going to be strong for me, no one is going to live this life for me - it is MY life, and I have to make it work.  The alternative is not an alternative, it is giving up, and my great-grandmother didn't give up, so why should I?

Holy Crap.

Just a warning: I hate everyone today.

No, I am not PMSing or PMDDing or anything else related to ovaries.  The reasons for my ire?

The upstairs neighbors have juuuuuuuust about pushed me over the edge into homicide.  No, I won't *really* kill them.  But I will fantasize about it every moment until we move out of this gods-forsaken hellhole called New Fucking Jersey.  You know all those jokes you've heard, especially lately with those vomit stains from the Jersey show?  Well, let me just tell you that every single awful, terrible, horrible, spirit-breaking thing you've ever heard about NJ is true.  The people here really can't drive.  They really don't have a breath of courtesy in their bodies.  They really do have hair so high they can't see anyone but themselves.  And they really are the assholes of the world.  In the short time it took me to go out to get something for this headache, I encountered the following:

1 asshole staring at me even after I told him to take a fucking picture, asshole.
3 rude register clerks who were friendly to those ahead of me in line, but ignored my "good morning".
239,248,059 assholes who can't drive.
3 shoppers who ran into me with their carts and did not apologise,
1 of which gave me a dirty look when I said "excuse me" and
1 of which bumped me several times from behind, ostensibly because I USE A CANE AND WALK SLOWLY!!!!

I am at my wits' end here, people of Anonybitch.  If I don't get out of this state the moment my lease is up, I will collapse in the corner, rocking and drooling until I lash out and sodomize everyone with my cane.

Oh, Hallmark, you and your holiday can just fuck off right now.

Today is a holiday.  No, really, it is, and nothing Hallmark says will change the fact that they had nothing to do with it.  Happy Chinese New Year, peoples.  Yep, that's the entire extent of this day.

It is now the year of the Metal Tiger who I am unfortunately not well acquainted with; see, I was born in the year of the Dragon Flying to Heaven, which sounds a hell of a lot cooler than a Metal Tiger until you imagine a no-holds-barred throwdown between them.  Metal Tiger would probably have some seriously sharp claws, you know?  And the Dragon, well... Dragons are inherently bad-ass, it's genetic.  What if they were in mid-air-mid-slice-and-dice and all of a sudden, a tea party burst out of nowhere! Who would triumph over the sugarcubes?!

I need more sleep. Yes, yes, I know I do.  Spent the past 2.5 hours crying off and on due to the fibro pain, or the patellofemoral pain, or the arthritis pain, or the MS pain, or whatever the fuck all this pain is from.  I'd rather cry about my pain, however, than confuse today for anything other than Chinese New Year.

"Work is for those who don't know how to fish" - an old bumper sticker that never fails to cause massive eye-rolling.  You know what, bud?  Fishing is for those who don't know how to successfully interact with other humans in a conversational scenario. 

I am exhausted.  My wrists are covered in this Arth-arrest shit that used to work but stopped as soon as I really needed it, I accidentally rubbed my eye against one of my hands and now I've got the stingy shit IN my eye, my dormancy period last night was restless and utterly unsatisfying and I have to go out today to see my therapist.  I wonder if I'd saved each of the session fees and bought a new bed instead of talking about my stupid issues ad nauseum, perhaps I'd be a happier person.

Nah, I'm a bitch at heart.