Are You Kidding Me!?

Not only is the best Batman now dead, but for the second Saturday in a row, I’m doing car bullshit!!! No one told me this was what being a grown up was about. I came in for an oil change and the mother fucking airbag recall everyone seems to have, and boom somehow I need a full service thingy because miles. I thought moving back in with my parents who live closer to my work would save the mileage on my car. BUT my person lives in the country. Literally when I was a kid, my family went camping and vacationed where he now lives.

I’m really not complaining though. I do enjoy spending time with my person. And going on adventures is worth it. Plus. ┬áMy dad is coming to pick me up. And I have earbuds to listen to all the podcasts!!! Seriously. I discovered podcasts at the beginning of the year. Need I say my mind has been totally blown since then. True crime. Personal stories. Movie talk. Historical things. Etc. I love them all. Hmm the receptionist woman keeps coming in, and I can’t understand a damn word she says. But apparently it hasn’t been me she wants. So I continue to wait. And wait.

My dad is a slow driver. I mean I love him; he just is slow as snot. And I’m only wearing just one earbud so if they call my name, I’ll be ready. Nope. It’s never me. It doesn’t matter if I dropped off my car less than an hour ago. Shut up. I am too patient. There could be free water that I probably should drink. I’m too old for this bullshit. Waiting is a luxury I do not have. Aaaaand I sound like a crotchety old woman. Maybe I’m okay with that. After all, there shouldn’t be more expected of me with two weeks in a row of car bullshit.

Advertisements

Saturday Morning at the Tire Shop

Fucking work meetings are the bane of my existence. Aaaaand semi-unrelated distain is over. I was on my way to a work meeting when some dude shouted at me I had a flat. That’s what it had sounded like but when I checked my tires before I left, they looked fine. Same thing when I checked the day before. I’m not a dumb shit who willfully drives on the freeway with a flat. I’m competent as fuck, damnit!!! Aaaaand defensiveness is over… for now. So I pulled over to the shoulder. Unfortunately, said shoulder was too fucking narrow to safely change the tire, which I soooo know how to do.

Long story short, after freaking out and my dad opening up a roadside assistance account for me, the Washington state roadside clean up person came to help. Hurrah! Except I had to drive the car with its flat tire about a quarter of a mile in rush hour down to a bigger shoulder. Because guess what Washington state department of transit, your mother fucking narrow shoulders are as about as useful as tits on a bore. Teats on a boar? Same thing. So I did as directed. And the entire time he was changing my damn tire, I was screaming in my head I could be doing it myself. Even though I didn’t have a bright orange vest and traffic was whizzing by.

Silver lining: I got out of going to said meeting. And now I’m spending my morning dropping waaay more money than I thought I would, because my other tires need to be replaced too. And considering the amount of driving I’m going to be doing, better safe than sorry. I guess. On the other hand, good decisions rarely lead to adventure. No. No. I have to be an adult. Besides, I already gave the okay for the tires.

The moral of this story… trust your ears more than your eyes. Especially if it’s before 7am. The more you know.

Making Sense of It

I had just got into my car and turned it on when I heard the news. It took me a second to comprehend what the hosts were talking about. Chris Cornell dead. Okay. I’m slow in the mornings, like snail up the side of a glass jar you’re keeping it in. Or for my Canadian readers, like maple syrup in winter. Right anyway. I decided to leave it on the rock station rather than change the radio over to the classical station to keep me calmer on my drive. It didn’t take too long before the S-bomb was dropped. It was suspected he committed suicide. As the station played songs from his collection, I tried to wrap my head around everything.

Due to the vast amount of true crime media I expose myself to, I immediately thought maybe it was just set up to look like a suicide and he was actually murdered by the “sex worker” he brought to his room after the show. Don’t ask me why seemingly happily married, sexy as fuck, rock god Chris Cornell would have to pay someone is beyond me. But like I mentioned before, I’m slow in the morning. Maybe because of the scenario I created in my head or maybe because I’m just that weird, I hypothesized it could have been a David Carradine situation. However by the time I arrived to the training I was headed to instead of my office, I realized it probably wasn’t either of those situations. And suicide rarely makes sense to those left behind.

Part of my job is to assess for suicide. So, I know the warning signs. I know the talk around it. And I know that if someone is determined to end his life they aren’t usually going to be talking about it-especially to their therapist who has to report such things to the proper authorities. Another and is that performers perfect a persona (gracious that’s a lot of p’s), thusly the public and sometimes even those in their inner-most circles don’t see anything that said performer doesn’t want to be known. The last time I felt like this was when Robin Williams suicided.

Some details of Chris Cornell’s death have emerged. Those details aren’t so important to me. My heart goes out to the children who are left fatherless and to those who truly loved him and he loved. I’ve been forced to look at the assumptions I’ve made about those who suicide, which hasn’t put me in the most flattering of lights. Especially for someone in the mental health realm. I’m also amongst the thousands of fans left behind-his voice was such a big part of the soundtrack to my life in its many incarnations. I mean what choice did I have I was a teenager in the 90s and happened to live in Seattle. So tonight, I go through what music I have of his and look the rest up on YouTube as I wrestle with assumptions and sadness and confusion. And hopefully, I’ll stay clear of anymore David Carradine references/comparisons.

Like Sesame Street on a Bad Trip

Laziness has become my frenemy. Fuck that, because I fucking hate that word. Laziness is my best friend. Okay. Top ten. Of course my best friend (or any of the people I hold in my inner circle) and I argue when we disagree and sometimes are bad influences on each other. But at the end of the day, we care about each other and when we don’t talk, I miss her. If I could see her (or any of them) whenever I wanted I would. In a heartbeat. So, why in the world would I fight my laziness? I’ve stopped trying and gone with the flow.

I have a great time with my laziness. As soon as I get home from work, I tend to take off my pants or on even lazier days, I just pass the fuck out wearing whatever I had worn to work. This is pretty nasty given I work in community mental health, and there’s a fuck ton of construction happening at my branch right now. But ya know, I don’t wanna piss off my laziness. In fact, a couple weeks ago, I did nothing. I literally stayed in bed for a couple days and gave a giant middle finger to the real world. Not because I “hate” the world. But ya know, I love my laziness.

Perhaps, I’m deluding myself. Perhaps this is what depression looks like when I have to go to work. I mean, I do have to force myself to reach out to friends to hang out. As well as go out with my person on the weekends or on the rare weeknights we hang out. I know I need to be more diligent about going to kickboxing and eating healthy and not stressing about work. When I say need, I mean I think it’s a better life choice than going all Jabba-y on my bed after work. That’s not to say I don’t mind not doing anything every now and then.

There are things coming up that are exciting. Things are changing. Hopefully, I’ll be able to keep my wits about me. And hopefully, it’s just being on the rag that’s making me so lackluster at the moment. To find a silver lining, at least I don’t have terrible allergies/hay fever/SAD at the moment.

All the Swears

Apparently, the goal of getting re-wagoned (or getting back on the wagon as some have called it) isn’t going to happen without effort. I know, I know, I was shocked too. Change happens all the time. I mean, it’s part of life. At least that’s what I tell my clients. However, this doesn’t equate to the change I want. I could site multiple examples but then it’d just be a whiney and bitchy, and that’s not what my blog’s about. Fine. Fine. Fine. Today’s blog isn’t going to be that today. It’s going to be about how life is a cruel fucker and every time I attempt to better myself it kicks me in the nuts.

Side note: How in the hell do we live in a culture where “having the balls” to do something means being brave enough? Being brave implies a certain strength. I’ve kicked a few testicles in my time (sometimes on purpose but mostly on accident), and never once have said balls “taken it like a man”. Also what the fuck is the deal with referring to them as junk. So back to the question, how is having a body part occasionally referred to as junk considered something grand, especially when they can’t even take a gentle tap with someone’s foot???

Back to the blog: Admittedly, my life is quite good right now. Really good actually. I like my friends and my person (which means no online dating for me), and my family only drives me crazy some of the time. Hell! I even did comicon this past weekend. However, there’s the whole SAD thing that happens this time of the year with me. I don’t necessarily get super depressed, but it does become more challenging to put on not pajamas. And then the shit hit the fan at work, and suddenly, things became way more difficult-beyond wearing something other than pajamas.

I realize it’s all first world problems. I shouldn’t bitch so much. It’s just hard sometimes when there are rocks on your chest… or so it feels like. This week so far has been better than last. And I guess that’s the thing. Change happens, because emotions ebb and flow. I know this is true because I tell my clients that as well. And I’m not a liar. So really, there’s no other conclusion I can come to.

Re-getting Healthy

Not only did I stop blogging, I stopped going to the kickboxing parlor as much right before I left for my trip and over the holidays. I mean. I could tell you all the reasons why I haven’t gone more than once a week since Halloween. But when it’s all said and done, it doesn’t really matter. Mostly because none of those reasons are making it easier to get back on the healthy bandwagon, but also because I gained like 10 pounds. Sorry foreigners, I don’t know the conversions for weight. And I could look it up, but I’m far too lazy for that noise.

I’m starting my second week of going to the kickboxing parlor multiple times a week. My legs have dully ached for a week now. Okay. Slight exaggeration. But for a good portion of the past week, it has hurt to move. Re-getting healthy is hard. Not hard like dealing with diabetes or triple bypass angioplasties. But hard like let me sit here and whine like a little bitch. Sort of like when I know I need to go to the dentist or the doctor or buy new underwear. I realize this is all part of living a healthy lifestyle. Well, maybe not the underclothes part. but maybe. I’d be interested if there are studies about the link between new undies and level of health. I know what I’m doing if I ever go back for my Psy D or PhD.

When I was fucking off at the end of the year, I never stopped to consider how much whiny bitch getting healthy again would inspire. Yes, I’ve started going to the parlor again. Yes, I’ve started blogging again, at least semi-regularly. But there’s the whole doctor/dentist thing I’ve been avoiding. I realize that it’s for the best, and I should set a good example for the little people in my life. BUT… Okay, I don’t actually have a legit excuse for not making an appointment for either doctor. Perhaps, if I go to bed now, I won’t have to think about those things.

A New Tax Bracket

It’s difficult to fuck up chicken noodle soup. It’s also difficult to fuck up nachos, but I’ve had fucked up nachos. And perhaps, I love the chicken noodle soup too much for it to ever be labelled as “fucked up”. I used to think it was difficult to fuck up a W-4 (an American piece of shit form you fill out when you become hired by someone so the government knows how much to take away from you). But guess what!!! (I mean besides the fact I’m not a fan of the government taking any amount of money from me.) I fucked up my W-4 when I got hired a year and a half ago.

So, if you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time, you may recall that I was unemployed for a long time when I first started writing this blog. I’ll refresh your memory or catch you up if you’re new… During my unemployment, I “may have” gotten into the habit of waking up in the afternoon. Not just a little afternoon, but like 3 or 4 hours after noon. Therefore when I got hired, I had to readjust my schedule; like throw myself into jet lag on purpose. Needless to say, when I went to my orientation at the crack of dawn (9 am), I may have been a bit loopy.

Orientation for me was when I filled out all the forms! Not the silly forms like who to contact in case of emergency. But forms like the W-4 and my direct deposit forms. Unfortunately, the finance dude at work misread my direct deposit form, and it took far too long to straighten out. Last year I didn’t really pay attention when I filed, although I thought my return seemed a bit small. Then today I was doing a rough draft of my taxes and had to pay… a lot. Pardon me?! Just how in the fuck did that happen???

Apparently, since I don’t have kids nor own my home and make a certain amount, I need to have more taken out of my check. Really government? You can suck my dick. This has nothing to do with the current state of politics in the US. I’ve been anti-taxes since my first pay check a month after I turned 16. However, this is the first time I’ve made a certain amount. I can’t help but think that I done fucked up on my form when I filled it out a year and a half ago. Right so long story short, I’m drinking adult cherry cola in an attempt to yank on my big girl panties on and redo my W-4 making sure they’re deducting enough.