Sunday, June 28, 2009
I am in pain! Really. Not just the over-acting, can-I-get-an-Academy-Award attention seeking crap that I usually pull. We are talking severe shooting pain right through my gum and into my cheek. I was driving home and realized that I had this nagging something stuck in between my favorite-root-canal back tooth and it's sidekick. Being the multi-tasker, really bad ADD driver that I am, I tried to extract the annoying thing. When BAM! The crown fell off taking my low-pain-threshold through the roof! I'm screaming, driving, holding this crown in one hand and trying to get a better look at the grossest tooth ever in the rear view mirror. I think the guy in the car next to me thought I was having a seizure or something, because he made a spit second decision to move two lanes over and turn right at the next intersection. Anyway, back to my pain.
Somewhere between being totally grossed out by this whole thing and my attention-whore screaming, I figured out that I should probably call my dentist. Who, BTW, is the Marque de Sade that gave me this lovely defective dental damage in the first place. Bastard isn't open on Sundays. Doesn't he know that his handy work only has a two year shelf life and he should be at my beck and call when it all falls to sh*t? I leave a message, find my way home through the blinding pain and try to find ANYTHING in my medicine cabinet that is stronger than Tylenol.
Side note: I really need to clean out my medicine box. I have a bin that I keep under my sink for all the random/left over medications I collect though out the year(s). You know, that half filled bottle of Penicillin you got from that little rusty nail you stepped on five years ago and decided you didn't really need to follow the "Take Until Empty" directions on the bottle. Or the almost empty bottle of cough syrup that you stopped taking when the coughing stopped (or you figured you were getting a little too involved with the codeine and decided to end the relationship before things got too dependent). Yeah, I have an entire box filled with those little wonders. The only thing I DON'T have in that box is any type of pain killer. I have every antibiotic ever made and several half -used packets of birth control pills (which confused the hell out of me since A: haven't had "any" in over a year and B: changed "methods" years ago ~ oh sorry, TMI). But nothing stronger than 600 mg of motrin. Which doesn't do a damn thing for me personally.
Back to story. So Dentist de Sade finally calls me back. He tells me to "push the crown back on, but be sure to take it off before you go to bed so you won't choke on it during the night".
WHAT!?!?! Then he proceeds to tell me that since this is a crown covering a root canal and there isn't any bleeding, it can wait until tomorrow. OK, I was a little reassured that I was not going to have a whole Tommy Knockers episode and calmed down a bit.
Then he proceeds to tell me that my tooth should not hurt since it was a root canal and there aren't any nerve endings to feel any pain. OHHHHHHH MY A$$ THIS SUCKER DOESN'T HURT!!! I don't know what nitrous tank he's been sniffing from, but MY tooth hurts. It hurts all the way into my jaw and up the right side of my cheek. I think it has a pulse of it's own and I know I can see it throbbing when I look in the mirror. (Ms. Tastrophie does pain just about as well as she does camping in the great outdoors with no running water. Ain't gonna happen.) I attempt to correct Monsieur Dentist that I am indeed in pain and what is he going to do about it? I cry. I whine (which in 9 out of 10 cases works). I beg. My dentist must have gone to the Dr. Mengele school of dentistry and steadfastly refused to give in or believe my cries of pain.
After he said no, I took myself back to the bathroom and the medicine box. This time I frantically dumped the bin onto the bathroom floor.... and there it was! A small bottle with one lone pill inside and the beautiful word "Darvocet" on the outside. I swear I felt like I had just unearthed the Holy Grail. Now all I can say is Thank You to those wonderful people who made this little white pill and that I'm off to go chase a White Rabbit...
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The Greatest American Hero
When I was a child, you would hold me on your lap and let me eat small pieces of raw turnips you had sliced with your pocket knife.
When I was a little girl, you taught me that ice cream tastes the best when it comes from a brick carton and has been sliced into a bowl. Always Neapolitan and always sliced from the short end.
When I was young girl, you would take me for a ride in the truck while telling me stories of your life, your friends, the war, and how you met my Gammie. Those rides would become my shelter in the storm that was my parent's divorce. You, my rock to cling to when the emotional waters crashed over me. Your stories would become family lore for me to tell and retell. Entrusted in my heart to carry for the next generation.
When I was gawky and uncoordinated, you let me stand on your toes as we danced at the VFW. The King of the USOs held court to his devoted princess. I learned to love the 40's, Buggy-Woogy-Bugle Boys and a larger than life Grandfather who had been a lover and a fighter; just not at the same time.
When I got too big for my britches, you let me know you could knock the taste buds right out of my mouth. Then you would show me just how much you loved me by holding your thumb to your last knuckle when I asked.
When I was hurt and cried, you always had a handkerchief. Your gruff side would become all blustered and you would bristle at whatever was upsetting me. Your bark was always worse than your bite. But you would always hold me and love me until everything was alright again.
When I went into the Marines, I should have listen to you. Once again you proved to know what was best for me. It was the only letter you ever wrote me and I read it so many times that the ink wore off and the paper fell apart. I am so sorry I failed, but I know you loved me in spite of myself.
When I became a woman and life became busy, you waited for me. You waited for me to call, to visit, to write more letters. I should have visited more. I should have written often, called more. Told you ever day that I love you and that you are my Papa. Eventually, your life became full of waiting as well. Waiting to live. Waiting to die. Your mind not knowing what it was waiting for. If it was the life of today or a memory of things long past.
This is our first Father's Day without you here. It's been hard. I love you Papa. I miss you. I can't seem to go on without you, but each day I grow a little stronger. And each day brings me one day closer to when I can be with you again. Until then, I'll Be Seeing You
Thursday, June 18, 2009
In an attempt to make sure I blog about once every other day or so, I give you this: a semi-autobiographical ABC list of me. I know, it's not too earth shattering, but now you know.
A - Age: 40
B - Bed size: Queen
C - Chore you hate: Cleaning ~ irony here: I am a neat freak.
D - Dog's name: Lord Montgale the 7th (basset hound found at the intersection of Montgale Street and 7th Ave.)
E - Essential start your day item: Bitching as I walk to the bathroom
F - Favorite color: pink
G - Gold or Silver: silver or white gold
H - Height: 5'3"
I - Instruments you play(ed): Clarinet for about 5 days. I hit another 5th grader over the head with mine and was told that group sports/activities probably were not a good thing for me.
J - Job title: TEACHER
K - Kid(s): anywhere from 5 to 65 depending on enrollment at the time. None of my own that I know of.
M - Mom's name: Lynne
N - Nicknames: Not even going there.
O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Several. I am accident prone to say the least.
P - Pet Peeve: people who don't know how to turn across traffic via the median. You go to the side that has YOUR oncoming traffic!!!
Q - Quote from a movie: TONS and I use them in my daily life. Just a few:
Get away from her, you BITCH!!
Come, D'Artagna, we are saving the king
We are going to need a bigger boat.
What we have here is a failure to communicate.
R - Right or left handed: Right
S - Siblings: Sister and half-sister
T - Time you wake up: Between 5:30 and 6:30 depending
U- Underwear: None of your damn business
V - Vegetable you dislike: haven't met one yet
W - Ways you drink your coffee: SUGAR!!! CREAM!!! MILK!!! some coffee
X-rays you've had: Head to toe at various points in my life ~ again with the accident prone issue.
Y - Yummy food you make: Does Weight Watcher's Frozen count?? If not, cupcakes via the cake mix box.
Z - Zoo favorite : Sea World (does that count?)
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
File Another One Under
More Shit You Will Never See A Woman Do...
Some people in life never learn. And some people in life just should not be let alone to their own devices. Thus we have the continued tales of Dumb and Dumber... Note: this tale was told to Ms. Tastrophie and as she did not see it ~ can not vouch for it's validity. Although based on the stupid sh*t she has seen these two do... she doesn't doubt that it happened.
Dumb & Dumber are residents in my apartment complex and from what I can gather from various sources, their time here might be short ~ especially after their latest & greatest drug induced debacle. A past Saturday, Dumber was nursing his war wounds back at the scene of the great football vs. nose battle. Again he was accompanied by his trusted side kick: Dumb. This time since Dumber is on pain killers for his broken nose, they decide to opt out of drinking. Instead they decided to smoke pot. At the pool. In public. For everyone to see and smell.
After a time, the Baked Lays twins got the munchies. Our pool has two sets of grill for the residents and they can be used at any time on a first come first serve basis. The Dumb-ass twins get some grillin' food and go to use the grill. Some where between the cooking and all the smoking, Dumb decides to add a little kung fu fighting.
Now in between boggartin' the dubitch and being as fast as lightning, the dynamic duo managed to actually KNOCK OVER the top portion of the grill. A little background info on the grill. The grill component sits atop a pole through which the gas is fed via a pipeline. If you removed the top/grill part, the pole and pipeline are still vertical. And gas continues to flow. Does anyone see how knocking the top portion off would not be the best option at a family pool late in the day on a Saturday? Apparently not Dumb and Dumber because that's where they found themselves.
Then as if being higher than Santa's Workshop on the map and engaging in property damage were not enough, the Fabulous Baked Boys try to LIGHT THEIR FARTS ON FIRE using the gas from the grill. Much to their lack of understanding about the primal use of fire and methane, this experiment did not ignite. At this point I will defer to the Great Chem Gods: Mjenks and Chemgeek on all things methane and combustion. (Please see these two great combustion gurus for all your "blowing sh*t up" needs.)
Thanks to the good thinking on other pool goers part, the police were called, the gas turned off and Dumb & Dumber got to take a nice trip downtown. although the way I hear it, they were not able to sit in the paddy wagon as their butt-patty melts were too singed. Again ladies, these guys are out there and available. I know we all will be just waiting in line for them to make bail.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Remember when I posted about my childhood "problem" with hamsters? And how I said that, from time to time, the little suckers get a big karmic kick back on the apparent abuse I gave them? Well, take a look at the newest vet-fashioned accessory Mr. Bud E. Phat has been sportin' these days:
Yeah, it's about as gross as it looks. Mr. Phat decided about a month ago that he wasn't going to eat. We don't really know why. He never told us and still refuses to answer any questions, regardless of how many mice or catnip toys I offered as an incentive to talk. The Vet ~ who is now putting her third child through Princeton via my wallet ~ said that it could have been any number of things that caused him to go on this self imposed hunger strike, but that his liver had developed Feline Hepatic Lipidosis (FLD) and that FLD is idiopathic. Great, now there is scientific proof that my cat is an idiot.
After careful consideration of the options:
A. Put in a feeding tube and have to force feed him 3x a day until he starts eating on his own.
B. Escort Bud to the Rainbow Bridge earlier than expected.
C. Let him slowly starve to death. (Sorry, wasn't gonna happen.)
I picked option A.
B was never really an option as his odds of recovery were about 90-95% with the feeding peg. And C is just flat out sadistic, in my opinion.
Option A also had a bonus that included a life time payment plan earning the vet a new car, braces for her fourth child and NO xanax for me. Seriously, I thought we had covered the vet Rx program for me after Bud had all his teeth removed and nuts replaced with Neuticles. Why the hatin? I'm the one who has to fork over the big bucks and deal with the nastiest smelling wet cat food of all time. Cat food that had to be heated up, mixed to a nasty consistency, then syringed into the tube over a total of approximately five minutes. Cat food, which by the way, costs more per can than a Big Deal Meal at McDonald's. While Bud E. has been living high on the hog (or should we say fish), I have been downing Top Ramen at a rate that is bound to make my life time sodium intake top over the billion served mark. Why me? Oh wait, I think I hear the pitter-patter of little hamster feet somewhere in the distance....
So today, after a little over a month of me continually smelling like a catfish fry gone bad, Bud E. and I are off to the vet to get the tube removed!! He is (finally) eating on his own and has been for the last five days. Proof of life was confirmed after I caught him ass-end up in the toilet bowl enjoying his favorite fountain water. Now if putting this tube in cost me close to a large mortgage payment; I can't wait to see how much yanking this bad boy out is going to cost. (A nice kicker to all this is that the government won't let me declare Bud E as a dependent! And I have spent almost as much on him as my girlfriends spends on their kids!) Do you hear hamster's squeaking? What is that noise?
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
File This One Under Stupid Sh*t You Are Never
Going To See Women Do
There are times when I just LOVE communal living. Visiting the swimming pool on a hot summer evening after Dumb and Dumber have been drinking it up pool side all day is one of them. (Dumb and Dumber are actually going to play in a major part in a second posting, so stay tuned, because these two are proof positive that some people should never be allowed to reproduce).
Last week, I was at the pool in a very advantages spot ~ where I had view of
everyone and every thing. Which suites me just fine as that means I can watch others and be as mentally vicious about swimsuit decisions as I want without anyone seeing my cellulite riddled thighs pressed against the lawn chair straps like a chicken on the grill. Yeah, it ain't a pretty picture ~ that's why I take the high spot.
Anyway, from my vantage point I was able to watch the Dumb and Dumber gang. They proved quite entertaining as they proceeded to run through what amounted to a small liquor store in about 3 hours. About 2 hours into it they decided it would be great fun to start throwing the football. Starting with the obligatory short tosses between the guys, they quickly moved on to the half-assed half-pool pass. This was followed by the aquatic version of the Super Bowl
complete with touch down dances that would have made T.O. proud. After a short half time break to replenish their thirst, the Dumb-Ass Gang decided to go for the long pass practice.
This is where it goes oh-so-wrong. Dumb and Dumber tired of their long pass practice and decide to make it more "challenging". Dumber decides that target practice would be best and oh, wouldn't these beer cans be handy-dandy targets. Instead of placing the cans on something practical, like say the pool side or lawn chairs, Dumber places it on his head. He then tells Dumb to throw the football and try to knock it off.
Yes, ladies it is hard to believe these men are single. First, they are throwing a semi-ridged pig skin at a target approximately 6 to 8 inches (depending on how long you REALLY think 6 inches is...) The target is on, what one assumes would be on a normal person, a solid object. And unless your aim is that of a Manning family prodigy, the likelihood you are going to hit that target is pretty low. So, how did Dumb and Dumber do you ask?
It wasn't pretty. It took exactly five passes before Dumb nailed Dumber right square in the nose.... But here's the best part!! Dumber actually had the wherewithal to catch his beer can first before realizing his nose was doing a perfect imitation of Old Faithful. The medics were called and things progressed as expected. Although I did hear the medic say that the cause of the accident was "drinking while stupid".
I saw Dumber at the mail box yesterday and he is sporting a nice metal face plate with The Bruised & Bandaged Mark of Stupidity across his nose and face. Yeah Ladies, he's out there and available...........
Sunday, June 7, 2009
I know you can't believe it, but I am back in the blogger world. Things have calmed down and life is starting to return to a semi-normal state. I promise to catch everyone up ASAP, but this story was just dying to get out first and since when do I ever get on a plane and NOT have a story to tell? Well, cats & kittens, I have a little story for ya.
Recently my Papa passed away and Ms. Tastrophie had to travel back home to say goodbye to her greatest hero. She worshipped her Papa and was graced with 40 years of memories to keep her until she sees him again. So it's been a sad time for her.
So off I go to fly home and since I no longer work in the frequent flyer world and can't afford upgrades or first class seats on a teacher's salary, I was flying Southwest. This is important because Southwest doesn't have a first class section and anyone flying Southwest pretty much knows you (and the 150 other people on that flight) got the cheapest tickets you could find. Props to Southwest for keeping it real in this economy! I hear American is charging people for toilet usage now.
I get to the ticket counter to get my ticket and have spent a few minutes talking to the two ticket agents (TAs) when a guy comes strutting up to the second ticket agent. By strutting, I mean walking with a sense of self importance that only the truly egotistical and blowhard people of the world can pull off. You know them when you see them because secretly inside you are envisioning that person falling flat on his/her face while ripping their pants wide open and the whole world gets to discover that he/she doesn't have much to be strutting about.
Mr. I-AM-SO-MUCH-MORE-IMPORTANT-THEN-YOU gets to the counter and tells the ticket agent that he is on the 7 p.m. flight, but that she "needs to put him on the 5 p.m. flight " because (and I quote) "I shouldn't have to sit and wait that long, my time is too valuable". (Yep, he's an asshat.) The TA looks at Mr. Big Britches' ticket and proceeds to tell him he has a discounted fare and that to stand by will be change.... WOOOW
Here's where the gates of hell opened up and Mr Hell Fire decides to let everyone know just who he is. He started screaming about how he NEVER flies on a discounted fare and how he has told his legal team never to book a discounted ticket and how dare SWA put him in a discounted ticket and by GAWD, someone is going to get fired over this!! And did she know who he was?! Personally I don't think she gave a rat's ass about who he thought he was, but I was thinking he was Mr. Douche-bag.
Anyway, Mr. Never-Flies-Discount whips out his cell phone and starts punching it like a monkey on crack. By this time everyone around him has stopped what they are doing and is watching him like the attention-whore he obviously is.
Mr. ~ Barking loudly enough that the people at the DELTA counter 20 feet away can hear him: "GET ME LISA (holy cats, this asshat has an assistant with my name!!!)
Mr. ~ "DID YOU BOOK ME A DISCOUNTED TICKET? (not giving her anytime to answer) YOU'RE FIRED!!!! GET YOUR STUFF OUT OF MY OFFICE BEFORE I GET BACK!!"
Then he snaps his phone shut. Pretty much everyone within hearing distance is in stunned silence and waiting for his next Big-Asshat maneuver.
While he was making Lisa's day a little slice of hell, the ticket agent had been trying to tell Mr. Big Shot that his return ticket was a full fare ticket and that he could fly stand by without any changes. Big Shot wasn't listening (as I suspect is his normal operating mode) and is now giving the TA more than enough attitude due the situation. Again props to SWA for keeping it real, because the TA just tilted her head to the side and gave him a look that said "are you done?" until Blow hard ran out of steam.
Now, being how I am a "Lisa", I tend to have an affection for others who are cursed with the "Lisa" as well. And I for one, was not about to let Mr. Asshat have to last say in any show down with a fellow "Lisa". I don't care if she really is a colossal f*ck up of an assistant or if she has three heads. She is still a member of the "Lisa-hood" and I am honor bound to see to it that she be avenged. Besides, this guy has it coming to him and only Ms. Tastrophie has the attitude to do this one right.
After I received my ticket, I turned to leave the counter. Walking right by Mr. Don't-Mess-With-Me-Because-I-Don't-Fly-Discount, I looked him square in the eyes and said loudly enough for everyone to hear me (cause that's just the Ms. Tastrophie way)
"YOU'RE A PRICK"!!
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought that because several people clapped as I walked to security. The kicker: Mr. Prick was on my flight and sat a row behind me. I, of course, had to make sure that I told everyone around me (in an overly staged voice) the story of this total Prick who was making an ass out of himself at the ticket counter and what a jerk he was for firing his assistant. Her life is obviously so much better now that she doesn't have to work for him anymore. And, really, if he was such a big shot then why the hell was he not flying American or some other airline that is known for kissing the asses of pompous windbags like him? Why was he flying on SWA with us little people?
He never said a word and when we got off the plane in Dallas, if looks could kill I would have been Dead On Arrival.