Just Shoot Me …

This post was written on what I think was a Saturday, but I know it was the 7th day in the month of March in the year of 2009.

I swear, this has been the week from hell, I am NOT kidding you.

First, I need to go in and see my eye doctor. My new lenses were just WRONG. I couldn’t see close up unless I physically pressed the lenses nearly right to my eye and I couldn’t see far away unless I pulled the glasses all the way to the end of my nose and titled my head back.

I could sorta/kinda see if I held my head completely straight – but any movement of any kind caused my focus to waver and after ten minutes in the damn thing I had a headache that like to killed me.

So … off to get them adjusted. The manager of the office, whom I assume has SOME sort of training dicked with them and then told me that I would have to get used to them – that it took some people longer than others to get used to them.

No. I’ve had glasses for 30+ years and bi-focals for over three. There was something wrong. The whole point behind no-line progressive bifocals is that there are less noticeable changes when changing from far away to close up. There was no way I was ever going to get used to bobbing my head in order to read a magazine page.

I asked for my old lenses and said I’d go elsewhere to find out what the problem was.

“NO!” She stood up with the glasses in her hand. “I’ll take them in back and be able to find out what’s wrong with them.

Ten minutes later she’s back and telling me that the lenses were made to the exact specs of the eye doctor.

“Well, that may be, but there is something wrong. And I am not bobbing my head around like fuzzy dog in someone’s back dash. I paid $350 out of pocket for those lenses and I NEED to be able to see.” I held my hand out. “So I’ll just be going elsewhere.”

“We can return your money if you’d like.”

Uh, sure.

“We can’t refund the charges for the exams, only for the lenses and you can’t keep the lenses.”

“Fine.” No harm, no foul (unless you want to count the three farking weeks since I GOT the damn things and the monster headaches I’d had).

She takes my frames in the back and is gone FIFTEEN minutes.

WTF.

I put them on when she brings them back, and there is a bit of distortion. I chalk that up having contacts, the new lenses and now my original lenses on my eyes all in the space of an hour.

Ten minutes after we leave the store, I am telling the story to my friends and I hold the glasses up in front of me and my friend in the back seat says, “Those lenses are different.” Just as I’m realizing that there is not ONE scratch on the right lens. The dumb bitch had put the old LEFT lens in, but not the old right lens.

I got on my cell, called the office and said to the manager, “I will be back within the hour and I would like my ORIGINAL right lens replaced in my frames.”

“Oh! I must’ve FORGOT!”

“Lady, that’s what you went back there to do. There were only two lenses, I was the ONLY customer in the place and you were gone long enough to replace the lenses in FIVE pairs of glasses.”

So … to shorten it all up, I got my money back and have to make an appointment elsewhere for new glasses.

Oh, and I will NOT be doing 20 to life in Taycheedah for murder.

Feh.

Turns out to be a good thing that I got my money back. Took the dog to the vet on Wednesday, thinking he had a bladder infection. Turns out his white blood count is elevated, his prostate (WTF?) is enlarged, he has a NASTY infection around his penile area (that means under the sheath), his allergies are acting up, his skin is terribly dry and he needs to be neutered to take care of the prostate issue.

Of all of those things, the high white blood count is what had me most worried – a sign of cancer, I know. I go home with two weeks of super antibiotics and $60 worth of shampoos.

I get a call yesterday saying he needs additional blood testing before the surgery next Thursday, bring him on Saturday.

Okay, now I’m really panicky. We can’t wait until Monday?

So I took him in today and the vet called this afternoon and said everything looks good and is a go for Thursday.

What?

Anyway, the infection is indirectly because of the enlarged prostate and the neutering will shrink the prostate and all of this (well, not the allergies and the dry skin) will go away.

JEEBUS!

This will cost me over $500 by them time all is said and done.

And after his very thorough bath, in which I had to THOROUGHLY cleanse the “penile area” he follows me around more than he did before.

I need a drink.

Randomness …

This post was written on what I think was a Wednesday, but I know it was the 4th day in the month of February in the year of 2009.

Actually, what this is gonna be is one great big, fucking bitchfest.

Hmmm … where to start.

Glasses, $357 – check. Fuck you Walmart.

My head hurts, my back hurts, my knees hurt, my wrists hurt, my fingers hurt – MY FUCKING ASS HURTS. I am well and over this feeling like shit deal.

I should die, already. Fuck me.

The dog? Fleas – uh, maybe, who the fuck knows? Spoiled or bladder infection? Who the fuck knows? I know that a vet appointment is in order. I’d like to finish the bitching first please, before I have to start hunting someone down to drive my stupid, useless ass and that of my poor dog to a vet. Fuck the dog and fuck the vet.

Which reminds me – get a fucking driver’s license already.

Get over being pissed at the county and the fat-ass cop who gave an old fucking woman a drunk driving ticket and our asshole friends who either a) get off with a warning even though it’s the bazillionth time they’ve been pulled over or b) can mange to drive after revocation without being terrified that they’ll get caught.

Just get the hell over it and get your fucking driver’s license back.

In the meantime, fuck the county, fuck Officer Fisher and fuck my wastrel, drunken friends.

Fuck the Internet, or Time Warner Cable or this useless fucking computer – whichever of the three are making it nearly impossible to get any work done today and yesterday.

Oh! My “best friend“!

Yeah, you. You said you’d take me to the eye doctor on Monday. I called you on Sunday to remind you – no answer. Let’s not forget the fucking interview you have at the salon where my sister works, where I put a good word in for you.

Yeah – fuck you.

The extensions have to go. I have enough pain without those fucking things pulling at my scalp.

Beside, who gives a ripping shit? I am old and no one cares what I look like, including my asshole of a husband who hasn’t laid a hand on me in three weeks and who can’t manage to say ten words to me when I call him on the phone.

Of course, he CAN manage to sit on the phone with my brother’s wife for a fucking half an hour on Friday night … whatever.

Fuck him, too.

And the extensions.

The only thing I don’t have to bitch about is my job.

Well, there’s something new and different.

I gotta go …

On Borrowed Time

This post was written on what I think was a Sunday, but I know it was the 3rd day in the month of August in the year of 2008.

Already into August, the summer’s gone so fast and it doesn’t feel like I’ve accomplished anything at all. It seems alll I do these days is work and sleep; I didn’t do anything interesting this summer. I didn’t even do anything with TheBug and we had plans.

Ha! Plans!

As if … plans like promises are made to be broken. Don’t let anybody tell you different.

Shooter has been gone for three days. BigD opened a window on the porch and didn’t realize that the screen was partially pulled out. He caught Marbles outside, but she came right back in when he called.

It never occured to me until the next morning that Shooter might’ve already gotten out.

Stupid.

I’ve been stanndng outside calling her every day.

I want my baby back.

I cry every time I see this stupid video.

loving/hating

This post was written on what I think was a Friday, but I know it was the 30th day in the month of May in the year of 2008.

So … wanna know what I hate? Well, not hate in the true, loathingly hostile sense of the word, but hate in the God this bugs the shit out of me sense of the word.

Shopping carts.

I actually hate a LOT of things in that “God, this bugs the shit out of me” sense of the word, but right now we’re talkin’ about the shopping carts. I don’t remember ever really thinking about shopping carts one way or another for oh, about thirty-five years or so. Except when one of my kids or my husband (that one time back in 1990, when he went Christmas shopping with me at Sears) was banging one of the bastardly things into that really thin strip of skin on the back of my foot right above the shoe. Then I thought about shopping carts a-fucking-LOT.

At some point over the past few years, some idiot – and I AM using that word in its true sense – came up with the idea of plastic shopping carts. Great big lunky Playskool® looking things. And therein lies the basis of my hatred. All sense of “adultness” flies out the window the second I slap my purse in the kiddie-seat of one of these things.

At some point, unless I am in a hurry – which is really seldom these days, I have no life to speak of – I will find myself speedwalking down an empty aisle, quietly “rrrrrr-ing” my engine, screeching into a wide turn adn “whoop-whoop-whooping” my way into the end aisle, some imaginary villain hot on the trail of my Cartmobile.

Uh, yeah, I am VERY old.

Early onset dementia is my guess.

I have to stop thinking when I’m not in arm’s reach of my keyboard (i.e., when I’m peeing, loading the washing machine or screwing). I think of the funniest things when I don’t have access to my computer; I laugh my tits off, tell myself I’ve gotta remember what I was thinking, then promptly forget whatever the hell it was that had me spraying snot from my nose.

For the record, it’s completely impossible for me to reformat your fucking hard drive if you forget to take the fucking machine out of your trunk EVERY GODDAMN TIME YOU’RE HERE!

The Nail Clipper Industry (I was actually afraid that that link was gonna lead to a seriously porno site) are making shitloads of money off this family, $1.29 at a time. I buy a nail clippers on an average of once a week. Know why? Cuz I can’t find the fucking nail clippers I bought the week before!

I hate when I spend $12.95 on a bra at WalMart and it makes TheGirls look like shit. TheGirls and my ass are the only things I have left to remind me of the days when I was passibly fuckable. Therefore, I try to showcase them to my advantage at every opportunity. I like jeans to lovingly encase my buttcheeks so that even women have been known to tell me that I have a sweet ass and I like my bras to hold TheGirls up in a semblance of their former glory. Last month I spent $12.95 (plus fucking tax) on a bra that promised to provide “great coverage and support, while lifting the bustline.” Which is utterly fucking impossible if the goddamn straps have slid off my shoulders and are sticking out of the sleeves of my shirt.

Uh … I guess this is more aout things I hate, than things I love.

Although I will leave you with this little bit of love.

more this

promised land

This post was written on what I think was a Sunday, but I know it was the 16th day in the month of October in the year of 2005.

It’s been a GREAT fucking weekend. No drama, no trauma and it rocked my fucking socks off! Though there WAS a phone call last night from one of my former co-workers asking why I was “boycotting” the bar, and telling me to come down and see her … etc. Now, I adore hell out of this kid and I realize she was half in the bag, but I’m also smart enough to know who put her up to it. Which is okay – it likely means that she is beginning to see a little reason re: this whole sitch – but … well, never mind.

I’ve run into quite a few of my regulars who say they miss the hell out of me and that things aren’t the same since I’ve been gone. That always makes me feel good. Tending bar is what I do BEST … it always HAS been. For my customers, many of whom I’ve known for my whole bartending career and who have followed me around from bar to bar, to feel that strongly about me makes me more than happy. I miss them dearly.

It’s common knowledge that BD and I seldom went out except for Friday nights after I got off work. Especially when he’s been out of town the way he has (and the way it looks like he WILL be for the next 3-4 FUCKING WEEKS). We just like to stay home and be together. Even if “together” sometimes means him in the LR watching the race and me in the bedroom watching “Cold Case Files.” We HAVE been together for the over 20 years, ya know.

Shotgun is actually FINALLY house-trained – I’m pretty sure. I almost hate to say that, it probably means that I’ll be treated to a great big steaming pile of dog-poo on the carpet sometime today, but c’est la vie, no?

He’s turning out to be a pretty good dog. I just have to remind myself that he’s just a baby yet, and that most of the stuff that Kennedy did was because he was a FULL-GROWN, adult dog. Case in point: Whenever I would give Kennedy a treat, I’d toss it at him and he’d try to catch it. Sometimes he did, a lot of times he didn’t. When I toss a treat to Shotgun, he doesn’t move just watches it sail through the air and land. Then he bends over and eats it. The look on his face is so comical though that it more than makes up for the fact that he’s too dumb to realize what he’s supposed to do.

Yes Judith, I DO have the no-line bifocals. Expensive as hell, but I am trés vain. I’m getting used to them, though, and it ROCKS that I am able to actually SEE again.

Well, people to do (just one, actually – lol), things to see … I’m out.