The Meaning of life and other lies

OK, so while I'm waiting for the Benadryl to kick in (you didn't think I was actually over this whole allergy-thing, did you?) I thought I'd reflect on the past few weeks since I had surgery.

My counselor (therapist) says that everything changes after surgery.  At first I didn't believe him; I mean, I'm me, I still live in the northern part of a major metro area, I still drive the same pickup, and I still co-own the same clinic.  I still love organic meats and fruit/veggie smoothies.  I still love eclectic music of various kinds.  My family and friends were still, well, THEM.

But in a way, my counselor was right.  Things HAD changed.  Let's chronicle a couple, shall we?

I learned that I like my work, but that it stresses me out.  I shit you not--I saw my first patient since before my absence, and wow.  Did. I. Feel. Like. An. Airhead.  Asking around those who'd had hysterectomies before me, they said, "oh yeah.  You'll be fine around the house but when it comes time to do your regular work, you'll feel cloudy."  Well, I figured that was code for, "milk it, baby." 

But they weren't lying!  Yessir, I can sure change out a House MD DVD from the box set (Seasons 1 through 5, if you must know) and I can apply Super Antioxidant cream to my incisions but boy howdy, don't ask me an upper-level question involving patient care where I have to consider biochemistry.  Yeah....no.  I don't think on my feet these days.  You might say I think on my butt.

I learned that I'm a total and complete glutton for getting my hair combed...with someone else's fingers.  Oh my goodness, can we say sublime?  Yes, C, even if you were just doing your thing, it was probably the single bestest therapeutic modality we could utilize.  Don't tell Erchonia, but it even beat out their laser.

It didn't take long to find myself in the frustrating position of being able to do everything a little bit, but nothing completely.  For example, when changing out the bathroom trash, I could get the new bag open and into the trash can; I could not situate it properly, like getting the edge of the bag around the lip of the can.  Nope.  Psych!

I was surprised that I could take stairs as easily and quickly as I did.  But when they say "no lifting", they mean it!  Anything more than a half-gallon of almond milk was too much for me.

I learned the hard way not to laugh during the first few weeks.  As in, the Yellow Puddle Hard Way.  That obviously meant a moratorium on belching and watching Family Guy.

My appetite has changed, too.  I don't eat like a horse anymore.  I don't have to; I'm not feeding fibroid parasites anymore.

But I'm not sure that even the above is what my counselor had in mind when he said everything changes.  He's not just talking about my new ironing-board belly, either (although I wish that was the extent of the changes!)  I think he's referring more toward deep stuff like the meaning of life.

I woke up.  But there's always a possibility that one might not.   Hell, just read Robin Cook's "Coma".  While I was surprisingly OK with dying if that's what came to pass, I was vehemently against the idea of living like a vegetable should something go catastrophically awry.  So I voiced my contingency Plan B in no uncertain terms.

Everything else?  Is somewhat the same.  Work is different.  The clinic doesn't yet feel like half-mine again.  I feel funny asking my front desk person to do anything for me, even though we're the ones that sign the paychecks.  Everything ran so smoothly without me.

My marriage?  That's the same, too.  We watched TV in the evenings before and we are again.  We didn't have much physical or affectionate contact before, and we don't now.  But I feel differently about it now.  I felt somewhat ambivalent about that before, mostly because I had given up on the idea after more than a decade of attempted heart-to-heart talks.  But now I'm not so ambivalent.  I've now tasted physical touch again, and I realize I crave it, like any other human being.  Those two weeks were enough to awaken something.  We need to be touched.  We'd trade food or other basic needs in order to get touched.  So, something will eventually have to give.

My friendships?  One is much deeper now, at least from my end.  I mean, it was pretty depth-enhanced before, but now I've found the abyss, in a very good way.  Sort of in an Honorary Family Member sort of way.

For now, I live in my mental anticlimactic cloud, my brain scrounging for whatever dopamine it can find leftover from this month's psychological party.  And I dutifully make regular appearance in my counselor's office.  The Silver Lining Moment is: I'm tiny now :)

They don't have going-away parties for uteruses

But in hindsight, I sure as hell might have. You see, I wasn't ever going to make use of that particular organ anyway, so it was just taking up space without even paying any rent. Not that I'm implying that I rent out my body.

Okay, moving on. Back to the uterus. It's gone. See ya. Ciao. Sayonara. And you know what? Good riddance. My uterus is one particular body part that Mother Nature boldly assigned to me without ever consulting me first. Because if She had, she would've known that I was vehemently against the idea of ever making use of it. Waste of space, if you ask me.

Moving on again. The surgery was monumental. I squeaked by with the DaVinci (high-tech robotic assistance) by the skin of not only my teeth, but possibly someone else's, too. It almost didn't happen that way, because (as happens with many ladies), the gravity of the situation often isn't 100% apparent until the surgeon actually goes in and looks around for him-/herself. And as "luck" would have it, the situation is often worse--not better--than originally thought.

I'm thanking my lucky stars right now that there was never any known endometriosis. I'm crossing my fingers that things stay that way. I'm also thanking my lucky stars that the gas pain has, for the most part, cleared out and that I have no more insomnia than usual. In case you're wondering about that gas pain, we're not leading up to any fart jokes here. Oh how I wish we were! No, this was many shades worse; abdominal gas refers to the idea that each hysterectomy patient is essentially a balloon to be inflated during the procedure. It does make things easier in the long run. It just sucks for a while, especially since there is no other relief than to let it dissipate (absorb) back into the body on its own. Yay. (Which means, though, that it DOES get better with time and without any effort on your part. <--Silver Lining Moment)

Waking up from surgery was kind of like waking up in a body prison in which nothing worked right, my vision was blurry, I couldn't talk properly. and I couldn't take a deep enough breath due to the pain of the abdominal gas (see Silver Lining Moment above).

I'm surprisingly mobile considering what I've been through but not nearly as flexible and ambulatory as I had come to take for granted in normal life. I must be careful and deliberate with each movement and stay focused on the movement I'm trying to make lest I hurt myself, but other than that, I'm okay as long as I don't overdo it.

Yeah, overdoing it. That's a subjective term, tricky, because it means different things for different ladies. Suffice it to say that I won't be swinging from tree branches or shot-putting bowling balls down the alley any time soon. Those parts of my life are perpetually paused for a little while. (Although the tree branch swinging does sound fun.)

So bye-bye uterus. Off you go to the path lab so that they can (hopefully) tell me all those fibroid tumors are benign and I can go about my daily life, one achy but cherished step at a time.

Step right up

I meant to write about this last month, but life took over and since I'm the proud owner of a forced vacay, I thought I'd catch up on some much-needed blogging.

Last month, we visited the lush, Great Green North that is southwestern Alberta, Canada. The trip's purpose was sort of an all-in-one kill-a-flock-with-one-stone. Not only was it my sister's wedding reception (at least, the Calgary stop on the tour, which I think was the flagship party), but it was also our family's last season as owners of the family business, That Which Has a Cult Following Despite That It's Just Concessions At Fairgrounds (which would make an awesome assumed name, aka d/b/a, BTW). Oh--and it was also the Calgary Stampede's 100th Year Anniversary, with promises big enough to match the hairstyles of the '80s (multiply that by a few factors, since Calgary is Canada's Dallas of sorts).

It was mostly what I expected - we stayed at my sister's house so that we could cook real food and have a quiet, safe, convenient base of operations (and by convenient I mean that from her door to the fairground gates was 35 minutes or less, which includes several changes of bus/train and all waiting therefor). The fairgrounds had undergone a few layout changes over the years as I had come to expect. (In fact, I was surprised at how little had changed.) As in years past, everywhere we went, we overheard a mention of the little donuts that thankfully gripped the nation in some sort of mind-bender. West Edmonton Mall was as I had left it, other than a revamp of Fantasyland (now Galaxyland, after murmurings of a Disney lawsuit). The Killer Coaster was still there, as was Bourbon street. We stayed a night in Edmonton, in a little hotel that donned a poster in its entryway that read something along the lines of, "exchange of unauthorized bills is prohibited". The elevator broke during our stay, holding several people hostage between floors until it was fixed, instilling further gratitude that we were only there for one night.

Then we went to a park and rec area akin to a Banff alternative of which I won't name so that I don't fuck it up for others. A river ran through it, and the water was chilly for July until I remembered that this was Canada, after all.

What I did not expect, however, were the bewildered tears I shed on the homebound flight home just before it left the Calgarian runway. I suppose I did feel its creep up behind me during the interlude of "Superman's Dead" during the Our Lady Peace concert on our last night there. I tried to figure it out. What was I crying for? The best I could piece together was that it was hitting home, the fact that this entire chapter of my life was done. Finished. Gone. Soon to be a figment of my imagination and memory. And its life was as fragile as my memory.

What else surprised me was that that feeling lingered well into the first few days home. "Superman's Dead", "Clumsy" (also by Our Lady Peace) and "Stereo" (by the Watchmen) all took up their own nests in my brain, taking unrelenting turns occupying my head.

I realized that this country (the US) does depress me a little. Arriving home I realized how generally barbaric, rude, entitled, and politically polarized we all are. We're not content with the middle of the road, with the happy medium, or with being happily average. We simply must stand out from the crowd in some way (or multiple ways), even if the attention we demand is negative. We must sport strangely shaped and/or colored vehicles, opinionated bumper stickers, collegiate affiliations, religious leanings, family decals on the vehicle's back window bragging about our offspring and their crea8tive names or name spellings.

And I realized that as badly as I didn't want to be a part of that anymore, that I just wanted that happy medium where everyone was generally good and polite, that I was stuck in this polarized hellhole of opposite extremist tendencies and the insatiable need to broadcast them to the world. Canada's too smart to have Fox News, you know? I might've liked to start over up there. But too many roots hold me here and there is no way out.

Whatever happened to my plans indeed.

Adventures in babysitting

Aptly named because that's what it feels like I've been doing. I have had, essentially, a teenager representing my office. Well hell, what else would you call a hostile, vulgar drama queen without the sense to at least try to hide the Facebook addiction from me during work hours? Thought so.

And oooh, did Mama Bear ever get defensive! Rather than imagine for one second the idea that getting rid of this malignant tumor might've actually been a last resort, lest we disturb our relationships with people whose faces we stand a good chance of seeing in the parking lot every day, and lest we find ourselves without a receptionist, and in the cumbersome position of having to search for, identify, acquire, and train a brand-new one...from scratch.

The only way this little darling couldn't have seen this coming is if she was either purposefully ignoring the series of clue-by-fours pistol-whipping her on a weekly basis from the top-down (maybe thinking she could charm her way around them), or doing her best impression of an ostrich clutching an iPad, or her socio-psychological past is so fucked up that the only way to get through to her is to holler at her, clocking her upside the head for punctuation. Occasionally the fleeting temptation was fun to imagine sometimes, but considering our families started walking upright many generations ago, it wasn't going to materialize, so don't bother getting all lawyerly on me.

While I can understand and appreciate someone's dysfunctional past and subsequent scarring that comes out in the form of hostility and overcompensation for past hurts, repeat after me: it's not my problem.

Yep, that's right. It doesn't give anyone the right to bring it into my office or ignore our disciplinary actions, subsequent ongoing training, on-the-fly advice/directions, or what have you. My clock, my office, my rules.

My significant other, too. Oh yes, the plot thickens, because yes, she did try to go there. Consciously or not. And it would've been one thing for him to be the only one to say that, but it seemed to be a recurring theme among several PATIENTS in the first few days following her departure. NOT cool, but definitely damage-controllable.

The funny part is, I have no need to get revenge. Why? Because 1) I'm civilized and mature, and 2) the best "revenge" (if you could call it that) is to live well. During the first 72 hours after we fired this little chickadee, we reactivated about 5 patients, got 5 new patients scheduled, FILLED my available appointment times such that my significant other will have to pick up some slack, and got more paperwork packets returned to me properly in 2 days than I had in 2 months.

Meanwhile, Generation Y self-described homewrecking Brat and Barfly Mama are still bickering like cats and dogs on their way to buy yet another needless glittery purse, blaming others for their own mistakes, and leading shitty lives that will ultimately go nowhere, because they're not smart enough to learn from those mistakes.

To them I say Fuck You and Good Riddance. You don't have a CLUE as to how utterly relieved I am that my office is no longer held hostage by your juvenile crap. Good luck repeating your same patterns at your awaiting string of low-end jobs; I hope that you smarten up long enough to learn from at least ONE of your mistakes.

I've got the power

Despite all my rage, I am still just a chick with what would be a hot-esque body if I didn't have a Buddha belly in the making. I realized that I was otherwise semi-hot by looking in the full length mirror, side-profile, as I was working out. Dang, I'm lean. Oh, except for the baby bump. Yeah, about that... 9 weeks from today and counting.

But that's neither here nor there. About that mirror, while working out. Yeah, I did it - I joined a gym. I realized I needed to start working out. Again. Yeah, I know this ain't my first rodeo; we've done this before. But I'm serious this time.

What's changed, you ask? Glad you asked. Well, the biggest key factor is, I now know that getting rid of my belly by working out, eating right, and taking supplements alone isn't going to happen. No, you cannot dissolve tumors--not even benign ones--with a healthy menu and a treadmill, even if you throw some bad-ass supplements into the mix. So I'm kind of off the hook, and I have other, more promising options waiting for me in the golden light at the end of the tunnel.

So why return to the weight room? The reason is simple: I want to FEEL better. How's that? Of course, I wouldn't mind looking well-cut, either. It'd be nice if someone looked at me and said, "wow, she takes her vitamins." Why does Nadia have all the fun? But no, really, my brain wakes up after I've worked out. It jolts to life and suddenly I can think again. Suddenly I can make jokes again. And yet, as pumped as I am, I can sleep better that night.

It's fun to unleash my Inner Jock. Like an estranged lover, I've missed it for years. I like lifting weights with such effort that I sweat and breathe hard. I like grunting and counting my reps out loud. I like watching my arms flex even when I'm working my legs. I love moving the pin up to load heavier weights. I like feeling the burn. I like the slightly nauseated, definitely appetite-suppressed feeling. I like it when my legs feel like jelly when I leave the gym. And, sickly enough, I like the growing soreness that peaks on the second day that makes it a little tough to get up and walk and reminds you that you're building muscles you forgot you had.

I try and vary it up. I might not even have strictly divided upper or lower body days. I might do a combo. I might do squats, pecs, triceps and abs (including obliques) on one day, wait a day for recovery, and then do calf raises, bicep curls, hand squeezes, and lat pulldowns the next day. Then I might do abductors, adductors, some slow kicks (glutes!), and some forearm work after that.

I've realized I'm allergic to cardio, though. Don't laugh; I did fine with 30 min on a treadmill, but not 35 - and I had a huge histamine release for the entire next day. So do not try that at home. Seriously, ditch the bike unless you're going to build strength with resistance or something. But don't pummel yourself with aerobics. You are not a hamster.

So this time, it's not about losing weight. That'll happen on its own in due time, provided my body is functioning properly and I'm truly healthy. It won't happen until then, though. One could say that getting healthy is a prerequisite to losing weight. This time it's all about the feeling good, the general physical conditioning and fitness. Exercise? Fuck that, it's a bad word. I prefer words like "fitness", "physical activity", and "play". There; doesn't that sound more fun? "Exercise" sounds like a life sentence.

It's still me, a water bottle, and my iPod. But this time, my head is on straight and it's part of a larger plan.

Little-known music scenes that could, Part Deux

Since it's been, oh, about two and a half years since I wrote the first post about obscure music scenes and I've stumbled upon quite a bit more music since then, I thought it'd be neat to update and add on to that original post. Without further adieu...

If shoegaze music hit the spot, then one might find a modern, updated solace in today's nu-gaze movement. Relegated to Clearchannel and Infiniti-owned corporate radio, you wouldn't think shoegaze had survived the the grunge era that began in 1991, but guess what: it did! And, amid today's indie music scenes, Lady Gaga, teen Emo, and computer vectoring, it's making both a comeback and a reincarnation. Just as the '60s Paisley psychedelic movement gave birth to the shoegaze scene, shoegaze has now spawned the Nu-gaze scene. It's lovely indeed. Throw in hints of indie and a little electro and you've got it. Yummy examples include: MGMT, Ringo Deathstarr, Radio Dept, and A Place To Bury Strangers.

Sure, we eluded to the Asian Underground movement in which modern electronic beats are infused with traditional ethnic tribal percussion, instrumentation, and vocals. Groups such as Loop Guru and Banco De Gaia were given mention. I hope Makyo was, too - if not, we'll pay him his due. What we didn't pay much homage to was India's faster electronic music scene: Goa trance. Apparently there is an entire cultural scene constructed around India's Goa coast, in which several tourist destination clubs play fast, ultra-modern electronic music that provides the perfect backdrop to which to drop copious amounts of acid (and probably Ecstasy). I don't profess to know much about the drugs involved, but I do know that at least some of the music is pretty spankin' cool. Excellent sampling includes Vibrasphere, Hallucinogen, and 1200 Micrograms.

OK, we've talked around it long enough - indie and electronic music - now, let's just marry the two shall we? Oops, someone beat us to it: Indietronica. Yes, that perfect blend between indie music and electronic. Why didn't I think of that? Scrumptious favorites include Hot Chip, Caribou (formerly known as Manitoba before some unrelated douchebag threatened legal action), Bear In Heaven, LCD Soundsystem, and Tori y Moi. Perfect for either a drive around San Antonio or a meal at Chipotle.

We mentioned Latin American music last time, but we were only dimly aware of any such rock en espanol from Spain itself. Turns out, Spain is to Mexico and Latin America what Great Britain and the rest of the UK are to the US - sort of a sophisticated new-wave bellweather to be emulated and deservingly adored. And it is - upon exploring further, we found that Radio Futura, Los Secretos, and Los Elegantes serve as just a few fantastic representatives.

I don't know how I stumbled upon it, but somehow I found Gogol Bordello. Then I discovered that the rabbit hole goes far deeper, into an entire genre known as Gypsy punk, which shares many common ties with various Balkan music styles, including Balkan flamenco. Besides Gogol Bordello (an Americanized example), other examples include Firewater and Balkan Beat Box. Mmmmm. Perfect for a rabble-rousing rebellion!

Ahh, yes - we said the magic word: flamenco. Specifically, flamenco nuevo. An absolutely delish subgenre that takes the flamenco of yore and gives it a contemporary cleanup. Some may argue that it is a bit too sanitized and that it lacks some of the anguish and passion of the former flamenco. But critics can suck it, because flamenco nuevo isn't trying to yodel until all hours of the morning about some lost love or bullfight. In fact, the best artists don't utilize vocals at all. Apt representing artists include: Govi, Armik, Struntz & Farah, Ottmar Leibert, Incognito, and many, many others. Perfect for a South Texan medical office...yeah.

I mentioned something about having discovered all this no thanks to American radio, and unfortunately that still holds true. I uncovered all these genres by exploring places like Spin magazine, various blogs, friends' recommendations, college radio playlists, and P2P sampling (including promo only CDs from the extensive collections of enthusiasts). With all these emerging alternate avenues, American radio is losing its grip and we are no longer products to be sold and held hostage.

That girl needs therapy

Maybe you remember the college radio hit "Frontier Psychiatrist" by the Avalanches, or maybe you don't. Regardless, it's a bizarre, repetitive song, that is still somewhat addicting and satisfying if you're in that kind of a mood. You know, the kind of mood in which blending modern psychiatry with the neighing horsey sounds of the Old West Frontier really hits the spot.

So anyway, after a long hiatus (read: near the end of the last century) I've decided to seek counseling again. And like practically everyone else out there, I've got lots of material to work with, plenty to keep us busy for a while.

1) I'm still grieving over Katie, the 17-year-old calico feline roommate and foster fur-kid that infused joy into our lives from 2000 until her sudden death in mid-2002. At first I thought that my level of grieving might be abnormal, but I'm learning that grief is a form of love, and as long as I still love her (which I always will), I will always grieve. Now we just have to transform that into a healthy grieving and not something debilitating.

2) I've got massive health issues. I've tried not to turn this blog into a periodic chronicle of my health ups and downs, because I think that one of the unhealthiest things to do is to focus on your problems and allow them to become too large and too comfortable a part of your life. This isn't to say they should be stuffed down, ignored, and attempted to be forgotten, but it does mean that they should not bring you any satisfaction that you'd hesitate to give up should you get better.

That being said, I have confirmed Celiac Disease, Leaky Gut, chronic iron-deficiency anemia, adrenal dysregulation, hypothyroidism of unknown nature (we do know it's not secondary or tertiary), heavy Th-2 immune dominance, massive food intolerances and cross reactions, and nerve-damage hearing loss. We also suspect that I'm making antibodies to my cerebellum and God(dess) knows what else. And we strongly suspect that the hearing loss is autoimmune in nature, too. Not to mention minor bouts of depression, anxiety, and irritability, and a completely neuroplastic loop that prevents me from taking sleep for granted. And the brain fog and fibroids refuse to be ignored.

3) STRESS, and the precursor boundary issues/guilt/service mentality, etc that plague myself and my side of the practice every day. Not to mention financial issues, the dietary and social deprivation that comes from following such a strict diet, etc.

4) Self-confidence issues, no doubt rooted long ago as a very small child. The Alcoholism and Co-dependency duo was alive and well in my family and its effects persisted and lingered longer than I care to imagine.

5) Lack of consistent affection in my marriage. Don't get me wrong, my spouse is wonderful and shows love in alternate ways. I just wish that some of those ways included the easiest and most obvious - a little verbal action with some non-sexual hugs and whatnot.

6) Total lack of sex - imagine an ecosystem in which sex is the plant and animal LIFE and activity. Now imagine a desert, completely devoid of any sign of life except maybe a brave scorpion or two. Yep, that's us. I've long been a take-it-or-leave-it kind of person, but I'm increasingly realizing that I'm probably missing something.

7) General distrust in my marriage. I know for a fact that my spouse will not run away with the office staff or anything like that. But I've lived out that scenario that nobody wants to face in which my spouse finally came to me and told me that we were now 5 figures in credit card debt. My spouse had been hiding all debt from me up until then. There were several other scenarios like that - smaller ones in which additional student loans were taken out to cover bills and whatnot.

8) Ultra-sensitivity when it comes to suffering, especially of the innocent, especially of the animal variety, and especially of cats or dogs. To the point where the deep pain it causes me can be either a minor nuisance in my daily life or a debilitating, potentially-fatal weight.

Now the good news:

1) I've been in therapy before, so I know what to expect and what not to expect. I've also gained some tools already from that previous therapy, which means I have something to start with.

2) I'm decent at verbalizing my emotions and thoughts, being candid and honest, and examining myself.

3) Neither of us are chemically dependent, terminally ill, wanted by law enforcement, mentally incapacitated, adulterous, unemployed, or abusive.

4) We don't have children, jobs we hate, a stressful commute, or a dangerous neighborhood.

5) We're not TOTALLY broke anymore.

6) We have good heads on our shoulders and above-average intelligence (I think I can safely say that these days without coming off as elitist).

7) We have each other.

I have (realistically) high hopes for this. We shall see!

Halos & pitchforks: Round 2

Remember that little ditty about the kudos and the smackdowns from last year?  That was the post where I gave credit where credit was due (i.e. to good entities for doing something right) and called out the entities who were acting like idiots.  Well, I thought I'd give an encore.  Because, you know, I've got more shit to say.

Halos go out to Little Aussie Bakery, who has just reformulated the vast majority of their gluten-free recipes to be ALSO dairy-free, egg-free, and soy-free as well.  (There are some exceptions but they are few and far between.)  Many of us are cross-reactive to dairy, egg, and soy.  And it just so happens that the flours they use are ones I can have!

Pitchforks to the stupid web browsers for whom underlining a misspelled word is not enough; they must also auto-correct it FOR you as if you don't know where the backspace key is.  (And maybe, just maybe, you *meant* to spell the word that way.  In which case, you now have to go back and change it back to the way you originally had it.)

Halos go out to the city/state planners/engineers who are constructing a large continuous overpassing interchange between US 281 and SH 1604.  We need it already but thankfully, they didn't wait until the area became a COMPLETE clusterfuck before starting the project; they're on it NOW.

Pitchforks to YouTube, who is now inserting 15- to 30-second ads EVERY-fucking-where.  Yes, even the music "video" that is nothing but an audio track played to a static grainy cellphone-camera picture of the album cover - apparently those are getting bombarded with ads, too.

Kudos to the lady at the Quest lab draw station who took 8--yes, *8* tubes of blood from my arm this morning without bruising or causing lasting pain.  We'll see if we need to send pitchforks to the powers that govern the test results heheheh.

Pitchforks to people who emigrate to the US from Europe and think all their healthcare should be "free" here, too.  Please feel free to emigrate back if you don't like it here.

Pitchforks to fucking Google and Facebook who want in your business, in your face, and in your pants, tracking every little move you make on the internet.  Bite me.  Google turned "evil" the minute they thought about going public, and Facebook has always been evil, run by the sniveling, condescending, sociopathic little shit known as Mark Fuckerberg.

Kudos to the people who follow us on Facebook and comment on our posts.  It makes us feel loved and important.

Kudos to Lupron for stopping my estrogen production, and the temporary menopause it induces.  Pitchforks to its manufacturer for charging $940 (out of pocket cash price!) per shot.

Pitchforks to the upstairs neighbors who, despite no less than 5 filed noise complaints in as many months, STILL insist on playing with their dog at 12.30 in the morning and shaking the whole fucking building when they do.  Losers.

Kudos to the Child-Free and common-sense websites out there (Bratfree.com, violentacres.com, etc).  Pitchforks to the pseudoparents whose horrid conduct necessitated such sites.

Pitchforks to the idiots who continue to call our home phone despite having an unlisted number (which we pay for) and a place on the do-not-call registry.

Pitchforks to Facebook.  Again.

10 People I'd like to tell to STFU (please)

I first posted something like this on my MySpace page (heh--remember those?) but that was so July 26, 2006, and much has changed since then.  Not only do we no longer screw goats and swill sherry for fun (10 points for anyone who catches the movie reference), but I'm no longer vegetarian and talk radio personalities no longer bother me, as I no longer listen to talk radio.  Not as a matter of principle, mind you, but more like a lack of opportunity.

So anyway, an updated version is in order.  Here goes...

1) Moomies, Mawms, however you'd like to refer to them.  The breeder-not-parents that schlep among us with strollers bigger than my last apartment.  Well hell, they'd need to be, because they're carting around 4 separate IVF kids who still piss themselves at 6 and can't be bothered to walk on their own without whining.  Did I mention that they're already approaching obesity and headed for (if not already on) Ritalin?

Breeders suck.  This is not to say that all parents suck, because there is a subset of parents who actually, you know, PARENT.  No, these are the people who will actually chew out the principal when s/he calls home about their kid throwing spitballs at the teacher.  Their special snowflake can do no wrong, and woe be to anyone who thinks differently.  These are also the same parents who will purposefully have their low-functioning, junk-food-scarfing kid diagnosed with some "special" label like Autism or Aspergers or ADD/ADHD because 1) it elicits sympathy; 2) it provides an excuse; 3) it's the fast track to forced chemical sedation/control, and 4) it can even be a fast-track toward some government cash.

Breeders want to take their kids EVERY-fucking-where.  No space is sacred.  No restaurant too fancy, no movie too mature, no party/shindig too adult-oriented.  Everyone, everywhere will eventually be awestruck at the sheer stupidity required to make some dumbassed parent think it's OK to bring their screaming shit machine to some dignified event.  Say good-bye to sanity.

2) Political candidates from either side of the establishment.  That's the key word here: establishment.  No matter whether you're a Republican or a Democrat, if they tow the party line, they are scum and under them, the nation is doomed to eventual failure.  Why?  Because both sides are looking out for themselves, and at your expense.  They seek to gain control over you and everything you do, but in different ways.  The Left-wing wants to build the healthcare database in which everything is "paid for" but in turn, they also receive all information about you and then, approve or deny health care based on what they think you ought to do.  The Right-wing wants to monitor all of your internet and phone traffic in the interest of "national security".  Ha.

3) Old people - not all old people, of course.  But you know the type.  The ones who incessantly whine about being on a "fixed income" (they should be so lucky - and while we're at it, someone should remind them that not only are they the last generation to be able to utilize any kind of Medicare benefit, but they also had their property taxes fixed also).   Many restaurants, craft stores, and movie theaters all have senior discounts for no other reason.  Today's young people work harder and harder so that old people can enjoy what is the last bastion of actual retirement as we know it.  We're paying into a system we'll never see any payback from.  Our own dollars go less and less far.  If anyone has a right to whine, it's the Generation X and Y.

4) Religious Fundamentalists (Fundies).  Again, you know the type.  The ones who parrot "Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior" as if someone pulled a string in their back.  The ones who, when backed into a logical corner, start reciting Bible verses because it's all they have to fall back on and it provides them a get-out-of-independent-thought-free card.  Heaven forbid they should actually think for themselves and form their own opinions.  Some of these folks are some of the most caustic, judgmental, and hypocritical individuals.  They don't even have a sense of humor.

5) Conventional doctors who call what we do a sham and actually attempt to persuade patients not to utilize any alternative or integrative methods.  Just wow.  Very mediocre and insecure.  Also extremely uninformed.  That's OK, though; it only makes them appear that much less intelligent and backward.

6) People who mistakenly think that their health insurance policy covers (or should cover) everything.  Yes, I know they pay a high monthly premium.  But the fact is, it's still overpriced crisis care.  While these insurance companies talk about all the benefits their customers receive and how they care about their customers and all that jazz, look again at your contract and benefits statements.  There are more exclusions than there are covered services!  And meanwhile behind the scenes, they are paying consulting firms good money to come up with ways to screw doctors out of their hard-earned money (ever wonder why they have to see so many patients in an hour?)  Then the insurance company denies a bunch of services and sends those denials to the doctor's office, so now they're saddled with the task of calling up the patient and breaking the bad news.  Then on top of that, the doctor looks like the bad guy.  S/he isn't.

7) Practitioners who want to be fed, not pay much rent, and/or want to take home most of the revenue.  Uh, no.  First of all, we'll pass you who we can but if you're not busy, it's ultimately your fault/responsibility.  Second, in lieu of you having to hunt for a place, do market research, negotiate the contract, design and estimate the buildout, put up a security deposit, pay your rent each month, pay your monthly utilities, hire and train a receptionist, research and decide on credit card processing, pay processing fees, set up a website, optimize the website, take out and design an ad, etc, etc, you simply show up, use our supplies, bring any other supplies you want, we'll market and schedule you, and then you get to go home.  WE'RE the ones here until 8pm every night working on things and thinking about things and hashing things over, not you.  So yeah - we think we deserve at least half.  And I'm not going to apologize for that.

8) Practitioners who don't appear when they're available, then won't answer their phone during their hours, and then call back at the LAST possible minute such that it's too late to take that walk-in client, who then bitch that the client in pain should've been made to wait until a day when the LMT already had clients on the books.  Really?  REALLY??  Uh, no again.  Don't bitch and moan when that walk-in client in pain decides to go with our other practitioner for therapy because he finds he likes her even better after going out on a limb and trying her out because we tried to get ahold of you and you wouldn't answer your phone.  Don't tell me you were actually going to make this client suffer another day and that you resent the other practitioner who WAS here for being able to take him.  Hey - we tried to get ahold of you FIRST.   You reap what you sew.  In this case, that was nothing, because you flaked out.

9) Freecreditscore commercials.  The FTC smacked them down a couple years ago, telling them they couldn't advertise free credit score when really they were signing people up for a very-NOT-free monthly credit monitoring service.  So why in the hell did these same creeps appear on my TV screen a few months later??  Anyone...anyone?

10)  Pretty much all other commercials.  Yes, that's right, Madison Avenue.  You're gay.  You're a bunch of idiot pansies who think you're being all cutesy and witty and that you're bringing something new to the table.  Well, in the last sense, you are.  Never before have commercials been so dumb.  Giga-giga-giga-giga-21st?  Or "Good Mood Food"?  Or Quizzno's "mm-mm-mm-mm-mm".  Really?  That's the best you can do?  Houston, you have a problem.