Dear Octomom,
You are crazy.
You are beyond crazy actually. There is something medically wrong with you; some sort of chemical imbalance. I am not sure there are any drugs out there that can actually touch the depth of your nuttiness. You are fruitier than Rupaul. You make Amy Winehouse appear as an upstanding citizen. I did waht I swore would never do. I supported you by watching your "Untold Video" show last night on Fox. I contributed to the delinquency of an assbag. I feel dirty, like I just watched 'The Crying Game,' sucking my thumb in the corner of the shower. That is a thumb , right?
First of all, let's just cover the plastic surgery denial. NO ONE, without some allergy to histamine, has lips like yours. No one. Jimmy Walker is saying DYNOMITE to your lips. Shaquille O'Neal uses them for shade. You are banned from the ocean because you might cause a Tsunami. Your speech creates a Category 1 windstorm, OK? Do you understand where this is going? Just admit, like most of the world, you think Angelina Jolie is sexy. It's OK to admit it. I find it ironic there are before pictures where you looked all....well, pathetically homely. Bums would give you money in your before pictures. The Taliban actually threw down there weapons when someone said YOU WERE AMERICAN. They felt bad. Don't say you haven't had work done because it is painfully obvious you have. Sort of like Cher. She has a reason. She wanted to be the first performer to have actually performed in 3 different eras. The Paleolithic, the Mesoteric and some other one that starts qith the letter Q. Give it a rest already.
Another thing that bothered me was your perception that your life was simply thrust upon you and you did not want all of this attention. Why on EARTH, then, would you shove 8 ....ing babies inside your vagina? Was it to NOT have attention? Are you seriously that ....ing narrow minded to think that the only set of surviving octuplets would NOT gather some sort of dramatic effect??? You called Kate Gosselin an attention whore. That statement is more or less true. I don't think she upset her marriage is over as so much that the cameras will officially add 10 pounds to only her with Jon out of the picture. She pails n comparison to what you seek. You are now using your kids as your own personal ATM card. It's sad really. It's sad that your Mom was right about you. You are stupid and nuts. Welcome to Mother's Day that will have nothing to do with you.
Finally, I just needed to remind you that you have 6 other kids. For someone working towards a Master's Degree, you sure are stupid. What is the degree in, single motherhood? When will you go to school, actually? Will you show up on the Today Show in the year 2050 as an 88-year old getting her Master's Degree because "you always knew that no one could take that away from you?" I want so badly to take away your viable uterus and give it to someone that cannot have kids of their own so that they can witness the joy of ONE baby. Your excuse to having a hockey team is you love babies. Babies grow up to be virile, reactive teenagers. Then what? I can't wait when one of them overreacts and bitch-slaps you, calling you a bitch as he walks away. Oh wait, your 2-year old did that already. What are you going to teach these kid's other than they need to rely on other's to help exist? You are a volume of Encyclopedia Britannica's on Mediocrity. There is nothing about you that is appealing. Good luck getting 8 kids in time out all at once.
Please do me a favor. Don't home school these kids. This is the one time that public schools might help them. It HAS to be better than what you can teach them. Also, throw food away that is freezer burnt. I get the impression you are a pack rat that keeps frozen food wayyyyy too long. Kind of like embryos. Let them go already. Its toolate now that they are born, so do your best and let other people teach them about life. Your lessons suck. No kissing Cacti, lest facial deflation will occur.
Signed,
America
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Strike One, Strike Two...
The DMV sucks. I don't even need to tell anyone that. It is a given. Sort of like Starr Jones DID have gastric bypass, the Grand Canyon IS a big hole in the ground and Courtney Love DOES need to fall into it. It makes sense. I have been in Washington State for 2 years now, almost to the day, moving from Idaho. I still had my Idaho license. It expires in 2011 so I didn't see the need to get a WA license right away. Unless I got pulled over, which I did not long ago for going 65 in a 55 miles per hour construction zone with an Idaho license, Washington plates, and Washington registration, which I couldn't find, nor could I find the proof of insurance. But that is another story. The DMV sucks.
I went down there at 6:45AM this morning, Saturday. My wife had told me that when she got there at 7:15 the previous Saturday, she was 6th in line. I figured at 6:45, I would be first. I was wrong. I turned out to be 9th, which I think I should have gotten a participant ribbon for, similar to placing 9th out of 10 in a race. Yay...here is your ribbon, thanks for playing. The DMV opens at 8:30AM. I had time to kill. The guy next to me was a cool guy so we passed the time talking about how life sucks standing in line at the DMV, SPEAKING ENGLISH, while others are carrying on a conversation in a dialect I am not familiar with, but if I were I could be employed in just about any place in this stupid town. Sidetracked...sorry. Doors open. I had a utility bill, my social security card, my old license, me, keys, phone, a dead pheasant, a goose decoy (headless), some moccasins, and a rabbit's foot key chain. I figured with all this shit I should have no problem getting my license. I was number 001. SWEET! Guy at the counter, extremely happy his heart is beating, asks for three forms of identification. I gave him my old license, my social security card and the utility bill. He needs one more.
Strike one....
I asked him what I needed. Birth certificate, he says. I help up the dead pheasant. He shook his head. He said no to the decoy, the moccasins (that had my initials on them) and the decoy that said BRACK on it. Shit. He said go get something from list B (which none of the shit I trucked in there was on the list....my bad) and come to the window. I left, drove home and got a copy of the birth certificate. I returned to his window, handed him the CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH (copy) and he said great, but it isn't certified. Shit. I told him it was. He said it could be forged. Right, because I give two shits about having this license. I don't even really want to be me. Why would I make ME up?
Strike two...
I asked him what else would suffice. He said a rabbit's foo....OK, he didn't say that. He said anything from list B which he then handed me a copy of what is acceptable from that list. A yearbook photo. I have one of those. He said if I can look at your photo and then recognize you, it will work. Jesus, that was 18 years ago. If I did look the same, I would need to see a doctor, or sell the secret to eternal youth. In which case, I would buy this building and tear it down with you in it. I ran home, found the ONE copy of a certified birth certificate, obtained in 1985 for Little League to prove I was, in fact, a 12-year old Caucasian and not a 31-year old defector from Guatemala. I returned, hoping to God it would work as it was now 9:30AM. It did. I had my photo taken. I now know why people take shitty DMV photos. Smile? re you kidding? The hoop jumping did me in Steven Welch, License Representative.
I hate you, Steven Welch, and hope you get ass-raped by a big, phucking grizzly. let me know if you smile after that......dick.
I went down there at 6:45AM this morning, Saturday. My wife had told me that when she got there at 7:15 the previous Saturday, she was 6th in line. I figured at 6:45, I would be first. I was wrong. I turned out to be 9th, which I think I should have gotten a participant ribbon for, similar to placing 9th out of 10 in a race. Yay...here is your ribbon, thanks for playing. The DMV opens at 8:30AM. I had time to kill. The guy next to me was a cool guy so we passed the time talking about how life sucks standing in line at the DMV, SPEAKING ENGLISH, while others are carrying on a conversation in a dialect I am not familiar with, but if I were I could be employed in just about any place in this stupid town. Sidetracked...sorry. Doors open. I had a utility bill, my social security card, my old license, me, keys, phone, a dead pheasant, a goose decoy (headless), some moccasins, and a rabbit's foot key chain. I figured with all this shit I should have no problem getting my license. I was number 001. SWEET! Guy at the counter, extremely happy his heart is beating, asks for three forms of identification. I gave him my old license, my social security card and the utility bill. He needs one more.
Strike one....
I asked him what I needed. Birth certificate, he says. I help up the dead pheasant. He shook his head. He said no to the decoy, the moccasins (that had my initials on them) and the decoy that said BRACK on it. Shit. He said go get something from list B (which none of the shit I trucked in there was on the list....my bad) and come to the window. I left, drove home and got a copy of the birth certificate. I returned to his window, handed him the CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH (copy) and he said great, but it isn't certified. Shit. I told him it was. He said it could be forged. Right, because I give two shits about having this license. I don't even really want to be me. Why would I make ME up?
Strike two...
I asked him what else would suffice. He said a rabbit's foo....OK, he didn't say that. He said anything from list B which he then handed me a copy of what is acceptable from that list. A yearbook photo. I have one of those. He said if I can look at your photo and then recognize you, it will work. Jesus, that was 18 years ago. If I did look the same, I would need to see a doctor, or sell the secret to eternal youth. In which case, I would buy this building and tear it down with you in it. I ran home, found the ONE copy of a certified birth certificate, obtained in 1985 for Little League to prove I was, in fact, a 12-year old Caucasian and not a 31-year old defector from Guatemala. I returned, hoping to God it would work as it was now 9:30AM. It did. I had my photo taken. I now know why people take shitty DMV photos. Smile? re you kidding? The hoop jumping did me in Steven Welch, License Representative.
I hate you, Steven Welch, and hope you get ass-raped by a big, phucking grizzly. let me know if you smile after that......dick.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The 'S' is Silent
Arkansas.
I have never been to Arkansas, but I can assure you that the 'S' at the end is silent. There is no Ark in Kansas, at least not to my knowledge. I actually heard a high school graduate state that the state with the highest level of poverty in the United States was ArkansaS, accentuating the "S" at the end. I looked at the person sitting to my left to validate if what I heard actually occurred. Sure enough, we both saw the same unicorn bound across the classroom. She had a hard time pronouncing Louisiana, saying "louis-iana," as if it was some Italian restaurant owned by someone named Lou. I was petrified. Maybe she was just nervous presenting her group's poster. Maybe she was confused, flashing back to reading the newest edition of people magazine. Maybe she is just an idiot. If it were me I would go with the latter.
I must go search for the Holy Grail in Kentucky. More later...
I have never been to Arkansas, but I can assure you that the 'S' at the end is silent. There is no Ark in Kansas, at least not to my knowledge. I actually heard a high school graduate state that the state with the highest level of poverty in the United States was ArkansaS, accentuating the "S" at the end. I looked at the person sitting to my left to validate if what I heard actually occurred. Sure enough, we both saw the same unicorn bound across the classroom. She had a hard time pronouncing Louisiana, saying "louis-iana," as if it was some Italian restaurant owned by someone named Lou. I was petrified. Maybe she was just nervous presenting her group's poster. Maybe she was confused, flashing back to reading the newest edition of people magazine. Maybe she is just an idiot. If it were me I would go with the latter.
I must go search for the Holy Grail in Kentucky. More later...
Friday, August 07, 2009
Bullshit Studies
Every now and again I see our tax dollars being spent on studies to determine the obvious. Low flying planes increae chances of air fatalities, or not buckling up might cause your body to go through the windshield. Overeating causes you to get fat...get the idea?
Here is a doozy. Exercising makes you hungrier. No shit. Really? The study shows, or was done to show how exercising might actually INCREASE the obesity problem in America because as people exercise they might over eat. Are you serious? Is that study really necessary? People are now concerned that they might get fatter by exercising. When did being in shape require so much thought. It is really simple math. Calories in - calories out = weight loss or gain. Period. End of story. It isn't a trick. There is no magic here. So why on God's green Earth are we spending money to over think the simple? Jesus, cure the common cold. Find a way for cancer to be controlled. Figure out why chronic diseases control over 40% of the American population. STOP SPENDING MY MONEY ON MATH EQUATIONS MY KIDS CAN DO!
Dear U.S. Government People that dish out money for studying shit,
I have an idea. I believe that if I get a control group of about 50 of my frien...err....random people off the street, I can determine the correlation between pot smoking, beer consumption and intelligence. Screw rats. I think people are the better option. I plan on disproving what "doctor types of people" think is "bad" for you. In order form me to do this I will need approximately $13.75 million dollars, about 500 bails of marijuana and 145 cases of Miller Genuine draft. Ice and a biggggg cooler. Oh, and I need some legal pads....and pens, and maybe one of those digital recorders to record information in. Beer in one hand, blunt in another....hard to write. Recorder is good.
Sincerely,
me.
P.S. - do you need an address?
Here is a doozy. Exercising makes you hungrier. No shit. Really? The study shows, or was done to show how exercising might actually INCREASE the obesity problem in America because as people exercise they might over eat. Are you serious? Is that study really necessary? People are now concerned that they might get fatter by exercising. When did being in shape require so much thought. It is really simple math. Calories in - calories out = weight loss or gain. Period. End of story. It isn't a trick. There is no magic here. So why on God's green Earth are we spending money to over think the simple? Jesus, cure the common cold. Find a way for cancer to be controlled. Figure out why chronic diseases control over 40% of the American population. STOP SPENDING MY MONEY ON MATH EQUATIONS MY KIDS CAN DO!
Dear U.S. Government People that dish out money for studying shit,
I have an idea. I believe that if I get a control group of about 50 of my frien...err....random people off the street, I can determine the correlation between pot smoking, beer consumption and intelligence. Screw rats. I think people are the better option. I plan on disproving what "doctor types of people" think is "bad" for you. In order form me to do this I will need approximately $13.75 million dollars, about 500 bails of marijuana and 145 cases of Miller Genuine draft. Ice and a biggggg cooler. Oh, and I need some legal pads....and pens, and maybe one of those digital recorders to record information in. Beer in one hand, blunt in another....hard to write. Recorder is good.
Sincerely,
me.
P.S. - do you need an address?
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
I'm Tired
I am tired. I am tired of a lot of things. Being sick. I got tired of that awhile ago although I am closer to being better than ever. I am tired of being a broke student again. This time its different because I have a family to support. I am tired of struggling to find things to make for dinner that everyone in my house will eat. That gets old. Although I know I need to do it. The last thing my wife needs to worry about after working a full day is trying to appease everyone. Role reversal. I guess I am tired of that too.
I am very tired of Jon and Kate. I don't care about what they and the 8 did anyway. Why would I care to see them try to entertain 8 kids on someone else's dime? All their shit got paid for. Trips, clothes, shoes, etc. It was all gifted to them. I don't care anymore. What else is there to learn? We all have opinions on how things went down with them, all of which doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe. I cannot believe that this show still carries an audience. I am tired of seeing Kate's spiked up buzz cut, if that is even possible. Just be a lesbian already.
I am tired of noticing that the most expensive cars obey the least amount of rules. For $50,000 you can purchase a vehicle that has dysfunctional turn signals, whose brakes do not work, whose gas pedal is constantly stuck at "on my ass," or who is immune to construction zone speed requirements. I always want to follow these people and see where they live so I can pour brake fluid on the hood of their car in the shape of a smiley face and watch the paint bubble up just before I leave.
I am tired of hearing Michael Jackson songs on the radio. I liked Michael Jackson back when he resembled a human being. His music was in, kind of like mullets. But now it is played mostly because the guy died. Sort of like Elvis I guess. One way to get out of debt is to die. Way to go Mike. I don't care if he was possibly murdered or whatever the new theory is on his cause of death. Just get it over with already. This is getting more play than Pamela Anderson's hepatitis. But that is a whole other story.
I am tired of my son's water wings. Sink or swim. You choose. But its time to lose the wings. Now he is only 4, and some might think that is too young to drown. Drowning has no age barrier. He has every right to drown like any other toddler. I fear he may be 13 before he has the confidence to take them off. By then, he would have already committed social suicide by coupling his water wings with a size medium swim diaper. Enough is enough.
I am tired of the tomato plant I have getting pecked at by birds more often than Lindsay Lohan's vagina. I didn't grow this bastard for the culinary enjoyment of every bird in the Tri-Cities area. I have no problem feeding the birds cracked corn. I don't eat the shit, so have at it. But I do eat tomatoes. So leave it alone before I release the cracken.
Last but not least, I am tired of the censoring of my own blog by the blog program. I can say shit, but I can't say .... That doesn't make any sense. .... that! If I want to say ...., shit, ...., pussy, ass, ....face, ....chop, or any other expletives, I should be able to do without being censored by my own damn blogger site. Its bullshit and its aggravating. ....ing stupid Internet. You can google porn all day but the minute you want to call someone a ....ing asshole, you can't do it. ....!
THat's all I have at the moment but that was just what hit me over the last 10 minutes. Maybe something will come to me this afternoon. Like the big clumps of hair that float around in our apartment pool. That is ....ing gross....especially when you don't see it until you pop up for air and feeling it like a ....ing cob web across your face. Tired of that too.
I am very tired of Jon and Kate. I don't care about what they and the 8 did anyway. Why would I care to see them try to entertain 8 kids on someone else's dime? All their shit got paid for. Trips, clothes, shoes, etc. It was all gifted to them. I don't care anymore. What else is there to learn? We all have opinions on how things went down with them, all of which doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe. I cannot believe that this show still carries an audience. I am tired of seeing Kate's spiked up buzz cut, if that is even possible. Just be a lesbian already.
I am tired of noticing that the most expensive cars obey the least amount of rules. For $50,000 you can purchase a vehicle that has dysfunctional turn signals, whose brakes do not work, whose gas pedal is constantly stuck at "on my ass," or who is immune to construction zone speed requirements. I always want to follow these people and see where they live so I can pour brake fluid on the hood of their car in the shape of a smiley face and watch the paint bubble up just before I leave.
I am tired of hearing Michael Jackson songs on the radio. I liked Michael Jackson back when he resembled a human being. His music was in, kind of like mullets. But now it is played mostly because the guy died. Sort of like Elvis I guess. One way to get out of debt is to die. Way to go Mike. I don't care if he was possibly murdered or whatever the new theory is on his cause of death. Just get it over with already. This is getting more play than Pamela Anderson's hepatitis. But that is a whole other story.
I am tired of my son's water wings. Sink or swim. You choose. But its time to lose the wings. Now he is only 4, and some might think that is too young to drown. Drowning has no age barrier. He has every right to drown like any other toddler. I fear he may be 13 before he has the confidence to take them off. By then, he would have already committed social suicide by coupling his water wings with a size medium swim diaper. Enough is enough.
I am tired of the tomato plant I have getting pecked at by birds more often than Lindsay Lohan's vagina. I didn't grow this bastard for the culinary enjoyment of every bird in the Tri-Cities area. I have no problem feeding the birds cracked corn. I don't eat the shit, so have at it. But I do eat tomatoes. So leave it alone before I release the cracken.
Last but not least, I am tired of the censoring of my own blog by the blog program. I can say shit, but I can't say .... That doesn't make any sense. .... that! If I want to say ...., shit, ...., pussy, ass, ....face, ....chop, or any other expletives, I should be able to do without being censored by my own damn blogger site. Its bullshit and its aggravating. ....ing stupid Internet. You can google porn all day but the minute you want to call someone a ....ing asshole, you can't do it. ....!
THat's all I have at the moment but that was just what hit me over the last 10 minutes. Maybe something will come to me this afternoon. Like the big clumps of hair that float around in our apartment pool. That is ....ing gross....especially when you don't see it until you pop up for air and feeling it like a ....ing cob web across your face. Tired of that too.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Holy Shiznit!
I need to write in this more. With everything that has been going on with my health it has made it nearly impossible. Hear, I beg and plead for people to follow the blog, they come, and nothing happens. it is like the reverse Field of Dreams....
BUILD IT AND NOTHING WILL HAPPEN
BAH! So here is my quick promise. I will post at least twice a week. My hope is they are twisted, bizarre, wry posts that will make you either fall out of your chair laughing, or cause you to ponder a stage in your life, past, present or future and rethink maybe something that you thought was once terrible but maybe wasnt as bad as what my mind goes through daily. Either way, I promise your life will be better in some form or fashion.
I must go for now, however. I need to go to a birthday party, the birthday person I do not know, the guest will be as foreign as money is to me at the moment, the alcohold flowing freely, knowing full well I cannot partake in....yes, so why am I going again.
Because I am married.
Happy wife, happy life.
BUILD IT AND NOTHING WILL HAPPEN
BAH! So here is my quick promise. I will post at least twice a week. My hope is they are twisted, bizarre, wry posts that will make you either fall out of your chair laughing, or cause you to ponder a stage in your life, past, present or future and rethink maybe something that you thought was once terrible but maybe wasnt as bad as what my mind goes through daily. Either way, I promise your life will be better in some form or fashion.
I must go for now, however. I need to go to a birthday party, the birthday person I do not know, the guest will be as foreign as money is to me at the moment, the alcohold flowing freely, knowing full well I cannot partake in....yes, so why am I going again.
Because I am married.
Happy wife, happy life.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Deep Rambles
I often feel like I have strayed in the way I have lived my life and that soon, hopefully very soon, I shall return from my banishment a better man. Unlike the story of The Prodigal Son, no one sent me on this perilous quest but myself. Yet, the rewards attained from the experiences shall be reaped by many. Again, this is a hope, not necessarily a fact. Usually, at least lately, hope is all I have had.
This entry was not motivated by anything. These words are being thought of on the fly with little thought put towards them prior to being spewn onto the web, but yet, somehow, in my heart of hearts, they are prolific in nature. Their meaning might only be familiar to me. Some may be able to relate to having been cast away by a loved one or loved ones, struggling to find the meaning of why, rather than simply being grateful for having the opportunity to realize the err in their ways. Yet, there may be some who have no idea why they are wandering aimlessly through life, wondering where the past two decades have gone. Kung Fu Panda is a silly kids movie, yet thee is a quote in there that states something about today being a gift, that is why they call it "a present." Today is truly a gift. Tomorrow is not even remotely on my mind. Often, however, I think back to yesterday wondering what I did to earn those todays of my past.
I am not sure what I have done to earn today. I got up this morning. I went about my life. Did I touch someone else's life? Did I make it memorable for anyone other than me? If I died today, what would people say about me? Would my journey away be remarkable in teaching me tangible things I can use to benefit OTHERS? I am not sure I have done that very well, at least not lately. Giving is truly a gift that has endless returns.
Time for class....
This entry was not motivated by anything. These words are being thought of on the fly with little thought put towards them prior to being spewn onto the web, but yet, somehow, in my heart of hearts, they are prolific in nature. Their meaning might only be familiar to me. Some may be able to relate to having been cast away by a loved one or loved ones, struggling to find the meaning of why, rather than simply being grateful for having the opportunity to realize the err in their ways. Yet, there may be some who have no idea why they are wandering aimlessly through life, wondering where the past two decades have gone. Kung Fu Panda is a silly kids movie, yet thee is a quote in there that states something about today being a gift, that is why they call it "a present." Today is truly a gift. Tomorrow is not even remotely on my mind. Often, however, I think back to yesterday wondering what I did to earn those todays of my past.
I am not sure what I have done to earn today. I got up this morning. I went about my life. Did I touch someone else's life? Did I make it memorable for anyone other than me? If I died today, what would people say about me? Would my journey away be remarkable in teaching me tangible things I can use to benefit OTHERS? I am not sure I have done that very well, at least not lately. Giving is truly a gift that has endless returns.
Time for class....
Friday, June 12, 2009
First Draft
Everything I write is a first draft. When I was in school, English teachers would tell the class to just start writing and not think about anything. The mind interferes with the transfer of the message. I could not agree more. I had to write this now. So many times I think of something, laying in bed, and think, "I will write that tomorrow," and then life happens. I can't do that with this one.
"The Pursuit of Happyness" is like my cinematic Ben and Jerry's. It is a love-hate thing. Now, I cannot recall the last time I had Ben and Jerry's, but I can remember the last time a movie passed along so many different messages. I recorded it so my 12-year old daughter can learn about perseverance. I write this so that maybe I can make sense of the tears that flow each and every time I watch that movie.
We all have hills to climb. Tall mountains and sometimes low valleys. Even though the year is about half over, I have climbed a lifetime of mountains. As much as I would like to retire my climbing shoes, I won't. I can't. There are too many lessons to be learned by the trials these escapades bring. Many times I felt like letting go of my grip and free falling, hoping that somewhere in the bottomless chasm we call life there would be a DO OVER; a children's climbing wall. The climbs get hard, and most times, you feel alone.
Through my trek up these mountains I have seen the power of support from all different angles. I have seen miracles, more than most can anticipate in many lifetimes. I wasn't sure I deserved any of it. It isn't a matter of what we deserve. It is human nature to think that we cannot move forward at the pace the mountain may beckon. It is the outside world whispering for us to take a break and relax knowing full well the momentum that has been built will fade away into the wind. I say no, as I have said for the last few months and whisper back, "fuck off and die."
Momentum. It is key to every adversity we face, often daily. Even a tumbleweed can climb a fence if it knows how to use momentum. Support creates momentum, from friends and family who know the capabilities of those in a struggle with the elements of life. We cannot give up on those we love or they will give up on the climb and surely perish. I have seen what support can do; those we love not whispering for us to give up and that the top is just a top. Nothing special, just an end destination. Whatever the end is, I will determine its importance in my life. I will reap its rewards because it is mine.
Our lives are a first draft. The words penned through action. Mistakes and victories all melded together into a never ending novel; a proverbial "Choose Your Own Adventure." The decisions we make will change the outcome of the story, long before it is published. Without the support of others, the story is short. It is like life. One moment, you live forever. The next moment, adversity cuts your rope, leaving you dangling on a toe hold.
What would you do?
"The Pursuit of Happyness" is like my cinematic Ben and Jerry's. It is a love-hate thing. Now, I cannot recall the last time I had Ben and Jerry's, but I can remember the last time a movie passed along so many different messages. I recorded it so my 12-year old daughter can learn about perseverance. I write this so that maybe I can make sense of the tears that flow each and every time I watch that movie.
We all have hills to climb. Tall mountains and sometimes low valleys. Even though the year is about half over, I have climbed a lifetime of mountains. As much as I would like to retire my climbing shoes, I won't. I can't. There are too many lessons to be learned by the trials these escapades bring. Many times I felt like letting go of my grip and free falling, hoping that somewhere in the bottomless chasm we call life there would be a DO OVER; a children's climbing wall. The climbs get hard, and most times, you feel alone.
Through my trek up these mountains I have seen the power of support from all different angles. I have seen miracles, more than most can anticipate in many lifetimes. I wasn't sure I deserved any of it. It isn't a matter of what we deserve. It is human nature to think that we cannot move forward at the pace the mountain may beckon. It is the outside world whispering for us to take a break and relax knowing full well the momentum that has been built will fade away into the wind. I say no, as I have said for the last few months and whisper back, "fuck off and die."
Momentum. It is key to every adversity we face, often daily. Even a tumbleweed can climb a fence if it knows how to use momentum. Support creates momentum, from friends and family who know the capabilities of those in a struggle with the elements of life. We cannot give up on those we love or they will give up on the climb and surely perish. I have seen what support can do; those we love not whispering for us to give up and that the top is just a top. Nothing special, just an end destination. Whatever the end is, I will determine its importance in my life. I will reap its rewards because it is mine.
Our lives are a first draft. The words penned through action. Mistakes and victories all melded together into a never ending novel; a proverbial "Choose Your Own Adventure." The decisions we make will change the outcome of the story, long before it is published. Without the support of others, the story is short. It is like life. One moment, you live forever. The next moment, adversity cuts your rope, leaving you dangling on a toe hold.
What would you do?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Dear Lindsay Lohan
Eat.
For the love of God, please...eat. Eat something other than your cig butts or used match sticks. Stop washing them down with Red Bull. I am getting tired of watching you deteriorate faster than Clay Aiken's career. I don't even really want to discuss your seemingly bizarre sexuality. You are as lost as Mike Vick at the humane society. If nothing else...grab a Jr. Bacon cheeseburger at any fast food joint for a buck. Hell, get two tacos for 99 cents. I fear that a wind could possibly take you far, far away.
Wait...no, this is bad. Have some lipids and wash it down with some Crisco. Put something back on your bones other than freckled skin. FYI....some freckles are OK. I now know where all of the sun spots have gone. Thin is in I guess but you are more than thin. You are the richest P.O.W. I have ever seen. People who starve themselves just aren't smart. Of course, seeing your movie script choices explains a lot about how manhole covers are NOT something you need to be walking close to.
People that look like you suffer from one of three things. First, they have an eating disorder. I am not sure if you are getting back at your parents by only eating bearded clam and drinking Red Bulls for all of the times they drug you to camp as a kid. Maybe that isn't the problem. Maybe you are #2...a drug addict? The difference between you and Amy Winehouse is at least you wipe your nose before saying hello to the paparazzi. Maybe you just suffer from dysentery, the third reason you currently rival a Sudanese mother of 14. Whatever the reason, all of the above require some sort of medical intervention. You have bucks. Hell, you can get this taken care of real fast. Ever seen the movie "Super Size Me?" Best movie ever. Better than "Parent Trap," or "Georgia Rule," or any of the other shallow, meaningless drivel that you have made throughout your movie "career."
Please, take a break from making my eyes bleed and eat. Do us all a favor so we can actually start considering you a 3D human. That would really make my day.
For the love of God, please...eat. Eat something other than your cig butts or used match sticks. Stop washing them down with Red Bull. I am getting tired of watching you deteriorate faster than Clay Aiken's career. I don't even really want to discuss your seemingly bizarre sexuality. You are as lost as Mike Vick at the humane society. If nothing else...grab a Jr. Bacon cheeseburger at any fast food joint for a buck. Hell, get two tacos for 99 cents. I fear that a wind could possibly take you far, far away.
Wait...no, this is bad. Have some lipids and wash it down with some Crisco. Put something back on your bones other than freckled skin. FYI....some freckles are OK. I now know where all of the sun spots have gone. Thin is in I guess but you are more than thin. You are the richest P.O.W. I have ever seen. People who starve themselves just aren't smart. Of course, seeing your movie script choices explains a lot about how manhole covers are NOT something you need to be walking close to.
People that look like you suffer from one of three things. First, they have an eating disorder. I am not sure if you are getting back at your parents by only eating bearded clam and drinking Red Bulls for all of the times they drug you to camp as a kid. Maybe that isn't the problem. Maybe you are #2...a drug addict? The difference between you and Amy Winehouse is at least you wipe your nose before saying hello to the paparazzi. Maybe you just suffer from dysentery, the third reason you currently rival a Sudanese mother of 14. Whatever the reason, all of the above require some sort of medical intervention. You have bucks. Hell, you can get this taken care of real fast. Ever seen the movie "Super Size Me?" Best movie ever. Better than "Parent Trap," or "Georgia Rule," or any of the other shallow, meaningless drivel that you have made throughout your movie "career."
Please, take a break from making my eyes bleed and eat. Do us all a favor so we can actually start considering you a 3D human. That would really make my day.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It Could Be Worse
Things could be worse. They could be a WHOLE LOT worse. Every morning, I go to Kadlec at 9:30AM for IV antibiotics. I go into the Outpatient Procedure office in the hospital, check in and am brought back into this horseshoe of about 9 rooms. Some are filled with recovering outpatient surgery folks. Others are there, I imagine, for treatments like mine. But in all reality, I have it pretty easy. I listen to people moaning in pain. I listen to rapid heart rates and nurses who are trying to empathize with patients telling them that having a catheter is just going to predispose the patient to possible infection. i remember that feeling. I remember the first day in the hospital needing assistance to pee in one of those plastic milk jugs because I couldn't do it alone. I PRAYED for a catheter, more or less so I could salvage some dignity. Wearing that gown is enough. I would have loved to simply pee on my own.
I have it pretty easy. I sit there. I sit there in silence sipping on my 7 ounce cup of water that I am graced with. The treatment is 45 minutes and I get to leave afterwards. I don't have to do anything but show up. I have a central line, inserted in the side of my bicep and the line is fed through a vein down towards my aorta. It is about 3 or 4 feet of fibrous tubing with 3 snake-like ports that dangle out of moy arm. Along with the luxury of ease of use for the antibiotics, it makes drawing blood easy. A phlebotomist is not allowed to touch me, which is great news being the last phlebotomist that did busted a vein in my hand because she was retarded. Maybe not legally, however, in my mind, I was glad she never came back.
What has all of this taught me? That is the $60,000 question. I suppose I always figured I would live forever. Like my Dad, I was going to be this young, virile male forever. With everything that happens in your life that cannot be controlled, it is imperative to control the things you can. The human body is a fascinating machine, really. It rights itself with sickness, only after doing everything it can to fix itself on its own. I was one point away from Kidney failure. I was close to dialysis. I was close to the kidneys simply shutting down. I gained 25 pounds in 2 weeks on a liquid diet. How does that happen? My body was retaining everything I was putting in, even if it was jello and broth. Low calories, low sodium, no excretion. That poses a problem. Brief explanation of GFR. Renal function is a number on a blood test. Anything lower than 15 is kidney failure. They like the number to be 60 and above. May 8, the day I was discharged, my number was 16. May 11, it was 22. Yesterday, it was 49. My kidneys work again. I lost the 25 pounds within a few days of coming home. Of course, it was at about 800 cc at a time. My bladder hates me.
Yes it could be worse. It could me much worse. Today is a new day. Just like tomorrow will be. I take care of what I can with each passing day. My hope is that the people I love do the same.
I have it pretty easy. I sit there. I sit there in silence sipping on my 7 ounce cup of water that I am graced with. The treatment is 45 minutes and I get to leave afterwards. I don't have to do anything but show up. I have a central line, inserted in the side of my bicep and the line is fed through a vein down towards my aorta. It is about 3 or 4 feet of fibrous tubing with 3 snake-like ports that dangle out of moy arm. Along with the luxury of ease of use for the antibiotics, it makes drawing blood easy. A phlebotomist is not allowed to touch me, which is great news being the last phlebotomist that did busted a vein in my hand because she was retarded. Maybe not legally, however, in my mind, I was glad she never came back.
What has all of this taught me? That is the $60,000 question. I suppose I always figured I would live forever. Like my Dad, I was going to be this young, virile male forever. With everything that happens in your life that cannot be controlled, it is imperative to control the things you can. The human body is a fascinating machine, really. It rights itself with sickness, only after doing everything it can to fix itself on its own. I was one point away from Kidney failure. I was close to dialysis. I was close to the kidneys simply shutting down. I gained 25 pounds in 2 weeks on a liquid diet. How does that happen? My body was retaining everything I was putting in, even if it was jello and broth. Low calories, low sodium, no excretion. That poses a problem. Brief explanation of GFR. Renal function is a number on a blood test. Anything lower than 15 is kidney failure. They like the number to be 60 and above. May 8, the day I was discharged, my number was 16. May 11, it was 22. Yesterday, it was 49. My kidneys work again. I lost the 25 pounds within a few days of coming home. Of course, it was at about 800 cc at a time. My bladder hates me.
Yes it could be worse. It could me much worse. Today is a new day. Just like tomorrow will be. I take care of what I can with each passing day. My hope is that the people I love do the same.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Stuff
'Tis the season of allergens! At least, that is what I hear. Having had several incisions in my abdomen over the last several weeks that are constantly on the mend, I must say that sneezes are not a welcome addition to my life right now. Sneezes hurt. There is nothing comfortable about them. Normally, I can sense a sneeze from a mile away. Over the last couple of days, however, I have had that "parent sneeze." You know the sneeze I am talking about. One moment you are inhaling and exhaling as usual and then **BAM**, here comes the sneeze on the exhale. Two of them, back to back, like TNT. I am having those. I hate those.
A while ago, I was worried about bowel movements. Not so much anymore, but now I have to be careful of sharting myself with these rogue sneezes. They come at the most inopportune times. Its like farting in church. You don't want to because there seems to be an unholy glow about those that pass gas close to an altar that all can see. People know that when there is an audible fart at the same time as a sneeze, the "shart waddle" is soon to follow. I guess that is what nurses are for....changing dirty bed linens. Not that I did that. I saw that on Grey's Anatomy recently I think.
It is good to be home. The kids make the hospital seem like a Sandal's Resort on occasion. The puppy (a Shitzu/Chihuahua mix) needs a good grave. Gus, the bullie seems to be glad I am home and loves the smell of scar tissue. I am back to doing the dishes and cooking the occasional meal as my body will allow. We bought a gas grill that needs some assembly. The wind is making that go further and further back on the priority trail. I can only sleep on my back at the moment as a drain on one side and a power PICC line on the other make rotating difficult. My blood levels are stabilizing......thank God. Prayer does work.
A while ago, I was worried about bowel movements. Not so much anymore, but now I have to be careful of sharting myself with these rogue sneezes. They come at the most inopportune times. Its like farting in church. You don't want to because there seems to be an unholy glow about those that pass gas close to an altar that all can see. People know that when there is an audible fart at the same time as a sneeze, the "shart waddle" is soon to follow. I guess that is what nurses are for....changing dirty bed linens. Not that I did that. I saw that on Grey's Anatomy recently I think.
It is good to be home. The kids make the hospital seem like a Sandal's Resort on occasion. The puppy (a Shitzu/Chihuahua mix) needs a good grave. Gus, the bullie seems to be glad I am home and loves the smell of scar tissue. I am back to doing the dishes and cooking the occasional meal as my body will allow. We bought a gas grill that needs some assembly. The wind is making that go further and further back on the priority trail. I can only sleep on my back at the moment as a drain on one side and a power PICC line on the other make rotating difficult. My blood levels are stabilizing......thank God. Prayer does work.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
My Hospital Stay
On Friday, 4/24, I went in to my general surgeon's office to have my staples removed from my gall bladder incisions. I had been in a lot of pain, walking hunched over, having a hard time breathing and discussed thi with y doc at the appointment. My stomach was firm; too firm to be good news. Kind of like Baywatch without the hotness. I had some blood work done and had a CT scan scheduled for the following Monday. When the blood work came back, my white blood cell count was at 28,000, and I was having the CT immediately.
They found an absess and an air pocket in my abdomen. I went in for surgery Saturday to get cleaned out. A lot of my organs had stuck together and peeling them apart caused a lot of inflamation...A LOT of inflamation. So, I have been fighting this bacteria in my gut for a week, the antibiotics messing with my kidney function (creatnine levels are rising). I found out today that my white blood cell count went from 13,700 yesterday to 16,000. Not sure why. No one knows why. I am just a medical mystery at the moment.
I will try to keep you all posted as things happen.
They found an absess and an air pocket in my abdomen. I went in for surgery Saturday to get cleaned out. A lot of my organs had stuck together and peeling them apart caused a lot of inflamation...A LOT of inflamation. So, I have been fighting this bacteria in my gut for a week, the antibiotics messing with my kidney function (creatnine levels are rising). I found out today that my white blood cell count went from 13,700 yesterday to 16,000. Not sure why. No one knows why. I am just a medical mystery at the moment.
I will try to keep you all posted as things happen.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Things We Take for Granted
I believe we all take certain things for granted, always assuming that these "things" in our lives will always be there to sustain us. Remember, life is finite. It will end, whether we are ready for it to end or not. I have taken a lot of things for granted. One in particular I felt the need to mention in a post today.
Bowel movements.
Growing up, every time I farted, my Dad would ask me if I needed to move my bowels. I always said no based on the fact they way he asked me sound too medieval to be an actual question. I dump, you dump. NO ONE moves there bowels. Of course, as I got older, I ask my 4-year old son the same thing after every time flatulence attacks his innards. He answers the same way I did, having no clue what I had just asked him.
Gall bladder surgery is a non-invasive procedure, or at least it is labeled as such. However, regardless of the 4 tiny incisions, the ports that were put and and the tissue that was interrupted leaves a lot left to be desired. There is a considerable amount of pain there, and it radiates to m back directly behind my gall-bladderless mid-section. Of course, they also removed a lymph node the size of a quarter too so I cannot imagine that was too comfortable on the ol' body. My doctor and discharge nurse both told me that when I got home, I would be moving my bowels. That was as anticipatory as expecting a yard full of Yaks camped outside of my apartment. Yes, I said, I know. The nurse kind of rolled her eyes and said that it would not be as easy as I thought. Whatever...I am as regular as black coffee. How hard can it be. I had no idea.
I was prescribed a stool softener, as well as took some Metamucil9 both loaded with insoluble, BULK PRODUCING, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY MUDSLIDE makers. Regardless of the food intake, I was sure the fiber wanted out. I came home Thursday. Remember, my body had not digested food properly for 15 years. The surgeon also pumped some gas into my belly to separate the organs forgetting that aspirating the gas may help down the road. Thursday night, I took some Metamucil and stool softeners just to get the process started. I also ate a cup and a half of beef barley soup figuring the barley would love to join the fiber party in my colon. Percocet causes constipation. DOH. Something had to give, and it wasn't my sphincter. Friday came and went. The only progress was the apparent fermentation going on in my large intestine. I was burping and farting like a frat boy. I took more Metamucil. I ate more soup (1/2 cup), still nothing really wanted to move. I brought magazines, zebras (to count the stripes), sloths (because they can't escape the smell) and anything else I thought may help expedite this problem. Friday came and went, all without dropping a deuce. The pressure was building. My blue eyes were turning brown.
Saturday. This had to be the day, right? 48 hours after surgery made sense. For breakfast, I had some Metamucil, thinking that maybe as my body woke up, so would the bowel train. Nothing. I had some oatmeal....more fiber. Still nothing. I would have eaten raisins had the sugar content not sent me into a diabetic coma. I couldn't figure out if it was the lymphoma or the backed up internal septic system that was producing the "sweat for no reason" phenomena. I stayed somewhat on my feet to keep blood from settling but also to let gravity pull on the snake lodged in my digestive tract. Still nothing. Bye bye shitless weekend.
Sunday. I prayed. This time I didn't pray for a speedy recovery, or a tame cancer, I prayed that just this once God would let me have a Dumb and Dumber shit. A violent, spewing cascade of feces. Please God let it happen. I am beginning to hurt here. Even if it doesn't make the pain go away, PLEASE LET ME BE REGULAR AGAIN!!!!!!! Amen. Sure enough, within about 15 minutes the Percocet-ridden cork was released followed by the longest piece of fibrous fecal matter I have ever seen. I felt these gas pains just fall away. Urine came from nowhere as if feeling left out. The pressure was leaving, one rope at a time. I am exclaiming victory, my kids staring at me like they should be excited, but cannot understand why me on the toilet requires celebration. My wife did not understand my sense of joy either. But I was happy as a clam. All I had left to do was wipe...which requires twisting in the mid-section, which causes me to lose my breath.
And this was a totally uncalculated difficulty I forgot to pray about...and possibly a different blog post!
Bowel movements.
Growing up, every time I farted, my Dad would ask me if I needed to move my bowels. I always said no based on the fact they way he asked me sound too medieval to be an actual question. I dump, you dump. NO ONE moves there bowels. Of course, as I got older, I ask my 4-year old son the same thing after every time flatulence attacks his innards. He answers the same way I did, having no clue what I had just asked him.
Gall bladder surgery is a non-invasive procedure, or at least it is labeled as such. However, regardless of the 4 tiny incisions, the ports that were put and and the tissue that was interrupted leaves a lot left to be desired. There is a considerable amount of pain there, and it radiates to m back directly behind my gall-bladderless mid-section. Of course, they also removed a lymph node the size of a quarter too so I cannot imagine that was too comfortable on the ol' body. My doctor and discharge nurse both told me that when I got home, I would be moving my bowels. That was as anticipatory as expecting a yard full of Yaks camped outside of my apartment. Yes, I said, I know. The nurse kind of rolled her eyes and said that it would not be as easy as I thought. Whatever...I am as regular as black coffee. How hard can it be. I had no idea.
I was prescribed a stool softener, as well as took some Metamucil9 both loaded with insoluble, BULK PRODUCING, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY MUDSLIDE makers. Regardless of the food intake, I was sure the fiber wanted out. I came home Thursday. Remember, my body had not digested food properly for 15 years. The surgeon also pumped some gas into my belly to separate the organs forgetting that aspirating the gas may help down the road. Thursday night, I took some Metamucil and stool softeners just to get the process started. I also ate a cup and a half of beef barley soup figuring the barley would love to join the fiber party in my colon. Percocet causes constipation. DOH. Something had to give, and it wasn't my sphincter. Friday came and went. The only progress was the apparent fermentation going on in my large intestine. I was burping and farting like a frat boy. I took more Metamucil. I ate more soup (1/2 cup), still nothing really wanted to move. I brought magazines, zebras (to count the stripes), sloths (because they can't escape the smell) and anything else I thought may help expedite this problem. Friday came and went, all without dropping a deuce. The pressure was building. My blue eyes were turning brown.
Saturday. This had to be the day, right? 48 hours after surgery made sense. For breakfast, I had some Metamucil, thinking that maybe as my body woke up, so would the bowel train. Nothing. I had some oatmeal....more fiber. Still nothing. I would have eaten raisins had the sugar content not sent me into a diabetic coma. I couldn't figure out if it was the lymphoma or the backed up internal septic system that was producing the "sweat for no reason" phenomena. I stayed somewhat on my feet to keep blood from settling but also to let gravity pull on the snake lodged in my digestive tract. Still nothing. Bye bye shitless weekend.
Sunday. I prayed. This time I didn't pray for a speedy recovery, or a tame cancer, I prayed that just this once God would let me have a Dumb and Dumber shit. A violent, spewing cascade of feces. Please God let it happen. I am beginning to hurt here. Even if it doesn't make the pain go away, PLEASE LET ME BE REGULAR AGAIN!!!!!!! Amen. Sure enough, within about 15 minutes the Percocet-ridden cork was released followed by the longest piece of fibrous fecal matter I have ever seen. I felt these gas pains just fall away. Urine came from nowhere as if feeling left out. The pressure was leaving, one rope at a time. I am exclaiming victory, my kids staring at me like they should be excited, but cannot understand why me on the toilet requires celebration. My wife did not understand my sense of joy either. But I was happy as a clam. All I had left to do was wipe...which requires twisting in the mid-section, which causes me to lose my breath.
And this was a totally uncalculated difficulty I forgot to pray about...and possibly a different blog post!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I Have Cancer
Odd to think, let alone type. The kind of cancer I have is unknown at this point. Am I afraid? Not really. Shocked is a good word I suppose. Of course, I have not taken care of myself over the past 15 years or so. Anyone who saw me at the Hall of Fame induction ceremony could see that.
That was almost 70 pounds ago. Some would say, "WOW, way to go!" However, I was sick. Cancer loves calories. In a twisted way, tumors are like newborns that steal calories from the host (me) and nutrients to grow. At first I thought it was diabetes. That causes you to lose weight for no reason. Maybe it was a combination of both. I am not sure.
Lymphoma has many sub-groups. The node they took out was about the size of a quarter. Normally they are the size of the tip of your pinkie finger. The doctor took it to the lab for the pathologist to cut it open. No doubt it was cancerous. But won't know what kind of lymphoma until next week sometime. If they can find out what it is locally, that is the best news. That means it is common and not rare. In my mind rare would be bad. So I have something to say to my cancer, and I thought it would make a great blog post.
Dear Cancer,
I will beat you.
I won't you get me because I have too much to live for. I have two beautiful daughters I want to walk down the aisle. I want to teach them about real men and how they should be treated by them. I have a son that I need to keep out of trouble and show what it means to respect a woman. I have a wife who I adore to no end. I have plans that you don't fit in to. So even though you have anchored yourself in my body, don't get to comfortable. My spirit alone will make you hate being here. You are simply going to be spinning your wheels. I will break you long before you break me.
You might put up a fight, but my fight is going to be much bigger than yours, no matter how sick you might make me. I am more patient than you. I can wait you out until you have nothing left. Your attitude is not stronger than my will to live. Don't think that will change.
I won't tell you to leave just yet. You can hang around for as long as you want. Just now that before you get to me, you will die. It is not my time.
That was almost 70 pounds ago. Some would say, "WOW, way to go!" However, I was sick. Cancer loves calories. In a twisted way, tumors are like newborns that steal calories from the host (me) and nutrients to grow. At first I thought it was diabetes. That causes you to lose weight for no reason. Maybe it was a combination of both. I am not sure.
Lymphoma has many sub-groups. The node they took out was about the size of a quarter. Normally they are the size of the tip of your pinkie finger. The doctor took it to the lab for the pathologist to cut it open. No doubt it was cancerous. But won't know what kind of lymphoma until next week sometime. If they can find out what it is locally, that is the best news. That means it is common and not rare. In my mind rare would be bad. So I have something to say to my cancer, and I thought it would make a great blog post.
Dear Cancer,
I will beat you.
I won't you get me because I have too much to live for. I have two beautiful daughters I want to walk down the aisle. I want to teach them about real men and how they should be treated by them. I have a son that I need to keep out of trouble and show what it means to respect a woman. I have a wife who I adore to no end. I have plans that you don't fit in to. So even though you have anchored yourself in my body, don't get to comfortable. My spirit alone will make you hate being here. You are simply going to be spinning your wheels. I will break you long before you break me.
You might put up a fight, but my fight is going to be much bigger than yours, no matter how sick you might make me. I am more patient than you. I can wait you out until you have nothing left. Your attitude is not stronger than my will to live. Don't think that will change.
I won't tell you to leave just yet. You can hang around for as long as you want. Just now that before you get to me, you will die. It is not my time.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Life is Finite
Sometimes I get deep. Sometimes the depth amazes those who know me the best. This is one of those moments. I had mentioned that the humor in my posts would someday return. Today is not that day. It seems that God has caused me to reflect on my life over the past few weeks and come to some realizations that I possibly have ignored over time. The last couple of days, I have had an epiphany of sorts.
Life is finite.
The sooner one comes to this realization, the easier it is to deal with how you live your life. As I have stated in the past, I am not afraid of my future, as the control was passed on to someone else. I thought I would hate to have given that control away. In some ways, I am reluctant to do so. Growing up I thought I would live forever, without consequences for the choices I made. In the same breath, I don't regret anything I have done. It is all part of a master plan. I am simply along for the ride.
Life endures for a limited time only.
We have a period of time we are granted. How you take advantage of that time is entirely up to the individual. I can only hope that my time is not now. If the doctor tells me something that changes the OUTCOME, it will not change my OUTLOOK. I pray. I think of everything I could have possibly done to make my health a non-issue, and I realize that everything we do impacts tomorrow. Right now, right here, I can only make choices with consequences I can deal with. Life is a gift, not a right. Just like having a driver's license, I suppose. A poor analogy, maybe, but relevant, regardless.
We all want the best. Sometimes we want the best of everything. I am not sure I have ever been the type to want the best for myself, rather, I want the best for those I love. A better life, better opportunities, and a better outcome to whatever they choose to do. I have learned that being happy with what I have and not upset for the things I DON'T have is a great way to look at things. I have a house in Idaho I may lose. I don't care, or I don't care as much as I should simply because the people that were in it with me are with me now. I don't lose them if the house were to go away. I have them close by. That is important. It was then, and it always will be. Love your family. Even if some of that family is living on the edge. In the end, family is all we have left.
Life is measurable.
How would you measure your life to date? Are you satisfied? What do you regret if anything? Regardless of life's finite characteristics, it is still measurable. It is more than the glass being half full or half empty. It is about something being in the glass. Period. Will the contents of the glass be enough of a memory? My heart is my glass, my 'cup' if you will. I can say with complete comfort that my 'cup' runeth over. Love and support is everything. It is not the amount of money you have, the possessions you have (which will ultimately own you), the things which you wish to covet; it is about the here and now. It is the things you look forward to in the morning that most can take for granted. It is the air you breathe. It is the vehicle that makes you want to go forward every day. It is the bonds of family and friend that cannot break and will not bend. Those are the ties that hold you up when you no longer have the strength to go it alone.
It is your life. You have one to live. Live it well.
Life is finite.
The sooner one comes to this realization, the easier it is to deal with how you live your life. As I have stated in the past, I am not afraid of my future, as the control was passed on to someone else. I thought I would hate to have given that control away. In some ways, I am reluctant to do so. Growing up I thought I would live forever, without consequences for the choices I made. In the same breath, I don't regret anything I have done. It is all part of a master plan. I am simply along for the ride.
Life endures for a limited time only.
We have a period of time we are granted. How you take advantage of that time is entirely up to the individual. I can only hope that my time is not now. If the doctor tells me something that changes the OUTCOME, it will not change my OUTLOOK. I pray. I think of everything I could have possibly done to make my health a non-issue, and I realize that everything we do impacts tomorrow. Right now, right here, I can only make choices with consequences I can deal with. Life is a gift, not a right. Just like having a driver's license, I suppose. A poor analogy, maybe, but relevant, regardless.
We all want the best. Sometimes we want the best of everything. I am not sure I have ever been the type to want the best for myself, rather, I want the best for those I love. A better life, better opportunities, and a better outcome to whatever they choose to do. I have learned that being happy with what I have and not upset for the things I DON'T have is a great way to look at things. I have a house in Idaho I may lose. I don't care, or I don't care as much as I should simply because the people that were in it with me are with me now. I don't lose them if the house were to go away. I have them close by. That is important. It was then, and it always will be. Love your family. Even if some of that family is living on the edge. In the end, family is all we have left.
Life is measurable.
How would you measure your life to date? Are you satisfied? What do you regret if anything? Regardless of life's finite characteristics, it is still measurable. It is more than the glass being half full or half empty. It is about something being in the glass. Period. Will the contents of the glass be enough of a memory? My heart is my glass, my 'cup' if you will. I can say with complete comfort that my 'cup' runeth over. Love and support is everything. It is not the amount of money you have, the possessions you have (which will ultimately own you), the things which you wish to covet; it is about the here and now. It is the things you look forward to in the morning that most can take for granted. It is the air you breathe. It is the vehicle that makes you want to go forward every day. It is the bonds of family and friend that cannot break and will not bend. Those are the ties that hold you up when you no longer have the strength to go it alone.
It is your life. You have one to live. Live it well.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Symptomatic
A lot of people have asked me what my symptoms were leading up to my diagnosis, at least my initial diagnosis of a gall stone.
Back in 1994 I had some God awful stomach pains that bent me over something fierce. My first thought was my appendix, but where these pains were (just below the sternum, under the ribs, middle of torso) did not follow the normal location of an inflamed appendix. I went to emergency room where I got to experience the euphoria of Morphine. I now know why people become addicted to that drug. The pain went away and I drifted off to sleep. Although, when I woke back up a couple of hours later, I was still in immense pain. Doctors figured maybe I had an ulcer. So I got to drink some barium sulfate which, back then tasted like dog shit. They gave me an ultrasound, sure to find a perforation in my intestine. Nothing. My white blood cell count was high indicating infection, but they couldn't locate any infection to speak of. I spent the night in the hospital, not knowing what was going on. The following day I was discharged with instructions to exercise and stop drinking coffee. Nice. Modern medicine at its finest.
For the next 15 years, once or twice a year, I would have these pains and would just take the next 4-6 hours and deal with it. I would usually just lay down in the fetal position, or rock back and forth (ala Rainman), sweat, and it would pass. I wasn't about ready to go to the hospital again and find out there was nothing wrong. Remember, this began in 1994.
Fast forward to December of 2007. After I moved here in August of the same year, my parents told me that I needed to go to the doctor if for nothing else to get a base line on my medical life. I dreaded that having gained a ton of weight (figuratively speaking) and basically dreading doctors. I didn't want to know the truth. I didn't want to know I was most likely pre-diabetic, or my blood pressure was skewed, that I could not get on a normal scale...I didn't want to know any of it. I had fought bouts of depression over my declining condition for years. I knew I was in bad shape, but I figured I didn't want to know how bad. When my Dad told me that he feared I would die before him, it opened my eyes a bit to how people really saw me. So I went, kicking and screaming.
December of 2007, my blood glucose level was 101. Two tests over 121 indicate diabetes. At this point I was pre-diabetic, or what they call having "metabolic syndrome." I was prescribed Metformin (turns off liver production of glucose) and told to eat more fish, chicken and vegetables. My blood pressure was 150/90 which is hypertensive. I was prescribed Lisinopril which is a diuretic, meant to rid the blood of excess fluid to "thin" it out. Lose weight and eat better and all of this should go away. I hired Mrs. B (my Mom) to do some cooking for me. prepackaged vacuum sealed meals that were part of what the doctor required. I got a membership at CBRC. I worked out, I ate better. I lost a few pounds. Still, not much was changing.
May of 2008, I went back. Glucose was at 111, liver enzymes were slightly elevated indicating the liver was stressed about something. White blood cell count was slightly elevated, indicating infection. My blood pressure was better 130/80-ish. But something was screwing with my body's ability to metabolize glucose. No other changes were made other than to keep exercising.
I was laid off in September of 2008 and no insurance. I would not go back in to see my doctor until I had found gainful employment. I was hired at the Tri-City Herald in November, benefits effective January 1, 2009. I planned on going back to see him again ASAP after that date.
In February, I started feeling incredibly thirsty. I was drinking copious amounts of water. I couldn't get enough of it. I noticed I was losing weight rapidly, no matter what I ate. I would lose sometimes up to 4 pounds a day. I figured it had to do with walking 2-3 miles a day and eating better. I was up all might, every hour, going to the bathroom. I would have to go ALL THE TIME. My vision started getting blurry. My wife told me I probably needed to go see the doc. So I did. My glucose was at 365. My A1C test (measures blood glucose over a 3 month period) was at 15% (384). Normal is 7% or less. My liver enzymes were again elevated to an ungodly level. This was more serious. Kidneys were slightly damaged due to spilling the excess glucose through my urinary tract. Vision was bad due to the body's fight to flush the excess glucose from the capillaries in my eyes. I was getting a little nervous.
The gall stone they found had been growing since 1994. Every time I had pain, the stone had traveled from the gall bladder down to the bile duct. When the pain was gone, it had floated from the bile duct back to the gall bladder. Every time it traveled, it got bigger. Finally, it occluded my bile duct completely, causing the bilirubin to accumulate and turn me yellow. That was when the story that most of you have read, began.
I didn't have a whole lot of symptoms until they found the stone, other than the diabetes. My liver, not able to function properly, was producing glucose 24/7. The food I ate was creating more glucose. My pancreas could not excrete insulin fast enough. Part of me thinks that the liver has not been functioning properly for years. Maybe this will go away with time. I am prepared for it not to, however. To me, the diabetes and jaundice were a blessing in disguise. They found other things in there, mainly the spot on my spleen and the swollen lymph nodes. I pray, as you all do, that this is something that can be treated. A lot of things can be treated these days. I am more impressed with medicine now that I was 15 years ago. I now know how important it is to simply get checked out, at least annually if nothing odd appears on the blood tests. SEE YOU DOCTOR! It is easier to do than I have ever made it out to myself. I always thought they simply want to make a buck like anyone else and will diagnose you with Scarlet Fever so they can prescribe something. Not true. I cannot stress it enough. Especially if you have insurance. $20 and you know, at least know that nothing is wrong.
One of these days, the humor in my posts will return. I promise you that. I can talk about hospital gowns someday. Those are as flattering as Speedo.
Back in 1994 I had some God awful stomach pains that bent me over something fierce. My first thought was my appendix, but where these pains were (just below the sternum, under the ribs, middle of torso) did not follow the normal location of an inflamed appendix. I went to emergency room where I got to experience the euphoria of Morphine. I now know why people become addicted to that drug. The pain went away and I drifted off to sleep. Although, when I woke back up a couple of hours later, I was still in immense pain. Doctors figured maybe I had an ulcer. So I got to drink some barium sulfate which, back then tasted like dog shit. They gave me an ultrasound, sure to find a perforation in my intestine. Nothing. My white blood cell count was high indicating infection, but they couldn't locate any infection to speak of. I spent the night in the hospital, not knowing what was going on. The following day I was discharged with instructions to exercise and stop drinking coffee. Nice. Modern medicine at its finest.
For the next 15 years, once or twice a year, I would have these pains and would just take the next 4-6 hours and deal with it. I would usually just lay down in the fetal position, or rock back and forth (ala Rainman), sweat, and it would pass. I wasn't about ready to go to the hospital again and find out there was nothing wrong. Remember, this began in 1994.
Fast forward to December of 2007. After I moved here in August of the same year, my parents told me that I needed to go to the doctor if for nothing else to get a base line on my medical life. I dreaded that having gained a ton of weight (figuratively speaking) and basically dreading doctors. I didn't want to know the truth. I didn't want to know I was most likely pre-diabetic, or my blood pressure was skewed, that I could not get on a normal scale...I didn't want to know any of it. I had fought bouts of depression over my declining condition for years. I knew I was in bad shape, but I figured I didn't want to know how bad. When my Dad told me that he feared I would die before him, it opened my eyes a bit to how people really saw me. So I went, kicking and screaming.
December of 2007, my blood glucose level was 101. Two tests over 121 indicate diabetes. At this point I was pre-diabetic, or what they call having "metabolic syndrome." I was prescribed Metformin (turns off liver production of glucose) and told to eat more fish, chicken and vegetables. My blood pressure was 150/90 which is hypertensive. I was prescribed Lisinopril which is a diuretic, meant to rid the blood of excess fluid to "thin" it out. Lose weight and eat better and all of this should go away. I hired Mrs. B (my Mom) to do some cooking for me. prepackaged vacuum sealed meals that were part of what the doctor required. I got a membership at CBRC. I worked out, I ate better. I lost a few pounds. Still, not much was changing.
May of 2008, I went back. Glucose was at 111, liver enzymes were slightly elevated indicating the liver was stressed about something. White blood cell count was slightly elevated, indicating infection. My blood pressure was better 130/80-ish. But something was screwing with my body's ability to metabolize glucose. No other changes were made other than to keep exercising.
I was laid off in September of 2008 and no insurance. I would not go back in to see my doctor until I had found gainful employment. I was hired at the Tri-City Herald in November, benefits effective January 1, 2009. I planned on going back to see him again ASAP after that date.
In February, I started feeling incredibly thirsty. I was drinking copious amounts of water. I couldn't get enough of it. I noticed I was losing weight rapidly, no matter what I ate. I would lose sometimes up to 4 pounds a day. I figured it had to do with walking 2-3 miles a day and eating better. I was up all might, every hour, going to the bathroom. I would have to go ALL THE TIME. My vision started getting blurry. My wife told me I probably needed to go see the doc. So I did. My glucose was at 365. My A1C test (measures blood glucose over a 3 month period) was at 15% (384). Normal is 7% or less. My liver enzymes were again elevated to an ungodly level. This was more serious. Kidneys were slightly damaged due to spilling the excess glucose through my urinary tract. Vision was bad due to the body's fight to flush the excess glucose from the capillaries in my eyes. I was getting a little nervous.
The gall stone they found had been growing since 1994. Every time I had pain, the stone had traveled from the gall bladder down to the bile duct. When the pain was gone, it had floated from the bile duct back to the gall bladder. Every time it traveled, it got bigger. Finally, it occluded my bile duct completely, causing the bilirubin to accumulate and turn me yellow. That was when the story that most of you have read, began.
I didn't have a whole lot of symptoms until they found the stone, other than the diabetes. My liver, not able to function properly, was producing glucose 24/7. The food I ate was creating more glucose. My pancreas could not excrete insulin fast enough. Part of me thinks that the liver has not been functioning properly for years. Maybe this will go away with time. I am prepared for it not to, however. To me, the diabetes and jaundice were a blessing in disguise. They found other things in there, mainly the spot on my spleen and the swollen lymph nodes. I pray, as you all do, that this is something that can be treated. A lot of things can be treated these days. I am more impressed with medicine now that I was 15 years ago. I now know how important it is to simply get checked out, at least annually if nothing odd appears on the blood tests. SEE YOU DOCTOR! It is easier to do than I have ever made it out to myself. I always thought they simply want to make a buck like anyone else and will diagnose you with Scarlet Fever so they can prescribe something. Not true. I cannot stress it enough. Especially if you have insurance. $20 and you know, at least know that nothing is wrong.
One of these days, the humor in my posts will return. I promise you that. I can talk about hospital gowns someday. Those are as flattering as Speedo.
Monday, April 06, 2009
God is Good
When I turned 36, I figured that it would be just like any other birthday. After a certain age, parties and celebrations about aging seem to fall by the way side similar to libido and yard work. This year, I got a great gift. Quite colorful and unique.
I got jaundice.
Jaundice as a baby makes sense. It takes some time for the organs to realize that it is time to function on their own without the help of the womb. Jaundice as an adult is a tad different. At first, it was kind of interesting to have people stare at you for no apparent reason. I didn't know I was as yellow as I was since my vision was skewed. Right....I forgot to tell you that I also got another gift this birthday.
I got diabetes.
So, unlike birthdays past, I got a gift I will have forever. Like a diamond and about as expensive in monthly installments for medication and glucose testing supplies. However, jaundice plus diabetes in an adult has a number of diagnoses. Google DIABETES and JAUNDICE and you will get to read about pancreatic cancer. All of my symptoms were there. If nothing else, this eternal gift of diabetes was kind of nice since my body could not burn sugar, it had to burn fat for energy. Hell, I had plenty of that. I lost 60 pounds in about 3 months. However, so do cancer patients. I was a little worried. So, on to my next two gifts this year.
I got an ultrasound and a CT scan with iodine contrast.
Two masses were spotted. One on my pancreas and one on my spleen. Shit. The Internet could be right for once. So I was referred to a specialist, a gastroenterologist named Dr. Vong. That is short for his full LAST name that contained more consonants than vowels. He reviewed all of my tests; blood work, CT and ultrasound and decided that I needed to be scoped. This is a rather non-invasive procedure. I assume that it was non-invasive for two reasons. One, he told me so and second, I was zonked through the procedure and unaware I had 24 inches of camera-tipped cord down my throat. After the procedure, he told me I had an Easter egg sized stone in my bile duct that had been there for years. He was going to remove it the next day that same way he found it, by shoving a cord down my throat. I asked him if I could keep it like Tom Hank's kept Wilson in 'Cast Away.' No dice.
Here is the part that baffles me. The stone is removed, my liver returns from strike. I have a stint keeping my bile duct open since there may be more stones up there. I get pink skin again. I stop excreting orange crush through my urine (excess bilirubin) and find out I need to have my gall bladder out. The doctor who was going to do it came by to see me the morning after my surgery. He told me straight out that the mass on my spleen is still an issue, as are the swollen lymph nodes that surround my liver and even though I have solved one problem, I may have lymphoma. He won't know until they get in there and do a biopsy. This will happen next week.
So I may get a new hair-do for my next present. I may have even more weight loss and some nausea. The part that baffles me is I am not afraid of it. I am not afraid of any of it. It is out of my hands. There is nothing I can do to stop what may come. All I can do is make the most out of what I am doing TODAY. I deal with my diabetes daily. I monitor, eat, monitor, study, monitor, eat, drink, medicate, repeat. That part is kind of nice since I am now involved in my own prognosis. Out of everything that has happened I got the best gift of all.
Awareness.
Amen Brother.
I got jaundice.
Jaundice as a baby makes sense. It takes some time for the organs to realize that it is time to function on their own without the help of the womb. Jaundice as an adult is a tad different. At first, it was kind of interesting to have people stare at you for no apparent reason. I didn't know I was as yellow as I was since my vision was skewed. Right....I forgot to tell you that I also got another gift this birthday.
I got diabetes.
So, unlike birthdays past, I got a gift I will have forever. Like a diamond and about as expensive in monthly installments for medication and glucose testing supplies. However, jaundice plus diabetes in an adult has a number of diagnoses. Google DIABETES and JAUNDICE and you will get to read about pancreatic cancer. All of my symptoms were there. If nothing else, this eternal gift of diabetes was kind of nice since my body could not burn sugar, it had to burn fat for energy. Hell, I had plenty of that. I lost 60 pounds in about 3 months. However, so do cancer patients. I was a little worried. So, on to my next two gifts this year.
I got an ultrasound and a CT scan with iodine contrast.
Two masses were spotted. One on my pancreas and one on my spleen. Shit. The Internet could be right for once. So I was referred to a specialist, a gastroenterologist named Dr. Vong. That is short for his full LAST name that contained more consonants than vowels. He reviewed all of my tests; blood work, CT and ultrasound and decided that I needed to be scoped. This is a rather non-invasive procedure. I assume that it was non-invasive for two reasons. One, he told me so and second, I was zonked through the procedure and unaware I had 24 inches of camera-tipped cord down my throat. After the procedure, he told me I had an Easter egg sized stone in my bile duct that had been there for years. He was going to remove it the next day that same way he found it, by shoving a cord down my throat. I asked him if I could keep it like Tom Hank's kept Wilson in 'Cast Away.' No dice.
Here is the part that baffles me. The stone is removed, my liver returns from strike. I have a stint keeping my bile duct open since there may be more stones up there. I get pink skin again. I stop excreting orange crush through my urine (excess bilirubin) and find out I need to have my gall bladder out. The doctor who was going to do it came by to see me the morning after my surgery. He told me straight out that the mass on my spleen is still an issue, as are the swollen lymph nodes that surround my liver and even though I have solved one problem, I may have lymphoma. He won't know until they get in there and do a biopsy. This will happen next week.
So I may get a new hair-do for my next present. I may have even more weight loss and some nausea. The part that baffles me is I am not afraid of it. I am not afraid of any of it. It is out of my hands. There is nothing I can do to stop what may come. All I can do is make the most out of what I am doing TODAY. I deal with my diabetes daily. I monitor, eat, monitor, study, monitor, eat, drink, medicate, repeat. That part is kind of nice since I am now involved in my own prognosis. Out of everything that has happened I got the best gift of all.
Awareness.
Amen Brother.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Another Bun in the Oven
Nothing says what the fuck like hearing a dude got pregnant. Then, you hear he is pregnant again! Ok, so this goes to show that men can't say no, regardless of their anatomy.
I read something today that says the 'husband' and wife are just like any other couple. Pregnant man has a beard and a belly, a lot like most men watching NFL on any given Sunday. However, this belly gyrates with a moving being inside. This being is not a food item, rather a human being. Yes, this is totally just like any other couple I know of. I ran into a guy I used to work with and asked him when he was due. After getting stitches in the ER, I called to apologize for assuming he was pregnant. He looked just like Mr. Preggo. How was I to know? I mean, they are just like any other couple right?
I read something today that says the 'husband' and wife are just like any other couple. Pregnant man has a beard and a belly, a lot like most men watching NFL on any given Sunday. However, this belly gyrates with a moving being inside. This being is not a food item, rather a human being. Yes, this is totally just like any other couple I know of. I ran into a guy I used to work with and asked him when he was due. After getting stitches in the ER, I called to apologize for assuming he was pregnant. He looked just like Mr. Preggo. How was I to know? I mean, they are just like any other couple right?
Friday, October 24, 2008
36-hour Cialis
Dear Makers of Cialis,
I have a boner.
Let me rephrase that. Over the past day and a half I have had several throbbing stiffies that have lasted just under the 4-hour target mark for calling my physician. I just wanted to send this quick note that I think your product sucks balls, no pun intended.
Oh, yeah...and the whole adage of "when you're ready?" What kind of bullshit is that anyway? I am ALWAYS ready. What happens when SHE isn't ready? We mess around a bit, my prick still in its permanent catatonic state and yet, I pop the pill to wake it up, and she is no longer in the mood. So I am left to tug at this rock hard needless pole you have left me with. Even then I do not get any relief. This isn't the first time this has happened. Last week, I took one of your magic pills on Thursday thinking by Friday night, even at the tail end of the blood boost this son of a bitch gives me I would AT THE VERY LEAST catch her "in the mood," I got nothing. Have you ever been wearing khakis, only to have this protrusion grow even with the fabric resistance that is Dockers? It hurts like a son of a bitch. Not to mention, my constant adjusting makes people at work wonder if I am harboring a public lice farm in my shorts. Maybe you need to come up with a partnering drug called SHE-ALIS. The slogan can be, "when his raging rock cock is making him contemplate raping herd of sheep, you will for once in your life, be ready." It can be disguised as a Cheese-It. I can easily pass that to her a few minutes after I have popped my personal hormone. I have yet to see her pass up a Cheese-It.
So to conclude, go phuck yourselves. I hope you and your drug get ass raped by a herd of Wildebeests. I hope some deranged customer finds you and strips you down, paints your body with honey and throws you into a fire ant pile. In fact, I hope they force feed you your shit product and only paint the never ending erection you are FORCED to have and release the ants on your nether regions. At least then, you will know the pain I feel every time "I am ready."
Assholes.
Signed,
"I hate my constant unused erection"
I have a boner.
Let me rephrase that. Over the past day and a half I have had several throbbing stiffies that have lasted just under the 4-hour target mark for calling my physician. I just wanted to send this quick note that I think your product sucks balls, no pun intended.
Oh, yeah...and the whole adage of "when you're ready?" What kind of bullshit is that anyway? I am ALWAYS ready. What happens when SHE isn't ready? We mess around a bit, my prick still in its permanent catatonic state and yet, I pop the pill to wake it up, and she is no longer in the mood. So I am left to tug at this rock hard needless pole you have left me with. Even then I do not get any relief. This isn't the first time this has happened. Last week, I took one of your magic pills on Thursday thinking by Friday night, even at the tail end of the blood boost this son of a bitch gives me I would AT THE VERY LEAST catch her "in the mood," I got nothing. Have you ever been wearing khakis, only to have this protrusion grow even with the fabric resistance that is Dockers? It hurts like a son of a bitch. Not to mention, my constant adjusting makes people at work wonder if I am harboring a public lice farm in my shorts. Maybe you need to come up with a partnering drug called SHE-ALIS. The slogan can be, "when his raging rock cock is making him contemplate raping herd of sheep, you will for once in your life, be ready." It can be disguised as a Cheese-It. I can easily pass that to her a few minutes after I have popped my personal hormone. I have yet to see her pass up a Cheese-It.
So to conclude, go phuck yourselves. I hope you and your drug get ass raped by a herd of Wildebeests. I hope some deranged customer finds you and strips you down, paints your body with honey and throws you into a fire ant pile. In fact, I hope they force feed you your shit product and only paint the never ending erection you are FORCED to have and release the ants on your nether regions. At least then, you will know the pain I feel every time "I am ready."
Assholes.
Signed,
"I hate my constant unused erection"
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Peyton, the 5-year old diva
I am all for individuality. I want all my kids to have it. I want them to be able to stand up in any social situation and proclaim at the top of her lungs "CAR PE DIEM!" Hopefully, it suits the situation so that her reputation is not soiled.
However, it has come to my attention that my desire for a functioning, confident child is quickly being replaced by a roll of duct tape. Her timing is horrible. She barters more than OPEC. Ask her once to do something and the regret is immediate that a request was even uttered as she begins her filibuster. Asking her to get her pajamas on is usually followed with a banter about how cotton pajamas are being hemmed by the children of 3rd world countries and those governments are not paying those children more than pennies on the dollar. WHAT THE HELL?!?!?! Just go change. "Does it mean bed time," she usually asks. No, Peyton, it means a damn cocktail party. It's like talking to a Republican, Democrat or worse yet....a teenager. Two words come to mind. SHUT....UP!
A few nights ago, she gave my wife a look that could freeze water after she was asked to do something simple like brush her teeth. I immediately told her not to look at her Mother like that. Her response? Shoulders shrugged, she said "Did it look like I was doing that?" The look on her face was one of ass-clown bewilderment. Oh...no you didn't. I took two steps towards her and she cowered into the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. She fluffs her feathers with the best of them, but cannot really follow through. At 5-years old, I am not sure I want follow through. All of this unwanted emotion is coming from her without the help of hormones. Once her eggs start dropping, I am going on a long vacation.
It is difficult raising a diva. I am not sure where her dominating personality came from. The only thing missing from her lion-taming repertoire (her brother being the lion) is a whip. She reminds me of a cat, all fluffed up and growling, tail enlarged to 5 times its normal size. Her bark is worse than her bite. I am amazed at her lack of fear, however. Her brother, and frankly, her father, hate spiders. She kills them with the best of them. But when it comes to wanting her to go to sleep, there is something that makes her want to fight it. She has to pee, or blow her nose, or pee out her nose...something always makes her get up. If I didn't know any better, this girl had a UTI.
Instead of milk, maybe she should have cranberry juice?
However, it has come to my attention that my desire for a functioning, confident child is quickly being replaced by a roll of duct tape. Her timing is horrible. She barters more than OPEC. Ask her once to do something and the regret is immediate that a request was even uttered as she begins her filibuster. Asking her to get her pajamas on is usually followed with a banter about how cotton pajamas are being hemmed by the children of 3rd world countries and those governments are not paying those children more than pennies on the dollar. WHAT THE HELL?!?!?! Just go change. "Does it mean bed time," she usually asks. No, Peyton, it means a damn cocktail party. It's like talking to a Republican, Democrat or worse yet....a teenager. Two words come to mind. SHUT....UP!
A few nights ago, she gave my wife a look that could freeze water after she was asked to do something simple like brush her teeth. I immediately told her not to look at her Mother like that. Her response? Shoulders shrugged, she said "Did it look like I was doing that?" The look on her face was one of ass-clown bewilderment. Oh...no you didn't. I took two steps towards her and she cowered into the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. She fluffs her feathers with the best of them, but cannot really follow through. At 5-years old, I am not sure I want follow through. All of this unwanted emotion is coming from her without the help of hormones. Once her eggs start dropping, I am going on a long vacation.
It is difficult raising a diva. I am not sure where her dominating personality came from. The only thing missing from her lion-taming repertoire (her brother being the lion) is a whip. She reminds me of a cat, all fluffed up and growling, tail enlarged to 5 times its normal size. Her bark is worse than her bite. I am amazed at her lack of fear, however. Her brother, and frankly, her father, hate spiders. She kills them with the best of them. But when it comes to wanting her to go to sleep, there is something that makes her want to fight it. She has to pee, or blow her nose, or pee out her nose...something always makes her get up. If I didn't know any better, this girl had a UTI.
Instead of milk, maybe she should have cranberry juice?
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