Misery loves company, so get in here, bitches.

WARNING: This here is a post about PMS. If you have a penis or even just a weak stomach, you may want to stop reading here. This post is not intended for infants, the elderly, or basically anyone else including me. This post should not be used to mistreat or misdiagnose any exact medical conditions or any vague malaise, for that matter; if you suspect you have a horrific terminal disease, please Google your symptoms to confirm. (And if you're thinking about coming back here after diagnosing yourself with something seriously bad, like flesh-eating disease, and stealing my thunder with your complaints? You can fucking forget it. This is MY show and I will put you down with extreme prejudice.)

I am miserable. And not my regular type of miserable. The kind of miserable that calls up her BFFs Bitchy and Bloaty and they are all having a Pissy Attitude party and wearing 'I *heart* My Bad-itude' party hats and there's a matching tablecloth and banner. Did I mention the Pissy Attitude party was in my uterus? And Misery, Bitchy, and Bloaty are apparently smashing glass in there and then stomping on it. While slam-dancing. And practicing their WWE moves. Come to think of it, it's kind of like a bunch of 12 year old boys are having a sleepover.

My stomach hurts, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I don't want to eat, I can't stop eating. I stepped on the scale this morning and it said 165 lbs. Granted, I have put on 7 or 10 lbs from quitting smoking. (8 weeks today, heck yeah!) Possibly, it may also be due to factors such as eating 3.5 chocolate bars and two bags of chips in one day going a bit overboard with treats, on non-Free Day days. Really, though, I'm finding it hard enough to put down the damn fork long enough to type here. This chicken (fucking) casserole (AGAIN) is the first non-junk food thing I've eaten since breakfast. Seriously. If it weren't for drawstring work-out pants, I'd be forced to wear tight-ass jeans that would give me camel toe because of my bloated gut. Yeah, I'd pop the snap. So?

I'm cranky, and moody. One second I'm smiling and laughing, the next moment I'm the Thing What Is Trying To Kiss Sigorney Sigourney Sigurney ohfuckit The Chick In The Alien Movie. I have the best kids in the world who refuse to listen or pick up anything damn kids and I'm just a maid around here doing everything for these kids that are so awesome so Mama's handing out smoochers who wants one?

I want sex, no I don't want sex, I want sex but can you do all the work?

My face is breaking out in a giant Heater Patch with throbbing pimples everywhere. At last count, before I stopped counting, was five giant growths. On my face. One of them was like a collection of little pimples all mobbed together. I can't even exfoliate (and by that I mean "pick") because my skin is so sensitive what with all the effing PMS hormones racing around my bloodstream. I tried to pluck my eyebrows but noooooooo that hurt too much. So now I have giant Pizza face and grizzly bear eyebrows. What's that, grizzlies don't really have eyebrows because their faces are covered with hair? Yeah. Ex-ackally.

Can this stupid period just show up and put me out of my misery? The only thing worse than anticipating five days of gut-wrenching ass-dragging exhaustion is the actual gut-wrenching ass-dragging exhaustion. So can we do this already, uterus, and get it over with for another month?

A Totally Unoriginal Post

A while back, Hot Stuff called me unoriginal. Can you even imagine? Yeah, it's been rolling around in my brain, and I even made a small deal about it here.

What happened was, I had made a comment about something trivial and Hot Stuff said, "Don't say it like that, you sound just like Doreen. You always talk like your friends. Don't you have your own voice? You're so unoriginal."

Well, excuse the shite out of me.

You know what? I do sound like my friends. I pick up their little turns of phrase, their inflections, and their particular word choices, and I use them as my own. Usually, I sound like whichever friend I am talking to at that moment. Unconsciously (until now, obviously), I have been mimicking my friends. I never did it in a mocking way, I just did it.

Here's the really funny part: I see now that I have done it here, too. On my blog. Think you and I have a lot in common? We do. It's because I read you and like you and I have unconsciously taken your style of writing and added it to the mishmash of everything else I read and when I write something, a little bit of everyone shows up.

It's all about empathy: imitation is directly linked to building empathy. If I imitate you, then I will learn to better understand you, and therefore, I will have a better understanding of more people in the world. It's an automatic social behaviour.

If you see yourself here, do not be offended. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. I'm not copying you or "homaging" you or any of that bullshit. I am connecting with you, and I am subconsciously absorbing your style in order to bond better with you.

Don't you feel special now?

Bedbugs, Bath, & Beyond

I don't know what is going on.

Yesterday, I was bullied by a daddy long legs in my daughter's room. Right before I went to bed, I read a newspaper article that said bedbugs are coming back with a vengeance. There are two moths that live on the wall in my upstairs bathroom. While I was in bed, a third moth flew in my face.

Today, one of my facebook friends found a BLACK WIDDER spider in her pantry. Also, I was completely creepered out by booshy's story. My daughter brought me a beetle by carrying it in her hand.

I wrote a post about Creepy Crawlies awhile ago. Just to refresh: I don't like bugs. I am afraid of bugs. However, it is against my spiritual beliefs to kill living things unless they give me a good reason, and fear just isn't a good enough reason. The only exceptions to that rule are:
A) My kids, because they give me lots of good reasons, but I'm (probably) going to let them live,
B)Mosquitoes, which I kill because they are an annoyance (not technically a good reason, but whatever), and
C) Any creeper, crawler, or flier that actually touches me, because then my phobia overrides my belief system and killing it is more like a reflex than intentional violence.

I fear the karmic retribution of killing bugs; specifically, that a large army of bugs will march in formation up my bedspread while I am in bed one night. Is all of this some kind of ominous warning or foreshadowing of events to come?

I am starting to get freaked out here, Universe. Do you want me to have a nervous breakdown?

Letters of Intent, Friday Sep 24/09

Letters of Intent is brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. Skip on over to her site and don't forget to bring your white-out.

Dear Government of Alberta,

This letter is in regards to the recent Child Tax Benefit* and GST Credit* assessment notices you sent me. Both letters state that I am not eligible because of my total family net income for 2008. Just in case no one has told you, and your computers are on the fritz, I wanted to point out that it is now 2009.

If I am reading these rejection letters correctly, it says that you are going to base my eligibility for Child Tax (and therefore, daycare subsidy) and GST for this year on income that was earned last year. Please note, last year's money has already been spent. We irresponsibly frittered it away on things like food, clothing, and shelter. There isn't any of it left for this year.

Frankly, Gov't of AB, your assessment criteria sucks. In today's economy, the financial stability of the common family fluctuates on a month-to-month, sometimes week-to-week, basis. How can you base eligibility and/or financial need using data that was only accurate 9 months ago? Does it not make more sense to use current financial information; say, income over the last six months or so?

I draw your attention to 2009; as you can see from our payroll taxes submitted so far this year, our income is much closer to take a penny than leave a penny.

I believe that I am entitled to special treatment, as I consider myself quite a unique snowflake, here for a short time but making the world better everyday. You guys go right ahead and bend the rules for me; just base my daycare subsidy on family income for the last six months (instead of on family income for all of 2008) so I qualify, and I will stop being Princess Pissypants about the whole thing. I would very much like to go back to work part-time and bring in some money, but we can't afford daycare for three children.

If you are not prepared to give me daycare subsidy, I will still (grudgingly) accept Child Tax Benefit and GST Credit in the form of direct deposit to my bank account. Again, with the entirely reasonable assessment criteria I have suggested, I will qualify. My bank account will always be ready to receive your funds, should there be any left after everyone in the various levels of your government has charged enough hookers to their expense accounts and diverted enough taxpayer money to their personal slush funds.

I will not be holding my breath waiting for your response. Benefit re-assessments will be done next July, so I am sure I will be hearing from you next September.

Insincerely,

Stone Fox

*For my American friends, and also rich Canadian friends (bastards): child tax credit is a tax credit that the government pays monthly to families who qualify based on income and number of kids. GST credit is a monthly credit that the government pays to anybody who qualifies based on income. Amounts paid are dependent on income.

In the words of my best friend, Doreen, "Do you want me to punch you in the head?"

Hot Stuff is the only person in my real life who knows I have a blog. Not even my sister or my best friends know about it: I am debating whether or not to tell them. So far, I have kept it private for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I want to be able to write what I want, when I want, about whomever I want. Secondly, I was a bit afraid my friends would think my writing was stupid.

I have come to realize that I am no less honest in real life than I am on my blog. I thought if people I knew in real life were reading, I might feel like I had to change the style or content so I don't offend anyone. You know what? The people who love me, love me. My people will tell me if their feelings get hurt. They know I'm tactless, blunt, and inappropriate. I make jokes about sensitive subject matter in real life way more that I do on my blog. At least here, I can edit out the really piss-poor stuff. All the other peripheral people in my real life who would be offended? They can kiss my ass if they don't like it.

As for being afraid my friends would think less of me because of my lack of mad writing skillz, well, I think that might just be a wee touch of the fear of failure/rejection that everyone has. They are my friends. They are my friends because they like me. Chances are, they would like the way I write.

I know what Doreen would say about all of this: "Do you want me to punch you in the head? Because I would gladly do that for you."

~~~~~~~

Last night, Hot Stuff came home with his chest all puffed out like he was cock of the walk ('cock' *snicker*) because the girl at the dry cleaners hit on him when he went in to drop off his work clothes. The conversation:

"The hottie at the dry cleaner's hit on me today."

"Mm-hmm. I'm sure she did honey."

"No, but she did. Seriously."

What did she say, exactly?"

"She said, 'MMMM.. You smell great!'"

"Oh yeah? What did you say?"

"And I taste even better."

Please refer to title of post.

~~~~~~~

Do you know anybody who deserves a punch in the head today?

How the Princess Got Borned.

Back in 'ought-seven, I calved for the second time in my life, and this time the fruit of my labor had a vagina of her own.

Just to back up a bit, when I found out we were having a girl, my first feeling was one of panic. A girl? What am I going to do with a girl? I don't know about girls. I'm not a girly-girl. What if she wants to get a mani/pedi or something? Ohmygod, whatamIgonnado? Because, yes, newborn baby girls frequently want to go get mani/pedis with their mothers - practically seconds after they come shooting out, they want to go visit a nail salon. Definitely a top priority for babies who still smell like vagina.

This labor was my introduction to induced labor. It was also the shittiest experience of my life. I love my kid, I would do it all again, blah blah, so on and so forth, but COME ON. SURELY modern medicine has a better way to git 'er done than an evil, evil thing known only as the insert.

Sidenote: I am not afraid of needles. I am deathly afraid of epidurals. Don't be messing with my back, yo. I don't want to end up wheeling my baby around because some cracked out doctor zigged when he should have zagged while inserting the epidural needle.

At my 39 week check up, the nurse scheduled me for an induction, "Only if you don't go on your own, which you probably will!! Most women do!!" Back all up offa me, crazy bitch, I'm 10 months jacked on pregnancy hormones and you definitely do not want to piss off this water buffalo. Of course there was no natural labor start for me; I end up going into the hospital on my scheduled day and get the insert. It looks like a tiny piece of paper on a string. And, it gets inserted. Let me interject some truth here. The insert, although it appears innocuous, is really a tiny scrap of paper that has been soaked in gasoline and prune juice, and rolled in jagged shards of glass. The jagged shards of glass actually turn into tiny creatures once it is inserted, and the tiny creatures run throughout your uterus repeatedly stabbing at the walls with their little homemade shivs. Then it gets worse.

After the insert was placed, I went home and walked. And tried to sleep. And walked some more. I walked along a dirt road that borders a field in front of our house; 2km down the road and back. That was the most excruciating walk I have ever done. I stayed at home until about 4pm, at which time I returned to the hospital feeling extremely uncomfortable and contracting every 3 or 4 minutes. They checked me in and I pretty much hung around until my doctor came to see me at 10-ish. When I first arrived at the hospital, I was about 2cm. When the doctor arrived, I was still 2cm. In order that I might start progressing, the doctor broke my water.

At midnight, I was still not progressing; the next step in this zany misadventure was to be hooked up to a Pitocin drip. Pitocin is the "common" name of the drug, the "trade" name (actual chemical name) is: Cocktail of Liquefied Splinters, Evil Ghosts, and A Giant's Hand Reaching Into Your Body and Squeezing Your Uterus And Punching Your Lungs.

Thankfully, I was in great hands. I had a senior nurse and a student nurse. Sr. Nurse was an old-timer with 24 years in maternity nursing; she didn't take any shit, and she didn't wanna hear no whining. Student Nurse was a 25 year old girl with some relevant life experience; she was pregnant with her 4th child at the time.

A night of sheer misery ensued. Being on the Pitocin meant being constantly hooked up to the fetal heart monitor. (I'm not sure why. Now they just hook you up for a certain amount of time every hour, don't they?) Being on constant fetal heart monitoring meant strict bedrest. I cannot begin to describe how awful it is to be in active back labor and stuck in bed. I could not walk. I could not bounce. I could not even pee. Every two hours I could be disconnected from the monitor and allowed to roll onto my other side. Since Demerol worked okay for me with the Hurricane, I assumed it would work again this time. WRONG. Demerol didn't even take the edge off.

At just after 5 in the morning, the senior nurse came in and checked me. Nothing. Hanging around at 4cm. She asked me if I was having pushing pains. At that exact second, I was not, and so advised her. Six seconds later, I was having pushing pains. Hot Stuff noticed the cords and veins standing out on my neck as I tried to breathe through a pushing-pain contraction, and called the nurse back in. Have you ever had a catheter inserted? For your first time, do not pick the exact moment your cervix decides to pop open like a meth-addicted jack-in-the-box.

Sidenote: Hot Stuff actually had the nerve to catnap during the night. I am surprised he didn't die in his sleep from all the Death Glares I was shooting at him during the two hours at a time that I was facing him.

Some words of comfort from my senior nurse during this hardest part of labor: "There is no way in hell your doctor is going to make it before this kid is born. You mind if I just go ahead and deliver you?" You mean, I have a choice? Like, if I want, I can keep going through the torture that is back labor? Well, hell yeah. Sign me up!

After about fifteen minutes of pushing, the Princess arrived and began ruling over her fiefdom at 5: 36am. We cooed. I cried, a little bit. No Korean women came bursting in the room to push back our cuticles or buff off the dead skin of our feet.

The doctor, who indeed did not make it to the party in time, arrived just after the Big Event to weigh the baby, check her over, etc. After baby was declared awesome (I have seen the actual Apgar sheets for my girl, and yes, the boxed marked 'Awesome' is checked), the doctor dragged the senior nurse outside of the room and started yelling at her about not paging him soon enough. Like I said, that senior nurse did not take shit. From anyone. Not even the doctor. She handed him his ass verbally and walked back in, smiling. Hearing two medical professionals duke it out really made up for my shitty night.

I mean, having a baby was good, too, though.

First time's free, then you gotta pay.

I'm not really sure what I was thinking. Oh yeah, I was thinking, "I love my sheeple! I want to talk to them in the comments! I will get me some comment thingy that will let me reply to comments."

I'm not really sure why I thought I could get that sort of thing for free. In my rush to get what I want, notnowbutrightnow, I did not read the fine print. Or the medium print. Or, likely, even the large print.

ECHO is not free, and I am not paying $12/month. It was fun while it lasted.

I promise not to screw around with my blog anymore. For a little while, at least.

Thanks for your patience.

The Management