Look for the Girl With The Sun in Her Eyes

This post was written on what I think was a Thursday, but I know it was the 18th day in the month of February in the year of 2010.

OMG … I finally did the damn taxes today. I don’t know why I put it off for so long every year. We do TurboTax and it only takes me about an hour. One income, no kids, no itemizing – we lead a simple fucking life.

Well, I DO KNOW why I waited until today instead of doing them on Monday; I was pissed (still am) at BigD.

“Really?” you say. “No shit,” you say.

Yeah, no shit, I say.

He occasionally FORGETS who does his laundry, makes his supper five nights a week, pays the bills, deals with insurance and utilities people when they need to be dealt with and takes care of all the little stuff he TAKES FOR GRANTED. Ya know like blow-jobs and incidentals like that.

Yeah, that would be me.

That’s why when I say to him, “My car won’t start.” I expect him to do more than put the fucking battery charger on it for ten minutes, tell me he doesn’t know what’s wrong with it and tell me to call our mechanic.

Which he would NOT do if one of his buddies drove in the yard and said, “Dude, my car’s fucked, I need help.” If THAT happened, he would fire up the wood stove, move his bike and let his buddy pull his car in the garage and they’d be out there until the wee hours, working on that car.

I do NOT expect to have to try THREE FUCKING USELESS battery chargers and call my girlfriend who works for a fucking parts store for help before I remember that the ONE battery charger that works has been “on loan” since last summer.

I expect him to occasionally say, “My God, honey, you must be so tired from COUGHING ALL FUCKING NIGHT. I’ll sleep on the sofa once so you can get a good night’s rest.”

Which he actually DID last night.

And the taxes got done TODAY.

There’s a moral to that story in there somewhere.

WTF?

This post was written on what I think was a Wednesday, but I know it was the 11th day in the month of March in the year of 2009.

It’s 20 fucking degrees with 50MPH winds – what the HELL is going on here?

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 …

Ain’t It a Bitch …

This post was written on what I think was a Thursday, but I know it was the 29th day in the month of January in the year of 2009.

I never get over here unless I am frustrated beyond anything else and need a place to fucking vent.

How the fuck do I give the customer service I am known for if the companies I procure services from are slacking off?

My dog is a fucking cunt hair away from the pound or a bullet to the brain.

Every morning, between 2:30 and 3am he is standing next to bed whining. If I don’t wake up he goes and pisses on the bathroom floor.

What’s that? I should put him out before I go to bed?

Uh yeah – thanks.

Did that.

Also, he has no fucking problem sleeping through the night when my husband is home.

The middle of the night piss-fests only occur when BigD is out of town.

Pound or bullet?

Here’s a good one:

I’ve been doing one of those body cleanse deals. You know the ones, you take 8-10 fiber-rich HORSE pills a day for a week and your body gently eliminates all the toxins.

Um … yeah.

I am on day fucking twelve (that means I’m past the original seven day cleanse and have move on to the intermediate 14-day cleanse – similar to cleaning the heads of a print cartridge). I may have “eliminated” three times in the past ten days and I’m pretty sure the one time was because I drank a LOT at a friend’s coming home party.

Either I have no toxins in my body (yay-go-me), or I am impervious to the gentle “cleansing” effects of this product.

As a side-note, I can also drink a pot HIGHLY caffeinated coffee and fall asleep, so there’s that.

On a related note, I have been walking 3-4 days a week, since the beginning of October. I’m pretty fucking sure I’m GAINING weight.

WTF happened to common politeness?

When someone offers you a Diet Pepsi that they bought to have on hand just for you, is is absolutely fucking necessary to thank them, then point out the fact that you don’t drink, Diet Pepsi, that you actually AVOID Diet Pepsi?

Way to be gracious, asshole.

An observance: when someone says, “I don’t mean to be rude …” it’s a pretty sure bet that there is a buttload of assholery to follow.

What makes some people think that the country’s current shitty economy affects only them?

“I can’t afford that … the economy sucks.”

“I’m broke … can you let me have it on credit/give me a deal?”

Or the more surreptitious:

“Wow, wish I could have/do that, but I can’t afford it.”

This is usually accompanied by big, ol’ fucking cow eyes or a heart-rending sigh.

Yeah, well I can’t afford it either. And since I can’t afford it, I either start putting aside some money until I can afford it or I make a note to keep checking if the price has gone down.

Or I do without.

Novel idea, eh?

Nobody is gonna give you ANYTHING for a discount or for free just because you whine about the economy making your life difficult.

I need new glasses. My new glasses are going to cost me over $300. Guess how much I’m gonna pay for them?

Yup, exactly what my optometrist is charging me. $297 plus fucking tax.

Know why? The economy is bad and she don’t give discounts to people that whine about the economy being bad.

And I have no eye insurance.

Christ.

Do I actually give off an “I Don’t Have a Life” vibe which causes people to corral me and tell me every one of their fucking problems, annotated and in alphabetical order? Do I seem so accomplished and on top of shit that they actually believe that I might have an answer to their problems and woes?

They should do what I do – get a fucking blog to bitch in when they need to bitch and there is no one who gives any sort of a shit to listen, cuz I got news for them:

My life ain’t no big ol’ bowl of cherries and I am just as fucked up as they are.