Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

I’m so fucking done with these migraines. I’ve had one every damned day for the last six days, and it’s tired, old, and just plain painful.

The triptans I’m taking for them take forever to work, and when they finally do work, they knock me out for a good three hours, thereby wasting a good chunk of my day.

I’m having an MRI tomorrow, and if that’s inconclusive, I’m having an MRA.

This ought to yield a big, fat bill. Still, I need to get to the bottom of this.

I’ve had migraines since I was a young kid. I can remember curling up on the floor of our old house in pain, sobbing, not having a clue what was wrong with my head and wishing I would just die already.

It’s a vicious, stabbing pain, and I’d have to say it’s worse than all the slipped discs put together.

Hopefully this testing will shed a little light on the subject before I perform my own craniotomy with a pair of unsterilized nail scissors.

In other news, the J-Man came home sobbing last night after playing with the kids in the cul de sac.

Apparently he quit a game they were playing and they all started in on him, calling him fat (which is utterly ludicrous, given the fact that he just lost 23 pounds and is nowhere near fat any more), “colossus”, and telling him to go and kill himself.

I swear to God, I would love to cane these children.

I did what was probably the worst possible thing and called one of the kid’s mother to let her know what had gone on. We’re friends, so I didn’t come at it from a place of rage, and we actually had a very nice and productive conversation, but I’m worried that now the kid in question is going to be even more pissed off.

I wish that the J-Man would take these insults with a grain of salt, given the fact that most junior high boys don’t mean what they say and generally talk out of their asses ninety-nine percent of the time; but he is extremely sensitive and takes everything so hard.

I wish I could go through this for him. I really do. He doesn’t want to go to school, he’s stressed out all of the time, and the bullying just never seems to let up.

At the beginning of the school year it looked as if things were going to turn around, but now we’re back to the same old shit.

He’s been marked as a target because he flips out easily, and it’s tough to escape that stigma.

I wish to God I knew what to do. Telling him to toughen up isn’t cutting it. Therapy doesn’t seem to be cutting it, either. He’s just so unhappy, and it breaks my heart.

Junior high is horrible. Just horrible.

Anyway, that’s it for today.

Happy Tuesday.

This new med, which works in a stellar manner as far as depression goes, has me breaking out like a pizza-faced teenager.

To say that I am pissed off about this would be a vast understatement. I am seriously ready to peel off my entire face and start over. Even worse, I am one of those ignorant people who picks, making the entire situation worse, and causing a face full of ugly red marks that Will Not Go Away.

One thing, probably the only thing ever, that I prided myself on was that I had really nice skin, and now it’s pretty much shot to shit. Every time I look in the bathroom mirror I am overcome with RAGE.

Yeah, yeah, first world problems.

In other news, if you want to instantly get into a jamming sort of mood, listen to Master P’s “Make Em Say Ugh”. Your mileage may vary, but damn, does this song do it for me.

I could be a little ghetto, though.

One thing that solidifies my status as a Disabled Person is the fact that I have developed a daily outfit of slobbiness. I almost never get dressed or put on makeup unless I’m going somewhere or unless someone is coming over because well, why the hell should I?

Still, I should probably make some sort of effort to not look homeless, because that’s pretty much how I roll these days: raunchy yoga pants that have certainly seen better days, raunchy Tegan and Sara t-shirt that is hanging by threads, and seriously old-lady-like, holey, shaker-knit, red sweater that looks as if it came directly from someone’s trash can. Add to that my Adidas flip flops, and I am totally ready to peruse the clearance aisle at Wal-Mart.

Am I a hot, sexy bitch? You bet.

I went out with B. this weekend, and once again it was awesome, and I pretty much feel really good about this.

I have my reservations, of course, as I have thankfully learned to have, but there’s definitely a trust level there that’s been nurtured over many years, so that’s a good thing.

We shall see.

We watched American History X back at Casa Trance, and Jesus God, does that movie freak me out. When Ed Norton curbs that kid, it makes me want to rip out my good remaining eyeball as well as both of my ears.

It’s a hell of a good flick, though, as deeply disturbing as it is.

In still other news, this weekend we took my sister and her brood to a local apple orchard and picked apples and pumpkins. It was good times indeed, and there was a small farm with lots of different animals for the kids to ooh and aah over and pet and catch various nefarious diseases from.

I also bought some cherry preserves and some sweet potato pecan butter, which I have decided I would like to purchase six gallons of in the very near future. The shit is divine.

I was quite frustrated, because when the tractor/wagon-dealie dropped us off at a certain section of the orchard, I couldn’t find any Gala apples to pick. They were all either on the ground or up way too high. The kids were picking Red Delicious, which are not really my bag, so I wandered the rows of Galas, vainly searching for at least one delicious apple.

It wasn’t going to happen, and after about twenty minutes I gave up and headed toward the rows of Jonathans.

Nada.

This is when I started to get irritated. All I wanted were a few apples for a pie, for the love of God.

No Gala. No Jonathan. No Honeycrisp.

Both the J-Man and my stepdad, sensing that I was about to risk my life climbing a tree or actually picking the possibly wormy apples off of the ground, offered to get me apples.

“It isn’t going to happen. There are no damned apples.”

After about ten minutes, both of them plied me with apples.

I gritted my teeth, and I am not proud to say that I ate one right then and there without paying for it.

That’ll learn those sparse apple-growers.

That’ll learn me, whose insides are now rife with pesticides.

There were also a plethora of decorative gourds at the orchard, which brings me to this link, which I hope you enjoy as much as I did:

It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers.

Hee.

Happy Monday.

So I didn’t take the kitten. Willpower. It’s what’s for breakfast.

Before all of you jump on my shit and start screaming “Mean Mom! Mean Mom!”, just allow me to remind you that we currently have four, count them, four felines currently in residence at Casa Trance; and I truly don’t want to wind up on Animal Planet on that show with the fucking cat hoarders.

The J-Man actually didn’t even ask for the kitten. I think he knew that the answer was going to be a big fat No.

I did want it though. It was cute to an absolutely sick degree.

So. There have been migraines. I have been having at least four per week for oh, let’s say FOREVER now, and I’m about fed up. Tomorrow I have a neurologist appointment, and I plan to stretch myself across his desk and cry until he offers up some sort of viable solution.

What else? There is my old boyfriend, the prom date. Things are becoming rather intense on that front and honestly, I don’t know what to think. There are a lot of phone calls and texting and most of it is very deep and passionate and it’s extremely heady stuff. We see each other again this weekend and I’m just a raw ball of nerves, but it’s a good raw ball of nerves, if that makes any sense.

He makes me feel things that I haven’t felt in a long, long, long damned time. He’s an extremely intelligent, sensitive man; and he challenges me, and it’s refreshing on so many levels.

So, there’s that.

There’s also this: I have a therapist appointment today.

Now let it be known that I fucking loathe therapy. I’ve been seeing a shrink for years and years, but almost never an actual therapist, because I think they’re largely full of shit. If I want to talk to someone about a problem, I call a friend, and more often than not I get much better advice than stupid shit like “Feelings aren’t facts.”, “How does that make you feel?”, or (and I swear to God a therapist actually said this to me when I was in the terrible throes of bulimia), “You could just eat vegetables with salsa. Salsa has very few calories.”

Seriously.

However, the shrink has mandated that I begin seeing a therapist, so off to therapy I go. I’m not happy about it, I’m not going into it with a stellar attitude, and I don’t trust this woman any further than I can throw her, but I am going to attempt to give it a go.

If she mentions salsa, though, she’s toast.

In other news, I have decided that I can no longer watch the news. Jesus God in heaven, it’s fucking depressing. Generally I read the local paper (which is something of a joke in Indianny) and watch the news as well as read it on the internet daily, but my God, does it bring me down. I’m not naive. I do understand that into this world a lot of shit must fall, but watching story after story about murder after murder and political corruption after political corruption and just the absolute dregs of human nature? It seriously makes me sad.

I already have a tendency to be sad. I just don’t need the news to exacerbate it.

Does that sounds shallow and as if I prefer to live in my own little bubble?

So sue me.

I probably won’t be able to stay away from the news for long, anyway. I feel compelled to know what’s going on.

In other news, the J-Man has been off of his anxiety meds for about two weeks now, thank God, and is doing great. (knock on wood) No vomiting before school, no freaking out. I’m pretty proud of the boy these days. His grades are excellent, he’s having a pretty good time of it in school, he auditioned for a garage band (YES), he loves choir, he’s lost over 20 pounds through healthy eating, and he’s been damned pleasant to be around.

The dreaded teenaged hormones must be on the upswing these days.

Whatever it is, I’m enjoying it immensely.

In still other news, I am obsessed with watching reruns of season 7 of So You Think You Can Dance. Love the bag, love the shoes, LOVE IT.

If I could be anything, I would be a kick-ass dancer. I’d just have to lose about six inches of height and about fifty pounds…

Happy Wednesday.

The family down the street from us has a cute little black kitten they’re trying to get rid of, and the mom has been Facebooking me about it.

I don’t want it, but it’s so cute and fluffy and tiny, and ooh it would fit in so perfectly with the two black cats I already have, and man, it’s so teeny and cute, and GOD I WANT IT.

I am an adult with some modicum of self-control, though, so I answered her, “Sorry. It’s adorable, but no thank you.”

Then she said something I did not expect. “Didn’t the J-Man lose his cat fairly recently? I’ll bet he would just love a kitten.”

AW MAN WHY YOU GOTTA DO ME LIKE THAT AND GO AND HIT ME SQUARE IN THE MOM?

That was fucking dirty pool, lady.

So I will bet you a whole dollar that the J-Man winds up at their house this week, and I will bet you another whole dollar that he will be on my doorstep clutching a beautiful black kitten, both of them with eyes as big as saucers, whimpering, “MOM CAN WE KEEEEEEP HERRRR?”

And I will cave. Because that is me. And then I will have to have a six-hour fight with my mother and Jim.

Damned kittens.

In other news, you all know that I loathe the Demon Med Effexor and would no more use it or discontinue it again than I would eat my own liver (with some fava beans and a nice Chianti).

So what did I do years later but start another SNRI, Cymbalta, which has pretty much the same effect and the same gnarly discontinuation syndrome?

I live a very cyclical life. I just repeat all the same mistakes over and over and over again. As a matter of fact, if you look up “idiot” in your Webster’s dictionary, you will find me grinning back at you.

I tapered slowly down off of the Cymbalta just like the shrink told me to while starting the Viibryd, believing with all my hopeful little heart that this would make all the difference.

See also: Idiot.

I am having brain zaps like a motherfucker. I feel like someone is taking a taser to my occipital lobe. It’s insane.

If you’re not familiar with SNRI or SSRI discontinuation syndrome, Google it sometime. It’s interesting stuff that they certainly don’t tell you about when they hand out anti-depressants like fucking Smarties on Halloween.

I can’t even drink coffee for fear of hurling my lungs up. No coffee? Why live?

Hopefully this won’t last long, and I feel so good from the Viibryd that it’s worth going through a little shit getting off of the Cymbalta.

In other news, the J-Man’s grades are STELLAR so far this year. I could not be more pleased.

Just don’t tell me to get him a kitten as a reward or I’ll send you all my leftover Cymbalta.

Happy Wednesday.

First. Notre Dame won their game against Michigan State even though they played for shit and had four, count them, four, turnovers.

I believe we are now leading the world in turnovers. Would you like a turnover? Apple or cherry? They’re piping hot.

So, there’s that. I am happy about the win, I’m happy we’re not 3 and 0 like I thought we’d be, but I’m unhappy about the defense, the turnovers, and the general state of the union.

Secondly, I went out with B., my ghost of Christmases past, my prom date, my boyfriend of my formative years, and God, was it heady stuff.

He rang the doorbell and honestly, all could do was stare for a moment. He looks older, to be sure (file that one under “duh”), but in so many ways he looks exactly the same – smooth-skinned, massively green-eyed, and intense as all get-out, that I had to catch my breath.

We held each other for a few minutes, and it felt like coming home.

(I am well aware that the previous sentence sounds like some cheesy fucking shit from a Danielle Steel novel. I cringed, too.)

Anyway, it was a great night, really fucking special and deep and kind of romantic, and we’re going out again tonight.

I feel comfortable. It’s nice. Who knows if anything will come of it, but for now, it’s really nice.

Thirdly, I must go and watch the Bears, which is always a crapshoot. More tomorrow.

Happy Sunday.

My shrink would say that I had a Major Depressive Event or Episode or some such shit.

All I know is that it sucked and I cried (that one was for all you Dooce [trademark] fans), and that I’m glad to be snapping out of it a little.

I’ve been on a new anti-depressant for a few weeks now. To say that it saved my ass would be putting it lightly. Three times a week I was having conversations like this one:

“Jenny-fahr, I want you to check into the hospital.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t wanna.”
“I am worried you’re going to harm yourself.”
“No.”

So what if I was only showering once a week and sleeping seventeen hours a day? I was FINE, damn it.

Gah.

Another thing that seemed to really save my ass was the treadmill. I don’t know what happened – call it divine intervention, call it what you will, but one day I looked at that bitch and said, “Enough sleeping.”

I started to run, and that week I broke a twelve-minute mile.

I know that exercise isn’t for everyone, but damned if it didn’t help to get this girl out of this funk.

The new med, which has only been out on the market since July or so, has been pretty wondrous so far. I’m only sleeping seven hours per night. I’m eating like a normal person. I don’t feel completely asexual. I don’t feel nauseous or weak.

As much as I hate to quote Charlie Sheen, Winning.

So, there’s that.

In other news, I sometimes talk to my high school/post-high school boyfriend, B. He’s been living in California for years, and while we haven’t actually laid eyes on each other in about 16 years, we’ve remained relatively close. I can’t even begin to stress how important a person this guy was in my life. We were joined at the hip for years.

I got a Facebook message this week that said, “I’m back in the area, call me.”

After a few long phone calls, we’ve decided to go out tomorrow night. What’s weird is that I still feel as comfortable talking to him as I ever did, and the rhythms of our conversations flow as easily as they did 20 years ago. It’s pretty wild.

Should be interesting.

I have a prom photo of us somewhere, I’ll have to post it when I find it.

In still other news, today is haircut day, always an exciting day, always a fun day, and I think I’m going to switch it up a bit, go short, do something different, something.

I wasn’t gone for long, but it felt like a fucking eternity over on this end. I’m glad to be back.

Happy Tuesday.

Taking a little hiatus to get my head on straight.

Please don’t trip.

XOXO

Jen

I pride myself on the fact that I can be in and out of the shower, scrupulously clean, hair dried and flat-ironed, and have my makeup applied in less than one hour. I am not one of those languorous, high-maintenance bitches that takes four hours to get ready in the morning, nor am I a fifteen-minute wet-headed gal (coarse, wavy hair).

However, I seem to have raised one vain-assed, slow-motion mofo.

We are lucky enough to have three bathrooms in the house. However, one of those is in the master bedroom with my stepdad and is the Bathroom In Which We Dare Not Tread, and one of those is my bathroom downstairs, which the highland-dwellers are too lazy to use. Therefore the J-Man and my mother share a bathroom in the morning.

The child won’t take a shower at night, preferring to be So Fresh and So Clean in the morning, so he and my mother fight furiously over the bathroom for a solid hour and a half.

Yes, folks, he spends a good hour and a half showering, applying my hair products, getting dressed (which is apparently a carefully thought-out and lengthy process even though he lays his clothes out the night before) and wolfing down his food in three minutes.

I have never seen someone move so slowly (except for the breakfasting) in my whole damned life.

If I had a girl I would expect such machinations. But a teenaged boy? Aren’t they supposed to be dirty and smelly and absolutely not care?

He drives me up the wall, and my mother is fit to be tied. But will either of them use the downstairs bathroom? No. Stubborn asses!

However, I am glad to report that this year has started off stunningly with absolutely no teasing or bullying and some A plus math papers which warmed the cockles of my hard little heart. For that, I can stand a little vanity.

In other news, my skinny little slip of a size four mother is gaining weight, and she is not happy.

I would like to say that I am not a bitch and that I am not looking upon this particular situation with a large amount of sick satisfaction, but… ahem.

I would also like to say that I’m not teasing her relentlessly, making up for all the fat comments that have been tossed my way over the years, but again… ahem.

A big person I am not, unless you count the size of my ass.

Anyway, she is completely freaked out, but it’s driven her to actually want to exercise, which is a Very Good Thing. So starting this evening, we’re going to a local park for an hour to walk. I could use the extra hour too, and so could the J-Man, so I think it’s an excellent thing for the whole family.

My mother’s burgeoning booty has turned out to be both a source of constant amusement and a blessing. Who knew?

“Hey Ma, you got fries to go with that shake?”

“Hey Ma, pants a little snug there?” (this, because I’ve heard it myself approximately four thousand times)

“Hey Ma, are you sure you’re not up the pole?”

“Hey Ma, do you really need that doughnut?”

I am having so much fucking fun.

I am also an evil, ungrateful little shit.

In still other news, the J-Man’s eighth grade trip has been suddenly sprung upon me. Apparently there was a meeting last year, a meeting which was NOT announced on the school’s website, which I check religiously, or the school’s newsletter, which I read religiously; and pamphlets were handed out, and scholarships were given.

Scholarships were given because the damned trip costs ELEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS.

They will be traveling to Washington DC, and to be fair, that fee covers every little thing: air fare, hotel room, accident insurance, chaperones, all admission fees to all attractions, and all meals. The only thing he’d need extra cash for would be souvenirs.

Still, it’s a lot of scratch.

I think it’d be a very enriching experience, though. They would be seeing pretty much everything there is to see in DC (sans crackheads), and I think it’s damned important for him to get the hell out of Indiana once in a while.

For that reason I’m taking the money out of savings, and also because (and probably only because) I’ve been promised child support this month by the Prosecutor’s Office, since they’ve put a lock on The Shit. Plus, my dad is going to help defray the cost, too.

It still pains me to pay this much, but I think the experience will be worth it.

Or maybe I’m just worried he’ll be stigmatized as being poor.

Or maybe a little of both.

Maybe I’m a little vain, too.

Happy Wednesday.

So I’ve been up since five thirty and have had eight cups of coffee, not counting the one I’m currently drinking, so I’m pretty amped. So before I get on the treadmill, let’s talk some shit.

I am sporting a rather sizeable, eggplant-colored lump on my forehead courtesy of last night’s seizure, a pants-pissing extravaganza which took place on the tile on the way to the bathroom.

There’s nothing like having to yell for your mother to bring you a towel and some dry clothes at the age of 37 so that you don’t drip pee on the carpet. Perhaps I should invest in some Depends.

The lump looks something like an alien ready to burst forth from my head; and you know, maybe it really is. Maybe this has been the problem all along, this strange purple entity living within my poor beleaguered brain, and maybe the thing has finally decided to jump ship and seek better living conditions.

Hey, you never know.

In other news, I bought some Advantage for the cats and dosed them (two just laid there, two fought me tooth and nail) and it seems to have worked, that is to say there seems to be no more furious scratching and biting either on their part or my part. Thank you, Advantage. My poor kid still looks like he has the smallpox, but hopefully he will heal soon.

I wonder what the teachers must think. His legs are covered in bruises from his strange sleeping machinations and outside play, and he is also rife with bites and scabs.

Between the two of us, we look like a couple of refugees.

In other news, I have been endlessly frustrated with elementary and junior high school math ever since, oh, the third grade. They do it differently now, not the old way they did when I was a young pup and dinosaurs roamed the earth, and I’ve been relentlessly confused by the shit for years.

Last night, I went to check the J-Man’s math as I always do, assuming that I wouldn’t get it as I always don’t, and lo and behold, it was plain old algebra, and I understood it!

People, I was so proud of myself that I could have held a parade in my honor.

I checked it swiftly, found that he had done almost all of the problems correctly, and smiled a great smug smile of satisfaction; for I, the mathematical dope who could not manage long division, had pulled some algebra out of my brain.

I’m still in shock.

What else? My stomach is fat. It is fat, fat, fatty fat. And no, I am not one of those skinny bitches that whines about the small pinch of fat on her tiny bones – I have a gut.

For quite some time I was religiously doing a hundred crunches per day plus other abdominal exercises, and my shit was getting flat. For the past month or so, though, lethargy has set in, and my ass has not even touched the floor. This has resulted in atrophied muscles and what looks like a four-months-pregnant belly.

I have a muffin top. It’s horrendous.

One would think that this would drive me to get my butt back on the floor and crunch my way back to flatness, but oh, the lethargy is sinuous and evil and strong in its grasp, and I just can’t bring myself to do it.

“Then stop complaining about your fat gut.”

I will. I’m sure it’s tedious to read about anyway. Sigh.

There’s a gaggle of teenaged skateboarders (who are very untalented, I’ve noticed, and can’t do tricks for shit) on the block, and they irritate me beyond measure for no good reason. They’re just teenagers being teenagers. They’re loud and obnoxious and they have pool parties a couple of doors down from me and play loud crappy rap music (today’s rap music is largely for shit). Sometimes they ride bikes in a large group up and down the street and talk way too loudly. They curse a lot (contrary to this blog, I don’t really curse that much).

All of this has led me to the conclusion that I pretty much just can’t stand teenagers. This is a frightening realization. Am I going to loathe my own kid at sixteen? He’s somewhat of a pain now with the attitude, but it’s nothing I can’t deal with. At sixteen, am I going to find him freaking unbearable or hopelessly annoying?

God, I hope not.

I’d better get my ass on the treadmill before the best of the caffeine buzz wears off.

Happy Monday.

Bring it on, 8th Grade.

Happy Wednesday.