Oh, it's been four years since I last wrote?
Oh, I've traveled to the Grand Tetons, Arizona, Disney World, New Orleans, Hong Kong, San Diego, and Lake Tahoe since then?
Oh, my mom beat cancer?
Oh, friends and family have bought houses, pursued careers and degrees, and had children?
Oh, two of my best friends are getting married this year, and another one is having a baby?
Oh, I moved across town and escaped the landlord from hell after dealing with almost three years of construction and bullshit?
Oh, I adopted an insane cat who hates everyone and everything, including me?
Oh, I've accepted a second job, freelance, that allows me to pay my bills on time and imagine a future free from debt?
Oh, a narcissistic, deranged, racist, sexist, xenophobic piece of shit was elected president and has made every single day since January 20th a living nightmare?
Oh, I'm still single, despite many lame dates with lame people, and a general disdain for most everyone, except for that one. He was cool.
Oh, I've gained and lost the same 25 pounds that have haunted me since 2012?
Oh, I finally bought my own laptop, a new, non hand-me-down, that allows me to update my blog for the first time in over four years?
Oh, I promise to write more, even if it's only me who reads this, because it gives me an outlet for my anxiety and may help me to follow a bigger dream, a dream where I sleep for an entire night for more than one night in a row, and more than once every month because if I put what I'm thinking down on some paper than it's not in my head, it's in the universe and the universe is ultimately there to help so what could go wrong if I hit publish.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
In which...
... I find a band aid on my butt.
That's all. Oh? You want back story? I suppose. If it'll help you find the point of it all.
I have a yoga injury. Not Yoda, though that would make more sense, that little bastard can fight.
My knuckles got rubbed raw on Sunday during class when I changed my form for just a few cycles through the Vinyasa (my wrists hurt from proper form 'cause I'm fat and weak) and by that night my hands looked like I'd beat the shit out of someone much weaker and fatter than me.
So being from the school of keeping my owies covered in antibiotic ointment and bandaged I went to sleep last night with my yoga battle wounds just that. I woke up this morning with one of the band aids missing. Looked around for it, kind of gross yes, but it's me and I know I'm gross. I figured it'd turn up eventually and went about my day. Dressed. Worked. Gym(med). Changed in the locker room. Worked out. Pharmacy, dinner, movie, started writing a different blog (a serious one, no less) when the urge to scratch my butt arose.
(Please see the above declaration of my grossness.)
Plus it wasn't even a real butt scratch just my cheek, I swear. And you'll never guess what I found. Yes you will because I spoiled it in the first line. Almost 24 hours that band aid had been on my left butt cheek and I was walking around completely unaware.
Maybe I'm tired, maybe I'm slightly manic, maybe I had a shitty day and just needed an excuse to laugh so hard that I cried, all while holding a slightly used band aid, but I was, I am, I did and oh lord it felt good.
That's all. Oh? You want back story? I suppose. If it'll help you find the point of it all.
I have a yoga injury. Not Yoda, though that would make more sense, that little bastard can fight.
My knuckles got rubbed raw on Sunday during class when I changed my form for just a few cycles through the Vinyasa (my wrists hurt from proper form 'cause I'm fat and weak) and by that night my hands looked like I'd beat the shit out of someone much weaker and fatter than me.
So being from the school of keeping my owies covered in antibiotic ointment and bandaged I went to sleep last night with my yoga battle wounds just that. I woke up this morning with one of the band aids missing. Looked around for it, kind of gross yes, but it's me and I know I'm gross. I figured it'd turn up eventually and went about my day. Dressed. Worked. Gym(med). Changed in the locker room. Worked out. Pharmacy, dinner, movie, started writing a different blog (a serious one, no less) when the urge to scratch my butt arose.
(Please see the above declaration of my grossness.)
Plus it wasn't even a real butt scratch just my cheek, I swear. And you'll never guess what I found. Yes you will because I spoiled it in the first line. Almost 24 hours that band aid had been on my left butt cheek and I was walking around completely unaware.
Maybe I'm tired, maybe I'm slightly manic, maybe I had a shitty day and just needed an excuse to laugh so hard that I cried, all while holding a slightly used band aid, but I was, I am, I did and oh lord it felt good.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
My uterus made me write this
I don't like discussing politics (read: my distaste for them is not unlike being stuck in traffic, listening to a dog bark incessantly and smelling my neighbor cook curry ALL AT THE SAME TIME) but I will rant about it from time to time, specifically when someone says or does something incredibly stupid. Like Richard Mourdock. (Dick Moredick, see what I did there?)
I am so completely over all these GOP jags (and dems I'm sure but maybe they've finally learned to keep their yaps shut over shit like this) blabbing their giant douche holes about rape and conception and abortion and all that crap. OVER IT! It's my damn body, my damn uterus and my damn choice just shut up! Please. Let us ladies do our own thing. Abortion is not our first choice in birth control. It never was and it never will be. Pro-choice means just that. CHOICE. Plus, if men could do it Plan B would've been available over the counter since the '60s cause that shit would've been more important than the moon landing. Jackasses.
There are so many more important things for everyone to worry about. I don't need to insult your intelligence and list them because you're probably living them! This extremism is pulling our country places it doesn't need to go right now. Talk about things that matter. Talk about things the whole country can get behind. Just stop talking about my baby maker. She hates when you say mean things about her. And she really hates being told what to do.
I am so completely over all these GOP jags (and dems I'm sure but maybe they've finally learned to keep their yaps shut over shit like this) blabbing their giant douche holes about rape and conception and abortion and all that crap. OVER IT! It's my damn body, my damn uterus and my damn choice just shut up! Please. Let us ladies do our own thing. Abortion is not our first choice in birth control. It never was and it never will be. Pro-choice means just that. CHOICE. Plus, if men could do it Plan B would've been available over the counter since the '60s cause that shit would've been more important than the moon landing. Jackasses.
There are so many more important things for everyone to worry about. I don't need to insult your intelligence and list them because you're probably living them! This extremism is pulling our country places it doesn't need to go right now. Talk about things that matter. Talk about things the whole country can get behind. Just stop talking about my baby maker. She hates when you say mean things about her. And she really hates being told what to do.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
At 32 I'm a grown up right...? (part one)
Because I sure as shit don't feel like it. I try to tell myself that other adults are faking it too. They hate paying bills, they hate waking up early to go to work, they hate responsibility, traffic, grocery shopping, doing laundry, meeting new people... pretty much anything that sniffs of obligation and importance.
Around this age I'm also doing a lot of explaining as to why I don't want children. Total strangers have insisted that I tell them why I don't want to force a giant living, screaming, clawing creature out of my vagina. There's your answer right there you insanely nosy person. The fact that I don't want a child, or to own property, or to even get married could in some circles make me out to be some kind of witch. Some circles of my own family even. (Don't worry, I don't hang out with that branch very often.) But not an actual witch that could turn kids into toads or swarm crops with locusts. Just an average woman who happens to speak her mind and belch a lot (especially in the morning and after going up stairs) and got burned at the stake for it. Or maybe I would be tossed off a cliff to see if I could fly. Or drowned with rocks. Oh, the possibilities are endless!
Around this age I'm also doing a lot of explaining as to why I don't want children. Total strangers have insisted that I tell them why I don't want to force a giant living, screaming, clawing creature out of my vagina. There's your answer right there you insanely nosy person. The fact that I don't want a child, or to own property, or to even get married could in some circles make me out to be some kind of witch. Some circles of my own family even. (Don't worry, I don't hang out with that branch very often.) But not an actual witch that could turn kids into toads or swarm crops with locusts. Just an average woman who happens to speak her mind and belch a lot (especially in the morning and after going up stairs) and got burned at the stake for it. Or maybe I would be tossed off a cliff to see if I could fly. Or drowned with rocks. Oh, the possibilities are endless!
Friday, September 28, 2012
The new tattoo
Two years after getting my AS from PCC, I'm finally going for my BS. Or should I say 14 years after taking my first college class at PLU, I'm finishing what I started. Either way, I'm in school and look how much smarter I am already!
I'm taking a statistics class for business majors even though I want to major in biology. Or anthropology. Or science whatever so I can study dinosaurs. FOSSILS YAY! But the school has decided that I still need to take statistics. But it's okay because I love maths. Though I didn't know I loved maths until my third time in college circa 2008. Probably because I spent my high school years writing notes on my graphing calculator to my best friend rather than actually doing the work. Then I wondered why I got a D and stopped caring until I was in my late 20s and realized that math rocks. In class this week a student asked the prof if there was any significance of the mode and the mid-range being the same and in my head I thought: "uh yeah, that math is fucking awesome and symmetry is rad!" but I'm probably not one of the coolest kids in school.
This is the Fibonacci spiral and it IS the coolest. As it would happen I got my new tattoo the weekend before school started. Because I went to the most popular tat shop in Portland I made my appointment back in May, way before I even knew I was going to apply to school. Because yes, I applied to school less than one month before fall term started. Sometimes I can be impulsive. Not usually, only when my future depends on it.
I'm taking a statistics class for business majors even though I want to major in biology. Or anthropology. Or science whatever so I can study dinosaurs. FOSSILS YAY! But the school has decided that I still need to take statistics. But it's okay because I love maths. Though I didn't know I loved maths until my third time in college circa 2008. Probably because I spent my high school years writing notes on my graphing calculator to my best friend rather than actually doing the work. Then I wondered why I got a D and stopped caring until I was in my late 20s and realized that math rocks. In class this week a student asked the prof if there was any significance of the mode and the mid-range being the same and in my head I thought: "uh yeah, that math is fucking awesome and symmetry is rad!" but I'm probably not one of the coolest kids in school.
This is the Fibonacci spiral and it IS the coolest. As it would happen I got my new tattoo the weekend before school started. Because I went to the most popular tat shop in Portland I made my appointment back in May, way before I even knew I was going to apply to school. Because yes, I applied to school less than one month before fall term started. Sometimes I can be impulsive. Not usually, only when my future depends on it.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
I was sick for a while
I haven't written. I still don't really know what's wrong with me but at least I'm well medicated now. It felt like my brain, and in turn the rest of my body, was rebelling against me. For all the beer I've drunk? For all the bacon I've eaten? It's a hopeless feeling not knowing what's going on in your own body. At least when you have a broken bone or a huge wound you can be like, "oh gross, I need to get this fixed" but when the pain's all up in your brain business it's shitty trying to figure out what the hell's happening.
The severe stabbing headaches started in March. Near the middle of May everything else started falling apart. I was dizzy, fatigued, out of breath and could barely walk up a flight of stairs without needing a nap. I couldn't eat, couldn't drink (alcohol, it was a sad time) and I couldn't even sing along to music because I would run out of air. And I love to sing out loud. Like really loudly. It's the only thing that quells the road rage. I had to cancel my gym membership and while I haven't actually gained any weight since, I have gotten quite flabby, thank you very much. Doctor visits, MRIs, Aleve that tore up my insides, Ibuprofen that made my ears ring, Tylenol that did nothing... it was a long process. I finally saw a neurologist who put me on an anti-headache, anti-seizure medication (which also happens to be used for weight loss, meth and coke addiction, PTSD and alcoholism) that has helped me get back to 80%.
I even went on a 30 minute hike a couple weeks ago without having to stop once. That's a huge deal for me. I started school this term and had been very concerned that my plans would be deterred by my deteriorating health. So it's good news all around. When I don't feel well I don't want to do anything. It took every ounce of my strength just to go to work every day. I didn't call in sick once. Well, maybe once. Or twice. But after work I couldn't dream of going to the gym, taking my roomie's dog for a walk, even reading made me tired and dizzy. So writing was out of the question. Plus, what would I write about?
As usual drugs make everything better.
The severe stabbing headaches started in March. Near the middle of May everything else started falling apart. I was dizzy, fatigued, out of breath and could barely walk up a flight of stairs without needing a nap. I couldn't eat, couldn't drink (alcohol, it was a sad time) and I couldn't even sing along to music because I would run out of air. And I love to sing out loud. Like really loudly. It's the only thing that quells the road rage. I had to cancel my gym membership and while I haven't actually gained any weight since, I have gotten quite flabby, thank you very much. Doctor visits, MRIs, Aleve that tore up my insides, Ibuprofen that made my ears ring, Tylenol that did nothing... it was a long process. I finally saw a neurologist who put me on an anti-headache, anti-seizure medication (which also happens to be used for weight loss, meth and coke addiction, PTSD and alcoholism) that has helped me get back to 80%.
I even went on a 30 minute hike a couple weeks ago without having to stop once. That's a huge deal for me. I started school this term and had been very concerned that my plans would be deterred by my deteriorating health. So it's good news all around. When I don't feel well I don't want to do anything. It took every ounce of my strength just to go to work every day. I didn't call in sick once. Well, maybe once. Or twice. But after work I couldn't dream of going to the gym, taking my roomie's dog for a walk, even reading made me tired and dizzy. So writing was out of the question. Plus, what would I write about?
As usual drugs make everything better.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Me want foooood!
I love to complain. Complaining makes me happy. And a happy Nicole is much better to drink with. One of my favorite things to do is complain to food companies. Because of my restrictions I'm forced to buy $6 bread, $8 mayonnaise, $7 pretzels and so on. It's depressing. And way too fucking expensive. So when said food stuffs is not up to par I tell the company. 1. Because I want them to know about and fix the problem. 2. Because they send me coupons for free food. I realize this is a hobby more suited for an old man whittling down his days in a retirement home wondering why his family doesn't call him anymore but I expect a certain level of awesome from my $4 waffles and $5 macaroni and cheese. Plus I have fun writing the complaints. I'm never mean, just kind of a beezy. It's a bit of an outlet for me and as long as I keep getting coupons I intend to keep writing.
This most recent installment was e-mailed to the makers of So Delicious coconut milk whatevers.
"I love your regular yogurt (chocolate flavor = my life) and got really excited when I saw a Greek style at my New Seasons grocer in Portland. I only bought one just to make sure I like it (when I have to buy $2 yogurt I need to make sure it's worth it) and ate it today; it was pretty good but something was a bit off and I wasn't sure if it was because I hadn't had Greek style yogurt and don't know what it's supposed to taste like. It wasn't until I got to the bottom and found the culprit. Mold. Lots of mold. The date on my yogurt says 5/10/12 so I was a little surprised. Oh and also super grossed out cause that's nasty shit. Fortunately I had chocolate nearby to cleanse my wrecked palate. And now I'm full up on penicillin, thanks. I'm like Alexander Fleming no big deal. So I wanted to let you know this happened, I don't know if you've heard of any others but I still have the lid if you want a lot number or anything."
I'm pretty sure I can still feel it growing in my stomach. And while I might have a little trepidation about eating the yogurt again some coupons would really help ease my mind.
This most recent installment was e-mailed to the makers of So Delicious coconut milk whatevers.
"I love your regular yogurt (chocolate flavor = my life) and got really excited when I saw a Greek style at my New Seasons grocer in Portland. I only bought one just to make sure I like it (when I have to buy $2 yogurt I need to make sure it's worth it) and ate it today; it was pretty good but something was a bit off and I wasn't sure if it was because I hadn't had Greek style yogurt and don't know what it's supposed to taste like. It wasn't until I got to the bottom and found the culprit. Mold. Lots of mold. The date on my yogurt says 5/10/12 so I was a little surprised. Oh and also super grossed out cause that's nasty shit. Fortunately I had chocolate nearby to cleanse my wrecked palate. And now I'm full up on penicillin, thanks. I'm like Alexander Fleming no big deal. So I wanted to let you know this happened, I don't know if you've heard of any others but I still have the lid if you want a lot number or anything."
I'm pretty sure I can still feel it growing in my stomach. And while I might have a little trepidation about eating the yogurt again some coupons would really help ease my mind.
Monday, March 12, 2012
I need to renew my passport.
Is there something you want so badly but don't even know it yet? (Just let that sink in.) Didn't even know it existed and now it's all you think about? (Okay, only for the past eight hours but I have an obsessive personality.)
Right now all I can think about is Belize. I've never been but I've wanted to visit since I was 19 years old. I don't really know why but I do remember randomly picking it for a marketing project in college and falling in love with the country sight unseen. I think the tropical paradise aspect of it plays a big part.
Because the weather here has been so ridiculous the last couple days (My first world problem? I bought a pair of super cute red Franco Sarto pumps and desperately want to wear them but with the rain, wind and mud I don't dare sully their soles. Cry me an overprivileged river, right?) all anyone is talking about is the warmer skies and sandy beaches of far off places. Okay, that's all I'm talking about and in turn, everyone else because I tend to monopolize conversations.
At work today I was wondering out loud what I would drink on the beaches of Belize. Mai tais or daquiris are too girly and sugary for someone who would rather have a Manhattan. I don't do well with hangovers (I learned that on Sunday, oy) and definitely don't need the extra calories. It seems trivial to order beer or wine when I can get perfectly delicious IPAs and Malbecs at Trader Joe's. I was still mulling this pressing and important question when one of our drug reps came into the office. She's adorable and chatty and brings us coffee so needless to say.*
We started bitching about the rain and what it does to our perfectly coiffed hair (well, her perfectly coiffed hair; mine was matted to my face and crammed full of bobby pins in an effort to make it look less... mullet-y and mannish. I'm growing it out I swear.) and when I said I needed a white sand beach, the kind from postcards where the palm tree swoops down over the water, she mentioned that she and her husband had just gotten back from their honeymoon. In Belize.
This was kismet. So what does one drink in Belize? Apparently in the rain forest (of course) there's a bar with an amazing bartender (obviously) that makes margaritas with a local flower water extract. Now we're fucking talking. I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. Especially something I didn't even know existed before 2 o'clock this afternoon. I want to lie in a hammock. I want margaritas made with rain forest flowers. I want warm weather and waves and sunshine. I want to wear my red Franco Sartos. And I want to learn how to wear my hair so I don't look like a lesbian.
*If it's needless to say, don't say it. One of my most hated idioms.
Right now all I can think about is Belize. I've never been but I've wanted to visit since I was 19 years old. I don't really know why but I do remember randomly picking it for a marketing project in college and falling in love with the country sight unseen. I think the tropical paradise aspect of it plays a big part.
Because the weather here has been so ridiculous the last couple days (My first world problem? I bought a pair of super cute red Franco Sarto pumps and desperately want to wear them but with the rain, wind and mud I don't dare sully their soles. Cry me an overprivileged river, right?) all anyone is talking about is the warmer skies and sandy beaches of far off places. Okay, that's all I'm talking about and in turn, everyone else because I tend to monopolize conversations.
At work today I was wondering out loud what I would drink on the beaches of Belize. Mai tais or daquiris are too girly and sugary for someone who would rather have a Manhattan. I don't do well with hangovers (I learned that on Sunday, oy) and definitely don't need the extra calories. It seems trivial to order beer or wine when I can get perfectly delicious IPAs and Malbecs at Trader Joe's. I was still mulling this pressing and important question when one of our drug reps came into the office. She's adorable and chatty and brings us coffee so needless to say.*
We started bitching about the rain and what it does to our perfectly coiffed hair (well, her perfectly coiffed hair; mine was matted to my face and crammed full of bobby pins in an effort to make it look less... mullet-y and mannish. I'm growing it out I swear.) and when I said I needed a white sand beach, the kind from postcards where the palm tree swoops down over the water, she mentioned that she and her husband had just gotten back from their honeymoon. In Belize.
This was kismet. So what does one drink in Belize? Apparently in the rain forest (of course) there's a bar with an amazing bartender (obviously) that makes margaritas with a local flower water extract. Now we're fucking talking. I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. Especially something I didn't even know existed before 2 o'clock this afternoon. I want to lie in a hammock. I want margaritas made with rain forest flowers. I want warm weather and waves and sunshine. I want to wear my red Franco Sartos. And I want to learn how to wear my hair so I don't look like a lesbian.
*If it's needless to say, don't say it. One of my most hated idioms.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Politics are the worst.
I despise everything about politics. I don't like Republicans, I don't like Democrats, I don't like the Green party, Libertarians, Independents and I especially don't like the Constitution party. Those guys are SCARY as shit. Hey politics and religion: believe what you want to believe but don't be a dick about it. Just be nice to people. It's the golden rule assholes.
There's a lot of contention right now about women and birth control and it's upsetting as hell. I don't pretend to understand or care what each side is arguing because I don't listen to the jackasses. I don't know why it's 2012 and we're having this argument. There are horrible things happening in the world. Disease and poverty and hunger. War and homelessness and death. All brought on by the fact that there are just too many damn people on the planet and nobody gets along. I blame religion and politics.
I don't get why anyone other than me would care that I pay $5 a month for my birth control pill while my insurance covers the rest. I don't think anyone but me should get to tell me what I can (or can't) put in my body. It shouldn't matter to anyone but me whether I have sex every day with multiple partners and don't want to end up on Maury (because I'm so responsible) or if I use the pill to regulate my painful and irregular periods. (Guess which one it is?)
For the record, every month when I pick up my birth control (as I'm going to do as soon as I hit publish) I feel judged. Not because I'm ashamed. I feel like the pharmacist is looking at me and thinking "Oh... okay. You want to spend money on this? Abstinence is cheaper you know, you'd save some money if you just stick with that. This is beer money. Though I guess you're probably using it for acne. That's a good call."
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
I like my beer like my men...
...brown and alcoholic? Hmm, I'll have to work on that one.
I went to Alaska this past summer for two weeks and drank my way through Big Lake, Anchorage and the Kenai peninsula. That episode of Futurama when Bender becomes human? It was like that. Alaska rivals Oregon in sheer number of breweries and yes, they were all awesome. My #1 favorite was Naptown Nut Brown from Kenai River Brewing. I had a pint in a restaurant in Seward and Taryn had to threaten to get me a helmet because I bashed my head on the wall behind me while yelling how much I loved the beer. It was that good. I think about it once a week or so and finally decided to e-mail the proprietors and see what it would take to get them to send me some beer of my very own so I can stop living in a world where I don't get what I want when I want. Is this Nazi Germany? Communist Russia? Totalitarian North Korea? Nailed the trifecta.
~Hello makers of delicious beer!
I drank the crap out of your Naptown nut brown when I was in AK last summer. I still tell people about how amazing it is. How do you guys go about getting beer to people that are unfortunate enough to live in the lower 48? I mean, everyone I've talked to didn't even know the Dairy Queen in Soldotna burned down, can you believe it? I would pay whatever shipping you need me to, I seriously need a 6-pack or a growler of that beer in my fridge asap. I feel like I'm going through withdrawals even though I live in Portland, Oregon surrounded by amazing beers. Hazelnut brown from Rogue is my very favorite, but I could compare the two side-by-side and give you a full report if you'd like. Let me know what needs to be done and I'll do it. I just love beer so much.
Thanks for your time,
Nicole
**UPDATE** I received an e-mail from Amy at Kenai River that says they don't ship beer yet but they hope to in the future. Boo. Next stop: Knee Deep brewery in Lincoln, California. They have a vanilla bean porter that is to die for.
I went to Alaska this past summer for two weeks and drank my way through Big Lake, Anchorage and the Kenai peninsula. That episode of Futurama when Bender becomes human? It was like that. Alaska rivals Oregon in sheer number of breweries and yes, they were all awesome. My #1 favorite was Naptown Nut Brown from Kenai River Brewing. I had a pint in a restaurant in Seward and Taryn had to threaten to get me a helmet because I bashed my head on the wall behind me while yelling how much I loved the beer. It was that good. I think about it once a week or so and finally decided to e-mail the proprietors and see what it would take to get them to send me some beer of my very own so I can stop living in a world where I don't get what I want when I want. Is this Nazi Germany? Communist Russia? Totalitarian North Korea? Nailed the trifecta.
~Hello makers of delicious beer!
I drank the crap out of your Naptown nut brown when I was in AK last summer. I still tell people about how amazing it is. How do you guys go about getting beer to people that are unfortunate enough to live in the lower 48? I mean, everyone I've talked to didn't even know the Dairy Queen in Soldotna burned down, can you believe it? I would pay whatever shipping you need me to, I seriously need a 6-pack or a growler of that beer in my fridge asap. I feel like I'm going through withdrawals even though I live in Portland, Oregon surrounded by amazing beers. Hazelnut brown from Rogue is my very favorite, but I could compare the two side-by-side and give you a full report if you'd like. Let me know what needs to be done and I'll do it. I just love beer so much.
Thanks for your time,
Nicole
**UPDATE** I received an e-mail from Amy at Kenai River that says they don't ship beer yet but they hope to in the future. Boo. Next stop: Knee Deep brewery in Lincoln, California. They have a vanilla bean porter that is to die for.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Instead it's just a crumpled Maxim magazine.
Every once in a while the empty cavity in my chest where my heart should be feels a faint glimmer of life.
Usually (read: almost always) my road rage knows no bounds. I get annoyed (that's putting it too lightly... angry beyond all rational thought. A fury felt with the heat of a thousand suns.) with people for any action I see as stupid or dangerous. Going too fast. Going too slow. Braking too soon. Braking too late. Tailgating. Leaving too much space. Driving slowly in the left lane. Leaving the blinker on. Inability to pass a bicyclist, garbage truck or mailman. Anything. Everything. I shouldn't be allowed to drive but I am. I shouldn't have a commute but I do. Now on top of the constant rage I get heart palpitations and shortness of breath every time another car looks like it's about to come into contact with mine. And this being Oregon, land of shitty drivers that don't know shit, that's all the time.
Today I accidentally discovered what dispels my road rage: an awesome bumper sticker. I'm not talking a Trail Blazers sticker, an In-n-Out sticker, a PCH sticker, that Oregon sticker with the green heart in it, or an Obama sticker. Not even a very specific quote from The Simpsons on a sticker. I've had every one of those on my various cars and while I appreciate the solidarity it in no way dissuades the road rage. Not even a little bit. So what could this magical sticker possibly say that would allow forgiveness for the flagrantly disrespectful move of leaving an extra car length in front of them at a stop light? (Seriously my wrath has no limits...)
"My brother is autistic and bad-ass". Love it. Anger dissipated.
PS-The Simpsons bumper sticker I had was one my best friend made exclusively for me and subsequently caused people to honk at me constantly, only adding to my road rage before I remembered the sticker was there. "Honk if you demand satisfaction." Bonus points if you remember which episode that was from.
Usually (read: almost always) my road rage knows no bounds. I get annoyed (that's putting it too lightly... angry beyond all rational thought. A fury felt with the heat of a thousand suns.) with people for any action I see as stupid or dangerous. Going too fast. Going too slow. Braking too soon. Braking too late. Tailgating. Leaving too much space. Driving slowly in the left lane. Leaving the blinker on. Inability to pass a bicyclist, garbage truck or mailman. Anything. Everything. I shouldn't be allowed to drive but I am. I shouldn't have a commute but I do. Now on top of the constant rage I get heart palpitations and shortness of breath every time another car looks like it's about to come into contact with mine. And this being Oregon, land of shitty drivers that don't know shit, that's all the time.
Today I accidentally discovered what dispels my road rage: an awesome bumper sticker. I'm not talking a Trail Blazers sticker, an In-n-Out sticker, a PCH sticker, that Oregon sticker with the green heart in it, or an Obama sticker. Not even a very specific quote from The Simpsons on a sticker. I've had every one of those on my various cars and while I appreciate the solidarity it in no way dissuades the road rage. Not even a little bit. So what could this magical sticker possibly say that would allow forgiveness for the flagrantly disrespectful move of leaving an extra car length in front of them at a stop light? (Seriously my wrath has no limits...)
"My brother is autistic and bad-ass". Love it. Anger dissipated.
PS-The Simpsons bumper sticker I had was one my best friend made exclusively for me and subsequently caused people to honk at me constantly, only adding to my road rage before I remembered the sticker was there. "Honk if you demand satisfaction." Bonus points if you remember which episode that was from.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
This is a rant. Replete with swears...
...in which I'm in a glass case of emotion.
Another car accident you ask? How is that even a thing you ask? Oh. It's a thing. It's a fucking thing. June 6th car accident. June 13th car accident. July 21st car accident. February 13th car accident. My "new" Volvo didn't make it three months without getting fucked. From any side. Hard. Her epitaph will read "Astrid was dent free in Nicole's care from November 19, 2011 - February 12, 2012. She didn't even have license plates yet for fuck's sake!" That's too young. It was too soon. I started going through the five stages of grief almost instantly. As someone who enjoys lists I was quite pleased by this. Also when you're ADHD and borderline manic depressive apparently KΓΌbler-Ross can be a little intense.
This is, in a very specific order, the stages of going through the fourth accident in less than eight months. Brought to you by copious amounts of red wine.
1. Denial I got to work at 7.40am like I do every morning. I parked on the street about a block west of the office like I do every morning. The drive itself gives me such road rage that I get extra rage because I don't think it's nice that everyone makes me so angry so early. Maybe if they didn't go 15 miles under the speed limit we would all be best friends. But I doubt it. Anyway. Parked on Cornell road just outside official Northwest Portland, where hundreds of cars drive by every day. I work. It's a Monday. It's not the best Monday ever but it's definitely not the worst. I left at 5.20pm and was standing on the sidewalk waiting to cross. That's when I saw the damage. (Side note: this is the least amount of damage caused by any of the accidents. But that is completely moot. This is my new car. Someone hit it. Now I'm pissed.) I see the damage and I lose it. "FUCK! This did NOT happen again!" and dive head first into stage two. Not unlike Pete Rose.
2. Anger I stand on the side of the road weaving a tapestry of obscenities so thick it would make a sailor with Tourette's blush. I don't think the f-bomb has ever been dropped so many times in one sentence. Think of the worst thing you've ever heard or said and multiply it by my fury and that's what I was working with. People were staring. I didn't care. I couldn't stop. Yelling and swearing. Putting chunks of my car back together. Prying my gas cap cover open with my key. Swearing and yelling. I checked my windshield: no note. Thanks asshole. Who hits a car and leaves? That's not something a nice person does. That's not something a normal person does. You just stole from me. You stole $2000 worth of damage to my car from me. You stole happiness. Faith in mankind. And I'm not handling it well.
3. Depression Once I run out of swears and am no longer completely controlled by the deep-seated rage that threatens to destroy me like a dying star I start sobbing. And I can't stop. I cry for 20 minutes straight. Just when I think I'm done I start again. I haven't cried like this in... months. Years. I don't even remember. I did read The Fault in Our Stars on Sunday and that was an amazing and wholly depressing book about two terminally ill teenagers who fall in love and I cried while reading that... oh and I totally teared up when I found out Whitney Houston died, but The Bodyguard soundtrack was my life in the '90s. (Any questions please see track #14 from my recent blog post.) When I say cried I mean really cried. Heaving sobs. Ugly crying. Not holding back tears like I usually do because I don't want people to think I have human emotions. Or convincing people I'm okay because I don't want to seem weak. So I cried. Four car accidents in eight months and I finally cried.
4. Bargaining This one was intertwined with the depression. In the midst of sobbing I would say (Yes, I talk to myself almost constantly no matter what mood I'm in.) "Why does this keep happening to me? What did I do wrong? What am I doing wrong?" I don't believe in reincarnation or any kind of afterlife or even that there's anything bigger than me (though it could be nice... as long as they're not a jerk, which I'm beginning to think they might be) but SOMEBODY has seriously fucked up if I'm getting in all the accidents. What about the guy that doesn't pick up his dog's shit? The chick that leaves her clothes in the dressing room at Old Navy? Anyone that hits 'reply all' to an e-mail? (#1 pet peeve. I don't care what most people have to say ever, especially not complete strangers.) I'm not saying anyone deserves to be in a car accident. I'm not saying anyone deserves to be fucked over by every single insurance company involved in every single one of those accidents. I'm definitely not saying that anyone should be forced to hire an attorney just to get a measly two grand out of a multi-billion dollar corporation that destroyed their BMW and admitted fault at the scene. But I digress. I just think my accidents could be divvied up a little to the masses. JUST A LITTLE! I didn't offer up anything of myself to change what happened because, quite honestly, none of this has been my fault. This shit just follows me around. I don't need to change. Everyone else does.
5. Acceptance This one I've also seen described as "the up-turn" and that's more how I would characterize my experience. Less than an hour after my meltdown I was cooking dinner, turning the Motown play list up and rocking out. Drinking my wine, cooking my quinoa, singing Midnight Train to Georgia at the top of my lungs? Most definitely an up-turn. I was making acerbic comments to the pets (I'm house-sitting though so I don't think they get my sense of humor yet) and using a spatula as a microphone during Don't Leave Me This Way. Things were looking up. Then the dinner (and lunch for our VD (get it?) potluck at work) was all done, the dishes were done, and the wine was done. I plopped myself on the couch to watch Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta and What Not to Wear (shut up I have ovaries I can watch whatever I want. One was about a chick that works for NASA! Science and fashion! SYNERGY.) and reverted almost instantly back to:
3. Depression Crap. The crying started again. I stopped paying attention to the show and would just stare and think. Think and stare. It had been an emotionally draining couple days and another car accident was the icing on my gluten free and vegan cake. I don't know why this keeps happening and don't know how to make it stop. I can't sleep but who am I supposed to talk to at 2am? The cat and dog are NO help and I'm too much of a spaz to take any of my own advice seriously. So what does make it better? Writing. Writing always helps. It gets everything out of my brain where it usually sits in the middle of the night until an OTC sleeping aid with a wine chaser calm the voices. I have friends that don't mind my verbal diarrhea (just spelled diarrhea right on my first try. Booya.) in the middle of the night and I love them for it but they need sleep too.
So I'm hovering between stages four and five right now. And probably will for a while. At least until the third accident is settled and I can get rid of the smashed BMW that's sitting in front of my parent's house. (Another side note: if you're within two payments of owning your car get on FULL ALERT and watch out for assholes driving like dickheads. They're the WORST.) The wine helps. Friends and family helps. Exercise helps. Swearing helps. (That one's science!) I know it could be worse. I could have been hurt. I could have been paralyzed. I could have been dead. Car accidents are shit that happens. A lot of shit happens to a lot of people every day but we deal with it. We deal with it and move on. And if we can't, there's wine.
Another car accident you ask? How is that even a thing you ask? Oh. It's a thing. It's a fucking thing. June 6th car accident. June 13th car accident. July 21st car accident. February 13th car accident. My "new" Volvo didn't make it three months without getting fucked. From any side. Hard. Her epitaph will read "Astrid was dent free in Nicole's care from November 19, 2011 - February 12, 2012. She didn't even have license plates yet for fuck's sake!" That's too young. It was too soon. I started going through the five stages of grief almost instantly. As someone who enjoys lists I was quite pleased by this. Also when you're ADHD and borderline manic depressive apparently KΓΌbler-Ross can be a little intense.
This is, in a very specific order, the stages of going through the fourth accident in less than eight months. Brought to you by copious amounts of red wine.
1. Denial I got to work at 7.40am like I do every morning. I parked on the street about a block west of the office like I do every morning. The drive itself gives me such road rage that I get extra rage because I don't think it's nice that everyone makes me so angry so early. Maybe if they didn't go 15 miles under the speed limit we would all be best friends. But I doubt it. Anyway. Parked on Cornell road just outside official Northwest Portland, where hundreds of cars drive by every day. I work. It's a Monday. It's not the best Monday ever but it's definitely not the worst. I left at 5.20pm and was standing on the sidewalk waiting to cross. That's when I saw the damage. (Side note: this is the least amount of damage caused by any of the accidents. But that is completely moot. This is my new car. Someone hit it. Now I'm pissed.) I see the damage and I lose it. "FUCK! This did NOT happen again!" and dive head first into stage two. Not unlike Pete Rose.
2. Anger I stand on the side of the road weaving a tapestry of obscenities so thick it would make a sailor with Tourette's blush. I don't think the f-bomb has ever been dropped so many times in one sentence. Think of the worst thing you've ever heard or said and multiply it by my fury and that's what I was working with. People were staring. I didn't care. I couldn't stop. Yelling and swearing. Putting chunks of my car back together. Prying my gas cap cover open with my key. Swearing and yelling. I checked my windshield: no note. Thanks asshole. Who hits a car and leaves? That's not something a nice person does. That's not something a normal person does. You just stole from me. You stole $2000 worth of damage to my car from me. You stole happiness. Faith in mankind. And I'm not handling it well.
3. Depression Once I run out of swears and am no longer completely controlled by the deep-seated rage that threatens to destroy me like a dying star I start sobbing. And I can't stop. I cry for 20 minutes straight. Just when I think I'm done I start again. I haven't cried like this in... months. Years. I don't even remember. I did read The Fault in Our Stars on Sunday and that was an amazing and wholly depressing book about two terminally ill teenagers who fall in love and I cried while reading that... oh and I totally teared up when I found out Whitney Houston died, but The Bodyguard soundtrack was my life in the '90s. (Any questions please see track #14 from my recent blog post.) When I say cried I mean really cried. Heaving sobs. Ugly crying. Not holding back tears like I usually do because I don't want people to think I have human emotions. Or convincing people I'm okay because I don't want to seem weak. So I cried. Four car accidents in eight months and I finally cried.
4. Bargaining This one was intertwined with the depression. In the midst of sobbing I would say (Yes, I talk to myself almost constantly no matter what mood I'm in.) "Why does this keep happening to me? What did I do wrong? What am I doing wrong?" I don't believe in reincarnation or any kind of afterlife or even that there's anything bigger than me (though it could be nice... as long as they're not a jerk, which I'm beginning to think they might be) but SOMEBODY has seriously fucked up if I'm getting in all the accidents. What about the guy that doesn't pick up his dog's shit? The chick that leaves her clothes in the dressing room at Old Navy? Anyone that hits 'reply all' to an e-mail? (#1 pet peeve. I don't care what most people have to say ever, especially not complete strangers.) I'm not saying anyone deserves to be in a car accident. I'm not saying anyone deserves to be fucked over by every single insurance company involved in every single one of those accidents. I'm definitely not saying that anyone should be forced to hire an attorney just to get a measly two grand out of a multi-billion dollar corporation that destroyed their BMW and admitted fault at the scene. But I digress. I just think my accidents could be divvied up a little to the masses. JUST A LITTLE! I didn't offer up anything of myself to change what happened because, quite honestly, none of this has been my fault. This shit just follows me around. I don't need to change. Everyone else does.
5. Acceptance This one I've also seen described as "the up-turn" and that's more how I would characterize my experience. Less than an hour after my meltdown I was cooking dinner, turning the Motown play list up and rocking out. Drinking my wine, cooking my quinoa, singing Midnight Train to Georgia at the top of my lungs? Most definitely an up-turn. I was making acerbic comments to the pets (I'm house-sitting though so I don't think they get my sense of humor yet) and using a spatula as a microphone during Don't Leave Me This Way. Things were looking up. Then the dinner (and lunch for our VD (get it?) potluck at work) was all done, the dishes were done, and the wine was done. I plopped myself on the couch to watch Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta and What Not to Wear (shut up I have ovaries I can watch whatever I want. One was about a chick that works for NASA! Science and fashion! SYNERGY.) and reverted almost instantly back to:
3. Depression Crap. The crying started again. I stopped paying attention to the show and would just stare and think. Think and stare. It had been an emotionally draining couple days and another car accident was the icing on my gluten free and vegan cake. I don't know why this keeps happening and don't know how to make it stop. I can't sleep but who am I supposed to talk to at 2am? The cat and dog are NO help and I'm too much of a spaz to take any of my own advice seriously. So what does make it better? Writing. Writing always helps. It gets everything out of my brain where it usually sits in the middle of the night until an OTC sleeping aid with a wine chaser calm the voices. I have friends that don't mind my verbal diarrhea (just spelled diarrhea right on my first try. Booya.) in the middle of the night and I love them for it but they need sleep too.
So I'm hovering between stages four and five right now. And probably will for a while. At least until the third accident is settled and I can get rid of the smashed BMW that's sitting in front of my parent's house. (Another side note: if you're within two payments of owning your car get on FULL ALERT and watch out for assholes driving like dickheads. They're the WORST.) The wine helps. Friends and family helps. Exercise helps. Swearing helps. (That one's science!) I know it could be worse. I could have been hurt. I could have been paralyzed. I could have been dead. Car accidents are shit that happens. A lot of shit happens to a lot of people every day but we deal with it. We deal with it and move on. And if we can't, there's wine.
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