You look like a buffoon.
Social work (LISW), writer, blogger, quirky primate
What did I do? WELL LET ME TELL YOU.
Where had he gone?
Well, before I tell you that, you’ll need to know that my demonic feline, Pepe, had chosen to become miffed about some unknown circumstance in her put-upon life and had also chosen to shit on the floor in the hallway in a big, regal pile. A REGAL PILE.
Did I mention that Baxter has a sick fascination with eating disgusting things, and his favorite of those things is cat feces, full of rich and delicious cat food that he is forbidden to eat? Oh, well he does. No big deal, because we keep the litterbox and the cat food hidden from his little dingo eyes… until the cat decides to give him a snack, which is what Baxter interprets the cat’s bowel-related temper tantrums to be… tiny little piles of delicious heaven upon which dingos are meant to snack. NOMZ, RIGHT?
So, just as I am catching a whiff of the delightful smell of my demonic feline’s hallway present, I see Baxter hop clumsily onto the bed, wearing a mournful look on his face. I look at my little dingo and just as I’m about to ask him what’s wrong (because that’s always helpful to do with nonverbal animals), he begins to convulse in a suspiciously pre-vomit-like manner.
I react quickly, trying to urge him off the bed onto the much more cleanable hardwood floor, so he is unfortunately scooting down the edge of the bed AS HE BEGINS TO VOMIT a long, large pile of what looks like marshmallow fluff mixed with rotted ground beef.
The sounds I emitted and the look of horror on my face as he set both of his front paws in the digusting vomit train that was still ATTACHED TO HIS MOUTH are not for the faint of heart, so it’s probably good that Jim wasn’t home and no cameras were present.
Here is where I really began to handle things like a pro, guys, so you’re going to want to get out a notebook and a pen and copy down this list of things to do when your dog eats your cat’s shit and then pukes it all over your bed. It’s important that you do it in this order, or it won’t come out right:
1. Be sure to stand and wail helplessly with your arms alternately pointing at the dog’s feet and then the vomit train and then the feet again.
2. Pick your dog’s paw up so that they aren’t on the bed any long, then realize that there is no safe to put said paws and then put them on a CLEAN area on the sheets and then start wailing about that as the dog jumps of the bed, streaking the marshamallow fluff behind him in his wake.
3. Pull yourself together and then run to find your dog. You will find him in his crate, having recently vomited again. He will be standing in one new pile of puke while eating the third pile of the night. Don’t be surprised if you start to make terrible wailing noises again as you somehow scare the poor dog out into the yard, where you can be sure he won’t get into anymore trouble and will totally puke on the grass now. (This is totally NOT what will happen.)
4. Get a serving spoon and a tupperware container with which to pick up all the puke and dispose of it, and then gather the original pile of beef fluff in your container. Continue to wail helplessly through this process. Do not be surprised if you begin to gag and retch as you wail. Remember how the only thing that truly grosses you out to the point of retching is vomit? Oh, you forgot? Well, you’ll remember right about now.
5. Get a big ol’ whiff of your tupperware container as you are dumping the vomit into the toilet to flush it from your memory and realize that DOG-VOMITED CAT FECES IS THE GROSSEST SMELL YOU HAVE EVER SMELLED IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE.
6. Vomit on top of the mess already in the toilet and then dry heave as you frantically flush all of it away to avoid a never-ending cycle of smells-vomit-seeing-vomit-smells-dry-heaving. This is the part where it’s good to start thinking about crying and laughing simultaneously, because that part is coming up soon.
7. Check the crate, but decide to leave that alone for now since the sight of more vomit has you wretching again.
8. Go out to check on the little dingo and pray that he has ceased vomiting, because HOW COULD HE HAVE ANY MORE VOMIT IN HIM ANYWAY? Discover that he opted not to remain in the grass and is puking all over your deck glider and trying to eat it before you find him.
9. This is the part where you begin to wail and cry and laugh all at the same time, because you won’t be able to determine if you’re having the funniest night ever or the worst night of your entire pet-owning life. Be sure to call your husband frantically right at this moment and ask him when he’s going to be coming home because “there is a puke apocalypse in the house” and you are “slightly hysterical.” He will barely understand what you’re saying so he won’t make fun of you for saying “puke apocalypse” later. You hope. (You’ll be wrong.)
10. Get the hose out and hose the puke off of the dog and the glider and the deck from several feet away, because it’s all that you can handle doing anymore, at least until your husband comes home and can calm everyone down.
I’m not putting “find little puke paw prints all over your house afterward” on the list because I want that part to be a surprise, LIKE IT WAS FOR ME.
So, anyway, that’s what I did this evening. No big deal. Just another day in the Schnabel household… cat shit, dog vomit, people vomit, cry-laughing, apocalyptic phone calls and discovering I’m not that great in vomit-related crises.
A million thanks to this little weirdo:
It’s so bad you’ll want to start cutting again.
co-worker, Tuesday afternoon regarding something trivial
THINGS WRONG WITH A PERSON EVER IN THEIR LIFE SAYING THIS TO ME:
1. Saying this is a trigger. A person can be triggered to engage in self harm by having it thrown in their face in the above manner. At this point I’m well past the point of that being an issue, but there is a risk when you say this to someone who has self harmed (or someone who’s thinking about it), and triggering is a big fucking deal.
2. Self harm is never a fucking joke. I am the healthiest and happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life and can never erase the physical evidence that I’ve not always been happy and healthy. That is something I have to live with for the rest of my life, something that will always be difficult, something you can see in my wedding photos (the ones I didn’t carefully photoshop), something every person who meets me when I’m wearing a short sleeved shirt gets to make a judgment call about, something I will have to explain to my children someday because mommy has those marks on her arms. I don’t joke about it. I don’t think jokes about it are funny. Call me sensitive, that’s fine. I’ll call you an asshole.
3. The follow up to this comment was “you know I only say that to you as…” (I didn’t hear the rest because I cut the person off and left the conversation). There is no manner of saying this that is okay. There is no role someone could have in my life that would make this comment acceptable. My HUSBAND would not be given license to go there (and thankfully never would), so the rest of you on this planet? DEFINITELY fucking not.
4. The actual statement itself implies that I’m someone who will self harm at this point in my life if something is bad enough, or that it’s funny to suggest it and it’s a cool and edgy way to tease me. I’ve worked long and really hard for that to not be true. Sometimes it is true, and the fact that I don’t follow through on that feeling is a huge deal for me, a huge indicator of the continued growth I’ve had as a person. This person knows that and still thought it would be funny to make light of the issue.
5. The person who said it is a fellow clinician. I can’t even articulate how fucking ridiculous that is, that another therapist would being so jaded and desensitized to the issue that they would make that joke, let alone to someone with my history.
It’s been bothering me for days, and I haven’t had an opportunity to address it with the offensive party, so plop. It gets dropped here. I shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it just because it involves my admitting to something that remains one of the things I’m most ashamed of about my past coping skills.
Trauma leads a person down a scary path. I traveled that path at a pace and level of safety that I was capable of at the time. I’m better for it (the overall journey), and I don’t deserve to have others make light of it.
Glad that’s off my chest.
The Susan G. Komen Foundation just announced it will be providing grants to Planned Parenthood for that organization to use in basic screening and educating women about breast cancer.
In the statement from CEO Nancy Brinker, Komen also says “we want to apologize to the American public for recent decisions that cast doubt upon our commitment to our mission of saving women’s lives.”
Controversy erupted Tuesday when there was word that the foundation would no longer be giving Planned Parenthood the grants, which recently totaled more than $600,000 a year. Critics accused Koman of caving to pressure from groups that oppose abortion. Komen at first said it was acting because a member of congress is investigating whether Planned Parenthood has used public money to provide abortions, then said it was acting to make more efficient use of its money.
I will never donate a dime to Komen Foundation again.
I am someone who went several years without health insurance (during and after undergrad), so I have received birth control, my first of many subsequent breast exams, sex education, instruction on self-exams, yearly pelvics, the morning after pill, and most importantly, one very crucial referral (since they don’t perform them in my area) to a safe place to have my 2002 abortion… all from my local Planned Parenthood.
This is exactly the type of fiasco right-wing ass clowns hoped to generate by going on a witch hunt to find mis-use of Planned Parenthood funding. Cast yet-unfounded doubt on an organization that has done more for women’s health than any other organization (in my opinion) and put politic pressure where there should be NONE.
Someone made the joke to me recently that we should thank Komen for the money that was raised during this period of outrage and backlash, but I’m not in the habit of thanking a women’s health organization for putting anything other than women’s health FIRST.
I don’t care that Komen Foundation has caved to a new kind of politic pressure (the backlash of the outraged left wing, myself included). My eyes are open and the money I’ve given to Komen will be redirected to other charities.
Anyone who’d like to pat me on the head any further and chalk my response up to my silly liberal ways can henceforth go fuck themselves. I owe a good deal of where I am as a healthy woman to Planned Parenthood.
There is a lot of buzz tonight about whether we as a society are going to put a man to death in Georgia who may or may not be guilty. I don’t know if he’s guilty and I don’t know if he received a fair trial.
I don’t care.
What I care about is the fact that I live in a country where we are so arrogant that we believe our rights include deciding when another person’s time among the living is over. I care about the fact that I live in a country where we as a society have already executed innocent people and yet continue to use capital punishment when the cost of a mistake is that high.
I care about the fact that a number of the people reading this right now and disagreeing with me about capital punishment also call themselves “pro-life,” and I care about the frightening depth of the rage I feel toward those special, ignorant fucks who simultaneously urge our government to chain women’s ovaries in the defense of precious potential lives while also shouting enthusiastically for justice in the form of irreversible government vengeance.
I care that there is nothing more final than ending a life, that it is the ultimate thing which cannot be undone, and that we’ve already done too much of it.
Here’s the thing about weight loss: the closer you get to achieving your final goal, the harder that shit gets.
Last week, when I weighed in, I was .2 lbs from my goal weight. ONE FIFTH of a pound. While I always try to keep in mind that weight fluctuates and I can’t get too excited about maybe having a milestone the next week… I mean, I was .2 lbs away!
I looked at the .2 lbs I needed to lose, and even though I had a wedding to attend this past weekend, I buckled the hell down and I worked the plan HARD. I spent ZERO weekly splurge points from the day of my weigh-in to the wedding on Saturday. I PRE-tracked and accounted for every point I would consume at the wedding and then vigorously tracked every single thing I put in my mouth that night… every drink, every mouthful, EVERYTHING.
On Sunday, after the wedding, I still had more than 10 splurge points left for the week, ate a few as a treat on Sunday and eagerly looked forward hopefully being rewarded for excellent behavior in a really tempting environment. I felt good today when I went to my weigh-in, no PMSing or cycle-related weight gain possibilities on the horizon, nothing I had consciously done that would impede my losing that measly little fifth of a pound this week, so I could FINALLY hit my goal weight and start my maintenance journey.
Well… I gained .2 lbs.
WeightWatchers, I understand this happens sometimes and I understand that I need to stick with it (and I have been, for a year and a half, through many weeks like this) and I understand that bodies are mysterious things and shit happens, but seriously…
What a slap in the face during an already stressful week. Work has been maddeningly relentless and stressful for about a week now and I MISSED my lunch hour today to drive through two sections of road constructions to get my weigh-in done even though I was given a short break in the midst of an all-day work training.
I have fantasies of buying a cake, but I won’t. I’d like to just tell WeightWatchers to shove its scale up its ass, but of course I won’t. In the long run, the program has been a life saver. In the long run, this is a blip. In the long run, not hitting goal this week is no biggie, especially since I’m still a mere .4 lbs away from my goal, but still.
It’s weeks like this, where I’ve done the right things and even gone above and beyond to be successful only to GAIN weight (no matter how small a gain), that I really just want to bang my head against a wall.
It took me 7 months to lose the first 50 pounds. It’s taking me a year to lose the other 30. The closer you get to the pot of gold, the longer the rainbow gets, people. AND IT SUCKS.
Venting complete. Sticking with it. Upward and onward, but with a bit of grumbling.
Here are some reasons that you can shove your honking up your butt:
Go find someone else more willing to be the target of your misplaced road rage.
Thank you very much.
Brandice, a proud and unapologetic left-side-of-the-road runner