Ugh. This waking up at 3am-ish shit has got to stop.
So I took yesterday off and went to see my doctor. (And as shitty as I feel now, and being awake now, it looks like I might be staying home today, too – booooo! If I use up my leave now, I’ll have to work a couple days around the winter holidays that Greg’s taking off, and I was looking forward to a more-extended-than-usual holiday and extra time off with him. Ah well.) Anyway, according to her, it’s most likely that mold in the apartment building. That stuff I reported four or five months ago? Yeah, that. And here’s the funny thing, I reported it because I was afraid it might be that toxic black mold shit, and was told it was “just mildew” and had been taken care of. Except when I think of “taking care of” mold and/or mildew, that means it’s removed, and this wasn’t. Anyway, three months of solid illness later, my doctor’s like, “Yeah, it IS weird that you’ve been sick this long. Have you been exposed to any mold?” And I’m like, “Funny you should say that…” Then she went on to explain that, from a health concern standpoint, molds and mildews are basically equivalent. So I got to complain again. The good news is, I think it’s actually going to get properly taken care of this time. The other good news is, if it gets removed, I should start feeling much better. The bad news is, I’m going to feel pretty shitty in the meantime. (Although if my asthma gets any worse, I get put on a steroid inhaler, so hopefully there will be no stupid asthma-related trips to the hospital.)
It’s also good to know that I’m not entirely totally puny and compromised-immune-system, that there is actually an external cause for all this shit. Greg and I like to joke around about how shitty my immune system is. (I was going to put an aside here about how I should probably be more gracious and less whiny about my constant sickly-ness, given that it’s a low level of sickly-ness I don’t really have a suppressed immune system. Except then I went googling for examples of complications of “real” suppressed immune systems, because the only thing I could think of was chronic bronchitis, and apparently asthma is totally connected to suppressed immune system. I don’t know which causes the other, but it looks like suppressed immune system leads to asthma? But I’m not going to put my faith in shit I turned up on the interwebs, so let’s just make this aside about how I’m kind of whiny about frequently feeling bad, and I could be less whiny, alright? Awesome. I mean, it’s still not like I have AIDS or cancer, so all my complaints are kind of really tiny shits in comparison. I could be more gracious about it, is what I’m saying. Uh…I’ll probably still complain though. I’m kind of a whiny person, although I do try to mitigate it with poking fun at myself.)
ANYWAY. Greg and I joke/talk shit about my immune system ALOT. In fact, Greg likes to say that my parents should never have reproduced. And, really, given all their medical history and extended family medical background and genetic material and the shit me and my sisters have already been hit with, from an evolutionary standpoint/”fitness of organism” kind of thing, I can’t disagree with him. (Before some wanker stumbles across this post and goes off on me about the preceding statements – we’re not serious, come on. If my parents never reproduced, 1-I wouldn’t be alive, and I kind of really like being alive, and 2-Greg wouldn’t have ME, and he kind of really likes me. But I am not really evolutionarily fit. I mean, if it weren’t for modern medicine, I wouldn’t be here. Thank god for modern medicine. Thank you, discoverer of albuterol. And chemotherapy. And anti-anxiety/anti-depression meds. And whoever figured out how to remove a gall bladder. Perform a pap smear. Cure jaundice. Do blood transfusions. Etc, etc, etc.)
I am really excited about that mold shit being fixed! And finally not feeling like total ass. (Although with my luck, that’s when I’ll get a real virus – right when these stupid very-flu-like allergy symptoms start going away. And what the fuck is up with constant fluid in my ears being an allergy symptom? So stupid. Allergy symptoms should really be limited to sneezing, runny nose, watery or itchy eyes, and light chest congestion. Yes, I’m leaving out anaphylaxis because this is my bullshit fantasy and no one should have to deal with that. But flu-like symptoms and fluid on the ear/ear infections? Body aches? I call shenanigans.)
Skeeter is sticking his little paw under the door, so I guess my blogging time is up. (Since he’s the boss of me and all.) And my cough syrup’s had fifty minutes to kick in, so I think I’m ready to go back to sleep. I’ll bribe/reward you with pictures first, for putting up with all that bullshit above. Here’s some old pictures from mid-October of Skeeter “helping” me write my paper:
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Okay, somehow he’s figured out that he can stick his paw under the door and twang the doorstop on this side of the door repeatedly? That is really annoying. Who the fuck taught him that. I better leave now and go pet him before that sound drives me fucking bonkers. Although maybe that would reinforce this behavior. Hm. You just can’t win with cats.
Ugh. I am so tired of being sick, and complaining about being sick, and yet, that is what I am here to do. Again. (Funnier stuff after the complaining, I promise. If you want to skip the complaining about being sick, just skip the next paragraph.)
I guess at this point, it’s going on three months of having The Crud. My ears were clear for a week and a half, but I still had gnarly cold symptoms. But my ears were clear, so I figured it was alright, not too miserable, and just kept taking cold meds. The key phrase in those two sentences is “my ears were clear.” Or I should type, “my ears *were* clear,” because, yep, I’m awake at almost four in the morning and have been up for an hour because my GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT EARS ARE FUCKED UP AGAIN!! It really is a shame that I can’t live without my head and lungs because, really, at this point, if I could, I’d be like, “let’s yank those fuckers, who needs ‘em anyway, they certainly aren’t doing me any good.” Oh my god, these stupid ears are killing me. And, see, my doctor, when she gave me the steroid nasal spray to try and get them to chill out, oh, however fucking long ago it was (two weeks? three weeks? four weeks at this point? maybe four), said if *that* didn’t work to call her up and she’d write me a script for oral steroids. But my dilemma is that my ears cleared up for about a week and a half, plus I have these shitty other symptoms – so do I just call her up and get the oral steroids (which I would prefer not to take if not absolutely necessary, kind of like me and antibiotics), or do I need to drag my sorry ass back in to her office yet again and actually get looked at first? Especially if 1-I don’t want to miss class again tomorrow (but if I wait til Wednesday might feel even more like ass), and 2-if it’s just a cruddy cold or virus, a trip to the doctor’s is going to do sweet fuck all besides lighten my wallet of a copay’s worth of money. I love my doctor, I do, she’s fucking fantastic – but I’m getting so tired of seeing her like every month. (And if I recall correctly, the month before I got sick – which would be August – was when I got my yearly, barf, so I’m looking at monthly visits for three months already. Maybe I should go ahead and start budgeting for this shit in my Excel budgeting workbook. And yes, that exists, and maybe I’ll blog about why it exists later – here’s a hint: I’m crazy neurotic about money issues. Awesome. And it’s to do with my dad.)
After all that bitching (I mean, seriously, yeesh), I feel obligated to give you something a little funnier/more amusing. First of all, tonight was a banner night for the cats putting grody stuff on the floor of the apartment. I think the final tally was a couple of barfs and a turd. AWESOME! These are the nights I live for, right. It took Skeeter a while to get a hairball up, which meant, of course, that he had to puke several times before he got a winner. And then Chalupa had to puke – although I’m not sure why, since there was no hairball – maybe she ate too much too fast? Or maybe she just wanted to get in on the puking action? Anyway, the great thing about Chalupa puking was, it just took her one try, and beforehand and afterwards she seemed like she felt fine, but apparently she decided I was not to clean it up, because while I was cleaning it up, she hissed at me. (When I was done, I petted, poked, prodded, and examined her, listened to her breathing, checked her gums, to make sure she wasn’t hissing because she felt bad or was sick or in distress, but she was oddly fine with all that handling, and even followed me to bed later to get more petting. It’s great that she’s getting more comfortable and outgoing these days. But what the fuck is up with hissing at me cleaning up her puke? I think that’s a violation of our pet/owner contract. Ridiculous.)
The second (and funnier, in my opinion, than Chalupa hissing at me) story I have to relate is an update on the ridiculousness that’s occurred with my ex-therapist. I feel a little conflicted over sharing this, because Shane recommended him to me, and then felt bad when it didn’t work out, and I really don’t want Shane to feel any worse about this. (Since, seriously, it’s not Shane’s fault, and I don’t doubt this therapist helped *him* out, but it’s pretty funny and obviously he’s not the right therapist for me.) Anyway, I think the last I mentioned was him dissing our last appointment? And then he called like thirty minutes into our scheduled time wanting to know where I was, and I called him back and (thankfully, because I’m a pussy) got his voicemail and left a message explaining what happened and that he was fired? Anyway, he proceeded to call me several times (I think the final count was five or six times), and the last time he left this really…maudlin? ridiculous? message that he wanted to hear from me because he was worried about my safety and well-being. Which totally cracked me and Greg up, that he was maybe worried that I was suicidal because I fired him. Um, no. But I was pretty angry about what had happened, and we chalked it up as more evidence that he had basically no understanding of my actual personality/motivations/whatever, and wasn’t the right therapist for me. So then a week later, I got this insane letter from him.
Question/side note: If I don’t name names, or give any identifying details, is it kosher for me to just type the letter up here? Because it really is an incredible piece of work, and I still have it (like, to show people and shit, because it is insane)? I’ll have to do some looking into that, and think about whether I’m that harsh (even without naming names), and we’ll see.
Anyway, the letter seemed pretty blatantly crafted to try and get me to continue therapy with him, through a one-two punch of preying on my anxieties and appealing to my vanity. Except it TOTALLY FAILED to do either, because he just really doesn’t get me. In fact, all it did was make me feel like he clearly didn’t understand me at all and was trying to manipulate me, and it pissed me off even more. That letter is really hilarious, actually, if you know me well at all and know the history with this therapist. But I felt like (or maybe Greg convinced me, I don’t really remember at this point) I should give him the benefit of the doubt – not that he was the right therapist for me, because he’s clearly not, but that maybe he really didn’t know what the fuck had happened and/or that he was absolutely fired. So I wrote him back, explaining what had happened and what my beef was, and reiterating that he was totally fired and we absolutely, positively, 100% would not be working together again. Only in politer terms. (I think I’ve still got that letter, too, since I emailed it to Greg first to see if he thought it was just and polite and not too harsh. I’m a fucking hippy, basically, which we all knew already, and don’t want to be mean to bitches.) And the day after I got his letter (the day I wrote my letter back to him, in fact), Greg and I went to McAlister’s for lunch, and Greg went upstairs to get a table while I went to the bathroom. And when I got upstairs, it turned out that, with all these open tables, Greg had picked the one that was RIGHT IN FRONT OF the one my ex-therapist was sitting at. Which was awesome. But then Greg had never seen the guy, so he couldn’t know. And the ex-therapist didn’t say shit to me at McAlister’s. (Which was a smart move, because it would have been beyond awkward: “Hi. I fired you. Don’t fucking talk to me in public when you’ve been fired and I’m trying to get my lunch on. Thanks.” Only, most likely, a much nicer version, since I am a fucking pussy hippy.) And that was that.
Except…not so much. Because last week I got ANOTHER letter from him, where he tried to convince me SOME MORE to continue therapy with him, and explained away all my complaints by blaming faulty technology. Seriously. It was basically, “Well, I didn’t know you fired me because I never got your message – I guess my cell phone is shitty. And my Palm Pilot is constantly crashing or losing appointments, which is why it’s not my fault that I dissed appointments with you, either.” Plus he said he was constantly checking the waiting room that one day and wondering where I was, and – hello – the fuck he did, because I was in there for twenty-five minutes and even looked around for him, and didn’t see him ONCE. And if your PDA is constantly crashing and/or losing your appointments? Maybe you should do what I do (and many others, too), and use this awesome low-tech, pre-PDA invention, called the date planner. It never crashes, it never loses your appointments, because it’s a fucking paper planner. It’s totally awesome and mad reliable since it doesn’t need power to work properly, look into it. (And I’ve still got that second letter from him, too, because it is equally hilarious, and it’s like part two, or a bazillion, of this hilarious saga. That better fucking be over and done with because I’m about this close to being all, “Dude! You are FIRED. I’m done discussing this. My next communication will be in the form of a restraining order.”)
And now, a funny picture. Greg’s Hallowe’en costume: the Penis Faery.
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So, I have a tendency not to go to “events” (shows, movies, public things, whatever) by myself, because I worry that people might judge me, or snicker about me to their friends, or something like that. I thought it was because, you know, I’m crazy and social phobic. Turns out that tendency is actually based on fact, and is not just all in my head. Yeah.
Thursday night, Greg ran sound for a Troika Music Fest show, the one at the Pinhook (Dylan Gilbert/Juan Heuvos/Screaming Females/Future Islands/DJ Alex Kotch). I wasn’t feeling so hot, and I didn’t know any of the bands, and I didn’t want to be up til like two in the morning and then have to go to work the next day, so I stayed home.
Last night, Greg ran sound at the Pinhook again, only it was a Saturday, and some people we knew were in two of the bands, so I thought I’d go. I rode out with Greg, and he had to get there an hour early to start setting up and whatnot, so I took a book with me. (Since I wasn’t allowed in the sound booth with him, and I didn’t want to bother him while he was setting up, I thought I’d better amuse myself – and chatting up random people at the bar is not really my thing. I would’ve taken some knitting, except I didn’t want it to get all smoky-smelling. So, book it was.) So I read until the show started, and then, because I am not a rude bitch (unlike some people), I put the book up and went up to watch the show.
It was a good show. No bands that I’m really crazy about, but they were all entertaining: Resist Not, The Pneurotics, The Travesties, and I Was Totally Destroying It. Back when I smoked, it was totally a social-phobia-related thing – like when I was at a show Greg’s band was playing, when they were setting up and I had to stand by myself, I’d be smoking like a chimney. I’m not sure how, exactly, that worked as a defense, but it did. But I don’t smoke anymore. Looking back on last night, I probably should have taken some of the Klonopin I still have, and then the bullshit that happened (that I’m getting to, just laying the scene for you) wouldn’t have upset me so much. But if I had taken a Klonopin, I may not have been 1-able to drive home, and Greg had been drinking in the booth (although probably wasn’t drunk), and 2-there’s an excellent chance I would have fallen asleep during the show.
Anyway. So the first two bands, I’m entirely by myself. I somehow managed to survive it. (That last sentence is half tongue-in-cheek, because no, social phobia won’t kill me, just make me extremely uncomfortable, but at the same time, uh, yeah, I managed, and that’s huge for me.) Dylan showed up for the Pneurotics, so I got to hang out with him. That was cool, since he’s been on tour and shit, and we haven’t seen him in a while. At that point, my plan was to go to Wafflehouse after the show was over, get some late night greasy spoon type food. We watched I Was Totally Destroying It (not really my thing to be honest, although they are good at what they do, and the crowd really seemed into it), and then Dylan hung around for a while, but as he’d just gotten back from tour the night before and was tired, he left.
So, the show’s over, Greg’s…I don’t know, breaking down, or packing up, or helping the band or something. And there’s a lot of people on the stage already moving shit, and all Greg has is like cables and powercords, so I didn’t feel like I needed to help. And I’m by myself, so I pull out the book and start reading – I was really close to the end and had no idea who done it, and wanted to find out. (It’s a spectacular mystery, if you’re interested, on the Felony and Mayhem imprint – they really can do no wrong, as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, it’s Peter Dickinson’s Skin Deep, about the murder of a member of an aboriginal tribe from New Guinea that an anthropologist/member of the tribe has relocated to London.)
So there I am, minding my own business, amusing myself, waiting for Greg, and this guy comes over and asks what I’m reading. I guess my first mistake was going somewhere public where I’d be by myself. My second mistake was then reading in public. And my third mistake was being nice to this asshole and not immediately realizing that he was making fun of me to my face for the amusement of his asshole friends. So I show him the book, he asks what it’s about, and I tell him. So far, seems plausible. Then he says something like he and his friends were just wondering what book could be so good that I’d read it when all this activity was going on around me. And I’m like, “Activity?” Because the show’s over, shit’s getting broken down, and there’s a couple small clusters of people chatting, but it looks to me like it’s winding down. So he clarifies, “The bands. But I guess you see them all the time and are tired of them by now.” in a real shitty tone. So I explain that, no, in fact, I did watch all the bands, but the show’s over *now*, so… He just stares at me, so then (and honestly I don’t know why I’m talking to this jerk except that I’m too nice for my own good, I guess) I say, “I’m really just waiting for my husband,” and gesture up towards the stage where Greg’s breaking stuff down. So then the guy says, in a REALLY shitty tone of voice, “And I guess you can’t HELP him, can you?” I’m sure at this point I had some sort of flabbergasted look on my face, but again, for some reason I didn’t just tell the guy to go fuck himself, I told him that, as my husband was the sound guy, there weren’t any instruments or heavy things to help with. (I mean, I think Greg can carry a backpack with a couple cables and maybe a powerstrip or two in it. He’s not a total weakling. And I’m not going to move a total stranger’s gear, because it’s *their* gear and maybe they don’t want a total stranger – me – touching it.) At this point, he just repeated his stupid line about his friends wanting to know what book was so good that I was reading it, rather than participate in all the “activity” going on around me (of course it wasn’t until much later that I realized I could have explained that the book kicked his “witty” conversation’s ass, so no wonder I was reading; or you know, just “Fuck off, jesus christ”), and finally walked back to his table – where he regaled his douche friends with the answers he’d gotten from me, and pointed over in my direction several times.
I thought this was incredibly rude, and since I have (as mentioned above) social phobia, I was extremely mortified at this point, so I found Greg and told him what happened, and that I didn’t want to stick around in the bar for the asshole to come back for round two, and that I was going to go wait in the car.
So I’m waiting in the car. By myself. For a while. What do you think I’m going to do? Stare off into space? No, of course not. I pulled out my book and set about finishing it. Which I guess was my fourth mistake; or second again, if you count it under “reading in public”; or maybe first, since I’m still by myself in “public.” Although I wouldn’t have thought that inside my car *really* counted as fully public, although apparently it does because, sure enough, that asshole and his friends happened to walk past our car on the way to wherever they were going, and they felt fully entitled to stop and STAND OUTSIDE MY CAR AND MAKE FUN OF ME WHILE I WAS IN IT, AND TALK MAD SHIT TO ME. Which was awesome, you know, because of course my social-phobia/fear-of-being-part-of-a-loud-”scene”-in-public kicked in and basically made me feel utterly cornered and unable to do anything for the second time in the evening. When I finally scraped up enough courage to flip them off, they got tired of standing outside the car and started walking again, but continued to laugh loudly and say shit about me loud enough for me to hear it. After they were gone, I was so mortified that I actually started crying (although thank god they didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing that). Then I basically texted Greg to hurry up before they came back for round three, and a little while later he came out, and we went straight home. No Wafflehouse. No nothing, other than going straight home and crawling into bed, my night utterly ruined, and my spirits totally crushed. And then – AND THEN – of course I couldn’t even get to sleep, but just got to keep replaying that shit over and over, and finally I *did* take a Klonopin just to make it stop so I could sleep.
Dear Those Jerks,
You made fun of someone in public, to their face, until they felt compelled to leave the place to get away from you. Then, when you happened to pass them later, you decided that humiliation wasn’t enough, so you did it some more, which resulted in them crying and their entire night being consumately ruined. Congratulations, you are all utter, utter assholes of the first water! Your mothers must be so proud. Please fuck off and die.
Seriously: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
Anyway, here’s some of the knitting I’ve been working on lately. I’m making a mystery beret (bits of the pattern are released week-by-week, no picture of the finished product, but it should be cute), a scarf, and a set of wristwarmers/fingerless gloves to be my new “matching set” (same yarn but different lace patterns) of wintry-weather accessories. Here’s what I’ve got so far on the mystery beret – I like it so far, but I’m doing the “extra slouchy” version, and I don’t know if it’s going to be slouchy enough. Maybe after blocking. And then there’s a closeup of the lace pattern.
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So there are two exciting possible developments in my life right now. I don’t want to jinx it by counting my chicks before they’ve hatched – but cross your fingers for me, alright? And while you’re at it, cross your fingers for California peeps that Prop 8 doesn’t go through. (Whether through a recount, or the court challenge that just happened, or, you know, magic – I would be okay with any of those, if it meant Prop 8 got smacked down.) Prop 8 is fucking disgusting behavior. I’m so mad at California right now.
Dear California, maybe you did not know, but I am really ill at you right now. Since I know your whole raison d’etre is to make me happy, I’m sure you’ll want to rectify this situation as soon as possible. But as if appeasing me wasn’t more than reason enough, getting rid of Prop 8 is also the right and nice thing to do. Love, Kathy Fucking Jacobs
Anyway. So, yeah, cross your fingers. And toes. Eyes. Whatever you got, cross it. Last night was an excellent start, but let’s keep it rolling.
And here’s some cute/cozy picture-bribery to convince you to sweeten up and be nice to each other:
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Jj says, “Copy this sentence into your journal if you’re in a heterosexual marriage, and you don’t want it ‘protected’ by anyone who thinks that gay marriage hurts it somehow.”
Kathy says, “Done.”
Also, if I identify as queer (it’s somewhat complicated), am I really in a heterosexual marriage? I mean, looking from the outside, at a female married to a male, yes. But really? From a more philosophical angle, I mean – I’m not going to get my knickers in a twist if someone calls my marriage a “heterosexual” one, and I definitely benefit from heterosexual privilege (or, you can’t necessarily tell from looking at me and/or my marriage that I’m queer – I have to tell you, and if I don’t tell you, then I’m passing), so yes, the “heterosexual” descriptive is a fair and reasonable one. But anyway, from a philosophical angle, I feel like describing my marriage as a “heterosexual” one is somewhat problematic and heteronormative. Like, if a bi-guy and a bi-chick get married, is it really appropriate to say they have a heterosexual marriage? Or does that kind of work to cover up their queerness, like somehow silence part of them and make it seem like queer numbers are smaller than they are?
Anyway, stay the fuck out of my marriage, please, Government. I don’t need you to “protect” it (I’m pretty sure that responsibility is solely on me and Greg’s shoulders, thank you very much), and my marriage would not be threatened by “The Gays” being able to get married. In fact, I think it’d be awesome if they could get married. There you go.
When I was little, we had a paper Struwwelpeter doll. I don’t remember being told the story, just playing with the doll. Anyway, Cabinet of Wonders posted about the opera (based on the book) by the Tiger Lilies, and included this clip – and I’m reposting it because it’s FUCKING RAD! Especially “Snip Snip,” which starts at about 3:15/3:20, thereabouts. Holy fucking brilliance:
Alright, I’ve finally got some State Fair pictures for you. Here’s the basic rundown on the fair: I think I’m over it. That’s kind of sad, but it just wasn’t as much awesome fun as it’s been in the past years. Before we went, I was all, “Hell yes, let’s go twice this year!” After we went, I was like, “Um, can we stay home next weekend? I don’t want to go to the fair again.” Sad. But anyway – pictures.
Kathy and Greg go to the fair:
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They tour a neat old grist mill (and each get a free hushpuppy):
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They look at some old-ass farm equipment:
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They see a really tiny horse, and a really huge horse:
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There are a shit ton of people at the fair (and some of them are real dicks):
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They run into some of their friends: Rick and Kea; Chris, Risa, and Kat. Kathy doesn’t take pictures of them because she doesn’t want to put them on blast on the internets. She is thoughtful like that. (On occasion.)
They eat some delicious, delicious fair food (even if it is a little overpriced):
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They try to watch the races at Hogway Speedway (but it is hella crowded, and some of those real dicks Kathy mentioned before are here, and make it not as awesome an experience as it was in the past; also, there’s a new announcer, and he just can’t compare to the old one; but the animals are still cute. If you can see them. Also, Kathy basically held her camera up and prayed, and is astounded to actually have the animals in two of her shots.):
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Then they look at some animals that had been judged at the fair – mainly rabbits and cows:
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Then they go home. About two weeks later, Kathy’s lazy ass finally gets around to putting the pictures on her blog. The End.
