The Frog That Broke the Camel's Back

I am a resilient person. I can take a lot before I break, and when I break, it's usually just in a sort of silly way. Like a pinata: I might be broken but I'm spilling candy and goodies all over the world, so it's kind of okay.

Right?

The point is that there is always some sort of catalyst that pushes me over the edge, some very little thing that just shoves my brain from "tired but still more or less cognizant of reality" to completely pants on my head crazy.

This time, it was this:

This last Tuesday, as I was climbing the stairs that lead up to our driveway, I spied this in the foliage out of the corner of my eye. I had never seen it before.

In a more rational state, I would have just assumed that my mother or father-in-law had placed it there as garden decoration. Which is, I should state, a perfectly reasonable thing to assume as it is in fact garden decoration.

My brain, however, was in absolutely no condition to process reason or, apparently, the fact that local frogs do not come in "coral." Or in the size of a Rottweiler puppy.

It was huge and pink. And to my frazzled brain, it also looked very real. I stared at it for several minutes, completely transfixed like a frightened gazelle. Would it move? If it moved, was it going to come at me? Was it an angry pink frog? Because (and yes, I really thought this) if I got stuck being a frog and pink I would be wicked pissed at life.

I was still undecided as to a course of action when I saw that there was another one.

HOLY SHIT. It was like some sort of pink frog apocalypse. I freaked a little. It didn't help that the other one was more concealed and kind of behind me so it looked a bit like I was being flanked.

At some point, the voice of reason (which had been sleeping on the job for some time, because SOME part of me had to sleep) perked up and said, "Oh my god, are you really worried about this? They're fake. They haven't moved a muscle and they are Pepto Bismal pink."

Still unconvinced, but beginning to acknowledge the point, I resorted to the only possible course of action to determine if they were real: The Poke It With A Stick method. When it "clinked" instead of "squished" and failed to either hop away indignantly or attack me with some sort of amphibian breath weapon or something, I began to laugh at myself. Here, reason came awake fully and naturally I decided that they had been placed there by my in-laws (which is not to say that there wasn't still a voice in my head telling me that the only two other options were some of sort creepy frog-leaving stalker, or terrifyingly sentient raccoons trying to fuck with us).

The rest of the week has been a bit of a blur of uncontrolled giggles, giddy happiness over absolutely nothing, and... well, there's a Rooster in there too somewhere but that's a whole different blog post.

Today: More completely F***ed up since... well, midnight by definition I guess...

Okay, so I know that I swore a couple of blogs back to be more positive. When I blog about something negative (PMS/ frustrating goalies) I try to at least make it funny. But even though I'm about to catalog a really rough night, and probably not in a funny way, there is no fucking way I can not blog about this, because it is just too fucking weird.

So. Yesterday morning was a really rough morning; hard to get out of bed. So I decided to go out of my way to sleep in a little this (Thursday)morning, something I do not usually do. I've been working a lot of OT, getting a couple hours in before my regular shift every day, but today I was going to fore go that and get some shut eye.

To paraphrase someone from sometime with regards to something (I'm fuzzy on the details, but I'm fuzzy on everything right now... we'll get to that later), plans are great until first contact with the enemy. Well, I have seen the enemy and it is me. I went to bed a little after ten. I was tired, physically and mentally, and the last couple of months I've been falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow (barring a couple week bout with insomnia a bit ago). So I should not have had a problem falling asleep.

And yet I did. I slept for maybe a half an hour, but kept getting woken up. This... frustrated me. I was really looking forward to a more than full nights' sleep and not getting up early, and there I was, not able to sleep at all.

Fuck.

Finally around midnight I got back up, checked my email, did a full edit on a page of the story Rob and I are working on, and read a bit. The night was still salvageable, though I was still angry that it hadn't gone as planned. Around one a.m., my eyes were starting to blur and I was starting to get very tired again. Yay! I thought, I can sleep now! So I went back to bed, curled under the covers and-

*eyes pop wide open*

Fuck.

I toss and turn for another couple hours. I think I might have snuck in another twenty minutes or so, maybe. Finally, I realize that my frustration is making me sigh, toss and turn, and grumble, which is only going to keep Aaron up, and that's not going to make anyone happy. So... back out of bed I get at 3 a.m. This time, I don't bother trying to make myself sleepy so I can go back to bed. Nope. I just curled up on the couch and tried to go to sleep. It worked. For about 45 minutes. Then something woke me, who knows what, and I lay there, feeling irritated.

Fuuuuuckk.

By this time, I'm sleep deprived, irrational, temperamental and generally speaking kind of a soul sucking harpy. I'm really glad none of you had to see it. I might have fewer friends if you had. Anyway, in a futile attempt to maybe, juuuuuuuuust maybe get enough shut eye that I can function at work today, I decide I'll skip washing my hair this morning (something that takes a long time for me, when you factor in drying it) and do that tonight. That way, maybe I can sleep in until 9 or so. That would get me about 5 hours at this point, and I know I'm capable of functioning on that. I do it all the time. So I close my eyes and start to drift off a teensy little bit.... and then Rosco (the cat) starts yowling at the door. I mean really yowling.

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

I take a deep breath, remind myself that I oppose animal abuse, and call him over for some attention, which works to shut him up... for a minute. Right about this time, I get a bit frustrated. When the attention doesn't work and he just keeps it up, I have to break out the spray bottle, which I do. I chase him around with it for a couple of minutes... which is when I learn that one of the cats has thrown up on the floor... because I stepped in it.

FUCKFUCKFUCKDOUBLEFUCK.

At this point, I completely lose my shit. I mean seriously. I am at my wits end. I lose my temper TOTALLY and slam the water bottle down on the table. The plastic water bottle. On the hard tile table. It shatters, water goes everywhere.

GODDAMNED,MOTHERBONING, SQUIRREL BUGGERING, GOAT SHAGGING FUCK ALL.

At this point, I realize it is hopeless. It has all been for naught. I am not going to sleep and I'll be a flea fucking termite if I'm going to work (none of that made sense; I'm a little delirious).

So I sit up and read. I check Facebook. I do some other stuff. Then when I deem it a reasonable hour to do so, I call my boss and tell him I won't be in today. If there's a vacation day on the calendar I'll take it so I don't get dinged for attendance, but if not, I'm not worried about it. So the boss goes to check the calendar, and he says, "What day is it today, the first?"

Those words shock me down to the soles of my feet. Yes, it's March 1st, I tell him, completely flabbergasted. I get off the phone with him, and sit down to write this blog.

For you see, the last time I was up for almost 24 hours straight, was exactly nine years ago, down to the day. How could I possibly remember that, you ask? How could I possibly forget? Exactly nine years ago, early in the morning of March 1st, 2003, Aaron and I received a call saying his grandmother had been attacked and was being taken to the hospital. We came out to her house immediately (which was next door to Aaron's dad's house and his aunt's house). We received word a while later that she hadn't made it, and we stayed with the family until 8 or 9 that morning.

As this is something I try really hard not to dwell on, it having been a horrible, emotional, violent night, I haven't really been thinking about it so I'm not sure I think these two sleepless nights are directly related, even subconsciously. But it is really odd, don't you think? I mean... weird, right?

On the plus side, Aaron just got up and I told him all about it, and he was able to make me laugh by dubbing me Deleva, called Housewaresbane. :)

Four Reasons Why I Hate PMS

I am preaching to the choir. I know this. I don't have to tell you about PMS; it doesn't matter if you're male or female. You already know, at a damned near molecular level, why you should hate PMS. It's part of the collective unconscious of our society why you should hate PMS.

But I'm going to tell you anyway. What's that you say? The horse is dead? I'M BEATING IT ANYWAY. Deal with it or YOU'RE NEXT.

1. It's sneaky. I am an absent minded person. I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I'm so absent minded that I say that I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning when the simple fact is that I probably didn't have breakfast this morning at all. BECAUSE I FORGOT. That's how I roll. So to say that I don't really pay attention to the calendar to dog when the Red Tide is coming in would be like saying that Hitler didn't hug a Jew today: it goes without saying (because he's dead but also because of the other thing). So no matter what, it always catches me by surprise. I always log when it does get here, so I have that... but when the next one is coming doesn't stay in the forefront of my mind. Which sort of leads into...

2. It's insidious. For me, PMS is almost subtle (almost). It doesn't make me completely irrational or send me into spontaneous crying fits for no reason. It takes my perfectly normal, socially acceptable feelings and just amplifies them a little. Say I'm irritated. On a normal, non-rampaging hormones day, I would grit my teeth and roll my eyes. On a hormonal wingding day, I start threatening to punch rainbows until they bleed those smugly happy colors all over that leprechaun and the bullshit pot of gold he rode in on. Normally I am aware enough to avoid shedding innocent blood but if I'm already stressed out about something else and then the PMS hits, some lambs are going to the slaughter.

3. It's a little like being on nitrous. Here's how I describe being on nitrous: there's a part of you that is perfectly conscious and aware and rational. Then there's the part of you that's in control of your mouth and all your motor functions. That part of you is tripping balls and wants to make sure that you are at some point court ordered to remain at least fifty yards from schools and holy ground at all times. Everytime I overreact while I'm PMSing there's this little voice in the back of my mind going, "You know, normally you're more resilient than this. Also not a joy-devouring she-rat wallowing in the sewer of others' suffering. Have you considered that something might be amiss?" Eventually this voice of reason will penetrate the cacophony of horribleness created by my misanthropic alter-ego. But for a least a while, that voice is lost in the din of someone's innocence dying after doing nothing worse than asking me to pass the sugar at Starbucks. All of which leads to...

4. On the bright side I wind up losing weight because my entire diet consists of colloquial CROW. As mentioned above, at some point, that voice of reason yells loud enough that I finally hear it. Then I look at the calendar on my external brain (phone) and swear loudly and proficiently, but for the first time that day, not at someone whose greatest crime was being on the same continent with me. This time I am swearing at the calendar because 1. I realize that I have forgotten to pay something important (see above re: absentmindedness) and 2. I realize that I have been a total douche canoe all day for no better reason than that my body is producing an excess of Hell Hath No Fury juice that is filtering through my system like that filthy chocolate fountain at Golden Corral. My need to be responsible for my actions and fess up when I mess up (I just made that up. Feel free to use it. You're welcome) then begins a bitter war with my absolute loathing of admitting I'm wrong or apologizing. Now that I'm aware of what's happening, I calm down a little and make concerted efforts to keep the acid breath-weapon that is my hatred of mankind from burning any more holes in my social life or sense of self worth. Eventually I do the right thing and apologize to anyone I've seriously wronged or greivously injured, but I'm still hormonal and I just wind up feeling resentful that I've had to debase myself thusly. Serioulsy, you'd think I'd been made to strip naked, dance the Macarena and play Achey Breaky Heart on a vuvuzela before a jury of my peers.

And so, in closing, fuck you.

*checks calendar*

Goddamn it. Sorry. :)

The Fun That Can Be Had By Candlelight With a Random Name Generator

Thanatos Horiuchi.

Thanatos Horiuchi.

Let that one bang around in your head for a second.

Thanatos.

Horiuchi.

Last night, at my usual write night, my writing buddy introduced me to the random name generator on Scrivener. Even after the power went out, we giggled for probably an hour at least at the things it threw at us. He denies it but I'm pretty sure he unknowingly had his on some sort of Retarded Polish preset or something because every first name was unpronouncable and the last names all ended with "-sky." But there were also names like Modest Murphy (he was the most humble of Irishmen....) and Farewell Copper ("You'll never take me alive, copper!")

But mine threw out my favorite, the one that made my imagination go nuts.

Thanatos Horiuchi.

I immediately began conjuring reasons any sane person would give a child a name like that, what incredibly bizarre, interracial circumstances would lead anyone to name their obviously Japanese child after the Greek incarnation of Death. And what sort of person he would be.

Right now, all I can come up with is this:

Thanatos Horiuchi: Death Rides a Pale Suburu.

Stayed tuned for developments. :)

Also, was challenged to write a ghost story featuring a chicken, a New York cabbie, ABC gum, and fifty feet of rope (with a bonus cookie for including a Girl Scout, pun intended!) . Might work on that too. :)

A Letter to My Goalie

Dear Lou,

I know that, even among Canucks' fans, it's kinda popular to hate you. But I don't. I love you. Always have. I haven't forgotten that there were times that everyone was convinced that you were the only thing giving the 'Nucks any wins. And that people thought that for a damned good reason. You've got me in your corner. Or... your trapezoid.... or... whatever, I'm on your side man.

That said... regarding the shootout last night against the Kings? .... the fuck?!

Look at all that space between you and the net! JUST LOOK AT IT, LOU. What were you thinking?!

You are brilliant at what you do. You really are. But you have never been good at being a forward goalie. Stay in the net. You cannot MIND THE NET (as per being a NETMINDER) if you are not IN THE FUCKING NET.

This is where you live.

Not here.

Here.

Now I'm not a hockey player. I know it's always a judgement call. Maybe you knew something about that Kings' forward that I don't know. Maybe you know that if the opposing goalie comes out and meets him MOTHERFUCKING HALFWAY that he irrationally freaks out and runs in the opposite direction like an elephant confronted with a mouse. But he didn't, did he? No. No he didn't. He scored on you, putting the puck in the wide open net. Hell, Lou, he couldn't NOT score. You came forward and left the whole expanse of a FUCKING ARCTIC TUNDRA behind you.

But I still love you. I do. Just... stay in the net okay? That's where you're best.

Love,

Me

Tea...

So, healthwise, the last week has been... less than lovely. And I was planning on writing a whole blog about it, giving the horrible details of what I've been through, with a special emphasis on Friday and Saturday, throughout which I felt like there was a rabid wolverine trying to tear my lungs out through my throat.

But I'm not. I'm not going to do it. I have made a vow to be more uplifting. I'm not planning on becoming some sort of middle-aged Pollyanna or something (because, boy, is THAT not in my nature) but when something negative happens I'm trying not to spew it all over the world. And nowadays, with the internet and Facebook and this blog and Twitter, it is SOOOOOOOOO easy to spew negativity all over the place like doleful vomit.

So instead, I dedicate this blog to... tea. Yes, you read that right, tea. My love of coffee is well known and documented, I suspect. Less well known is my love of tea.

There is a... simplicity to tea that I appreciate. It has an effortlessness to it that says, "I'm delicious without a lot of effort; it's just how I am." Tea never tries too hard; it's very zen. It just is. It's like the easy embrace of an old friend, or a warm bowl of soup on a cold day, or my own bed after a long time away: comforting in a way that is almost impossible to put into words but reaches directly into my heart and mind to soothe the very thing that is eating at me. If nothing is eating at me, it is a perfect companion for a good couple of hours of sitting and reading.

I prefer the dark breakfast teas. English is good, but a little weak for me. I like a tea that holds up well to sugar or honey and some milk. I like the flavor those things give to tea, but I still want to actually taste the tea. My favorites are Irish and Scottish Breakfast, with an emphasis on the Scottish. I love that oaky, woody flavor that it has, but it's difficult to find in loose leaf.

And when I'm sick? Oh my. You can't tear me away from a cup of tea. I still get my coffee in the morning, but quickly switch to tea. Hell, I'm drinking tea right now. Finishing up a cup and have the kettle on already to brew another in its place.

So in short, while it's been a bit of rough week of coughing and cancelled plans, there is always a light in the darkness, sunlight filtered through a cup of brown joy...

THE PLAN (bum bum BUMMMMMMMMM!)

1. Edit a few things that I have already completed.
2. Send a few things that I have already completed to beta readers.
3. Send a couple things out into the world to start gathering rejection letters and, possibly, infamy.
4. Decide on a couple of things to put up on Amazon that probably only my friends will buy, but you just never know.
5. Put rejected items on Amazon.
6. Edit full novels I have completed and start getting those ready to be shopped around or possibly published on Amazon.
7. ??????
8. Profit!

Excluding the smartass additions of steps 7 and 8, that's pretty much my plan for beginning my writing career. I mean, I do hope there's profit eventually, but I'm certainly hoping there's more than just a bunch of question marks as to how it happened.