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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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12:42 p.m. - 2010-02-23
Just now I went out onto the front porch to grab the big watering can and Princess ran out behind me dancing around the way she does when she thinks it's time to meet Wolf's bus. I looked down at her and said, "Sorry, doggy, the boy won't be home for another hour and 15 minutes." And then realized, what the hell does time mean to a dog? I'll be adding to this in short bursts, I kicked my own ass today at the gym and my arms feel like jelly. I almost said 'feel like guava jelly' but I truly don't know what guava jelly feels like and if one cannot be honest in her own blog than where can she? I have, however, tasted jalapeno jelly and that is some seriously nasty shit. As is rattlesnake meat. I wouldn't turn it down if it was that or starve to death, but at no time would I ever actively seek out a meal of rattlesnake or jalapeno jelly again. Especially not rattlesnake served with jalapeno jelly, as lamb is often served with mint jelly. Two nasty tastes do not equal one decent one. Though I wouldn't volunteer to eat a rattlesnake again, I wouldn't mind skinning one. Any snake really. I don't hate snakes like some folks do. I've kept snakes as pets and like them well enough alive, but peeling the skin off a snake is a rather satisfying thing to do and the body beneath is seriously cool. So should it ever be necessary that a snake be separated from its skin, I'm your girl. Mike the ex, wuss that he was, could NOT stomach doing his own dissecting during college zoology classes so I'd always do it for him. (Why, yes, ex-husband of mine, you can chalk those dean's list grades up to your *coff* beloved ex-wife's skill with a scalpel and overall lack of squeamishness.) And snakes figured heavily in Texas university zoology dissections, mainly because it was dead easy to run a snake over with your car and bring the carcass in for extra credit. Damn snakes were always laying their dumb selves in the road like those traffic counting hoses put out by the DOT. Some days, especially cloudy ones, it was harder NOT to run over a snake than it was to hit one. I mean you'd be jaunting along minding your own business not even thinking about snakes and THUD THUMP! THUD THUMP! Another dopey snake for your zoology teacher to get all thrilled about. You'd stop the car and pop the trunk and go back to throw the newly squished snake in, taking care (of course) to grab it right behind its head because they might be dumb about where they took naps but snakes can be plenty pissed off when you run them over, and sneaky stupid things that they are even when you think one is good and squished you go to pick it up and it'll BITE you for your trouble. Or worse still, it'll let you pick it up and throw it in your trunk then you get to school thinking, "Hoo hoo! Prof Johnson's gonna love this one!" and you reach in to get the (HA!) dead snake and the damn thing's slithered off and curled itself up inside your spare tire and isn't that a pain in the patootie? Trying to get a smushed pissed off snake out of a trunk's spare tire wheel well? Yeah buddy. So do not ever try to tell me how tough it is trying to force your 3 year old kid into a snowsuit, okay? I've done that too and getting a smushed snake out of a spare tire is tougher by far. And as is usual on gym days that's where I ran out of energy. It's the next day and my arms are some better. I've always been more of an emotional rather than a physical masochist. Prefer to take my pain in the psyche rather than the body. But recently my gym workouts have been edging over into self-torture. I'm not sure why. At least not completely why. I do know despite his vehemently disagreeing with my take on his thoughts, I get the feeling Mick thinks I've been doing pussy workouts. I know in my top mind that his scorn for gym wusses (ie: anyone who doesn't work out like a mad bastard stacking the machines for reps and sprouting at least two hernias and ruptured rotator cuff per workout) doesn't include me, but I've been wanting to impress him on his own turf. For once being able to do that something that HE does and can totally understand the effort I've made. Pretty much everything else I do comes under the heading of: Stuff LA Does and Mick Couldn't Care Less How It's Done. Sure, he enjoys the results and gives me pretty compliments, but it never feels like he thinks the things I do are very difficult or worthy. (Sure, yes, hello shitty self-esteem and gee isn't it nice to be needing others to validate my worth again? Yay.) So I know part of my abusive workout regimen has been about forcing Mick to admit I'm doing something HE thinks is tough and doing it well enough to rate in his eyes. But that's not all of it and I'll be dipped as to what else is driving me so hard. So to that end I've started shopping for a therapist. Really. Lil Miss Go It Alone has finally broken down and admitted she needs (and is entitled to) some help. Actually the bit in the parentheses is the key bit. Despite being okay with taking the bupropion I've still felt like everything else was entirely on me to deal with and solve. In fact the meds exacerbate that feeling. "Yo, Loser Girl! You've got medication! No excuses for not getting your shit straightened out. You have chemical assistance, you know your issues, so just fricken deal already! How weak and pathetic are you that you can't do right without even more goddamn self-indulgent shit? A therapist too? What next? A bunch of guys carrying you to your therapist in a sedan chair? Just belly up to the bar of Life and stop whining, you jerk." My demons, what a bunch of meanies, eh? Never in a million years would I ever speak to someone else the way I speak to myself. Never. I'm tearing myself to bits again and it's time for me to finally, finally learn how to stop. You'd think it would be so easy to do unto myself as I do unto others, you know? But for me it's the hardest thing in the world.
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