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Showing posts with label #weirdshit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #weirdshit. Show all posts

Friday, April 29, 2022

Schumer's No-Longer-Secret Shame Inspires Me

 A Coupla Reasons Why Amy Schumer is my New Favorite Celebrity Mom

Image: Wikipedia












1.  Her kid has a great name.  First of all, Gene is an underused classic.  Secondly, she actually changed her son's middle name when she figured out he might get teased--her kid was originally known as Gene Attell (genital?) but she changed it to Gene David.  Some people would've dug in their heels by emphasizing the slightly-less-crotch-y pronunciation, but instead she admitted it was a little weird.  And she fixed it for the kid's sake but still figured out how to honor her friend with that middle.  Nailed it.

2.  She's real about her mental health.  Trichotillomania is a stigmatized thing, but we all have our freak flags folded up somewhere.  Amy let that sh*t fly, even though I don't know of any other celebrities who've admitted to yanking their own head hair out compulsively.  Full disclosure: I have been known to do this--both the blurting out of what used to be shameful secret for the whole damned world to know, AND the freaky hair-pulling thing.  It started when I was stressed to be driving one of my kids somewhere every day in a sh*tload of Bay Area traffic.  Now that I've allowed myself to notice what I'm doing, I'm trying to stop.  It's complex and weird, and I'm a little balder than I would be otherwise, but it happens to some of us.  If someone makes a G.I. Jane joke about me I'm hoping Joe doesn't react too poorly, though.

Saturday, April 16, 2022

Santa Cruz Versus the World

 A Comparative Photo Essay


Everywhere Else, USA:







[Ho-hum street names having to do with sports]




Santa Cruz:






[Straight to the point: Old Big Trees Rd, along Hwy 9]








[Actual street names en Español: Quién Sabe Rd, Scotts Valley]




------------------

Namespotting:


Reeva  

Anson  

Nash 


And *this* lady on Facebook.  I don't make fun of too many names as a general rule, but I can't stop laughing when I say this name out loud.








Apparently this is her real (married) name--I know because I made the blunder of publicly asking our mutual friend on her Facebook post.

I totally thought it was an awesomely disgusting, double entendre nickname and that she was my kinda people...yeah.  No.  It's her real name.

She ended up sending me what my father-in-law calls a "nastygram" (p*ssed-off rant of a message) over FB messenger, calling me out as a stupid, terrible person for making fun of someone's name like that.

True, true.  To be completely honest it was more out of amazement than b*tchiness, though.  But by then I was laughing too hard to explain myself, backpedal, or apologize properly, so I just blocked her like the grownup I am.

Also me, inside my head:  [Honey you do realize you don't have to take your husband's last name?  Way to take one for the team.]

Then again, if Joe's last name were Butt, I still would've taken his last name, too.

Saturday, April 2, 2022

Wheel in the Sky

 I am almost thirty-nine years old.  I live a blessed life.  Most of the time I feel like I've totally "won" a 7th-grade game of M*A*S*H--

Youuu willlllll....live in a house, marry a surfer, live in California, have six kids, and drive a purple SUV.  

Sweet!

"Green?  No, WAIT, I want a do-over."


Then again, the Fortune Teller in the Sky threw me this--

You will discover that you have been living with a weird cancer syndrome from the moment you were conceived.

You'll also turn out to have bipolar disorder.

Your unflappable and largely-agnostic husband will find himself praying his @ss off for nothing but the restoration of your health.


It's something called MEN1--Multiple Endocrine Neoplasia--Type 1.  Neuroendocrine Cancer.  It's an inherited (autosomal dominant) kind, meaning there was a 50/50 chance of my having had it passed down from my particular family.  A somewhat rare (but not that rare), often slow-growing suite of tumors.  Mostly pancreas, parathyroid, and pituitary, but sometimes involving other neuroendocrine tissues--for instance, parts of the lungs.  I used to think I had all three of the classic tumors, but my more recent scans have shown that I just have the pancreas and parathyroid stuff.

"Cancer" and "tumor" are always scary words.  But it's really not that bad.

I found out about the MEN1 in 2010, but there were weird signs before then, starting in my teens.  But the random manic episode, culminating in the diagnosis of bipolar disorder last summer, was completely out of left field.

MEN1 can be a "good" cancer to have, in case you are ever in the business of choosing one.  It’s cancer in slow motion. Lots of mostly-uneventful scans and bloodwork.  Weird hormones, but not terribly so.  Three parathyroidectomies, but the last one was a rousing success.  I am not nearly as chronically exhausted as I used to be because now I don't have hyperparathyroidism anymore.  I am hypoparathyroid, but although I have to take a lot of calcium orally, this is a hell of a lot better than the "moans, stones, groans, and bones" accoutrements of having too much calcium in the blood.

There is a big-@ss scar on my neck.  Sometimes children stare at it.  Sometimes I think I should make up a cool shark attack story or some equally-implausible superhero origin story about it.  But in any case, I think it's pretty badass that someone slit my throat three times--in a controlled and consensual manner, nevertheless—and I lived to tell the tale.  And it reminds me every day that I've survived a little bit of sh*t.

I am also stable on psychiatric medication now.

Not this kind of "medication", but maybe something like it would have helped.

I am surviving this stupid bipolar sh*t, too, and am so very, very lucky.

I'm watching the paper Cootie Catcher start to unfold for my teenagers and hoping the big game of M*A*S*H smiles kindly upon them, in turn.

Monday, March 21, 2022

Catroulette

*****Warning: Gallows Humor******

Cat Roulette: My Mom’s Weird World of Pathologic Pet Ownership 

Thought it might be too much if I
pasted Dr. Kevorkian’s face on my mom’s,
so I just went with God from Monty Python










I complain a lot about the weird sh*t my mom used to do. 

She’s totally still doing it, but I’m not nearly as affected by it anymore since I haven’t even answered a text from her in six years. 

But sometimes I still have to laugh at the dark absurdity of some of the things she would do when I was still trying really hard to have some semblance of a daughter-mom thing with her.  I still hear about some of these things tangentially, when I talk to my brother. It always makes me think of temperamental G-d from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Not nearly as animated a character, Mom, but that fickle, “get ON with it” disposition comes to mind when I hear about these exploits. 

My mother is a serial pet monogamist.  I swear on my favorite childhood pet’s grave (RIP Woody, the affable and fat orange tabby of ‘85-‘95) that, post-divorce, Mom has had somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty cats over the span of twenty-odd years. One or two at a time. That’s a whole lotta cats. 

Okay, so maybe that’s an exaggeration.  And the perverse part isn’t her fondness of felines. Hell, even though over the years I have developed allergies to the tune of Will Smith’s face in Hitch, I used to fantasize about a Millions of Cats scenario. I would totally have scooped up every kitty cat in sight, ability to feed or house them be damned. Everyone can relate to that. 

It is the bare fact that she keeps killing them!  Lest you think I exaggerate, I spent my teens to early twenties wondering how in the hell is she not on some sort of pet adoption blacklist?  I still wonder that.  Animal shelters are not flush with cash or tech but there has got to be some kind of database for this f**kery.  The mysteries of the universe are not mine to understand, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that there are WAY the hell too many domestic cats outside killing the wild birds of the world, which turns into a pretty big species-diversity problem.  We also collectively euthanize far too many innocent, healthy pets. But while a lack of ecological balance may be our destiny as red blooded cat-loving Americans, a future of only cockroaches kinda pales in comparison to the bleak enormity of letting people like Mom continue to blow through cute animals.

She euthanizes cats like it’s going out of style.  Barfs on the carpet a few too many times?  Euthanize.  Pees on her dirty laundry (which, due to her being a nurse, usually smells like cooter and @ss anyway)?  Dr. Catvorkian’s a-comin’ to town.  She needs a new one then and nihilistically pops by an animal shelter—never the same shelter twice.  Like some of the drug-seeking patients in the ER, she is the worst kind of “frequent flyer”.

Joe doesn’t believe me. 

“That’s more than one cat per year,” he protests.  Yah.  It is. Maybe thirty’s a high estimate but it’s definitely been at least ten. And it’s plausible—probable, even—that she gave some of them away.  Fancy, the longhaired gray tortoiseshell she let me keep when our calico had babies, wouldn’t come out from under the bed often enough. She went into the recycle bin of pets and was gifted to our interior decorator.  At least she wasn’t one of the disposable ones.

One time she picked up a pretty Norwegian Forest Cat, a highly collectible breed, who had a bad case of giardiasis from its life on the streets.  Even gave it a middle name.  She wanted to kill that one too but the vet volunteered to adopt it herself because it would have been such a waste of a perfectly good status symbol.  Ask my brother if you don’t believe me.  

Some of my cynicism around this issue may come from the way my allergies took on a life of their own in my adolescence, while Mom kept right on acquiring.  My dad had very few pets, mercifully, as he was the kind of owner who would have played the “cat bagpipes” with them and actually—no sh*t—set our hamsters free in the backyard when they grew tiresome.  So at my house we had a home free of pet dander.  Then, when I would make a visit to Mom’s every few weeks or whatever, I’d be breathing in a cat-infested apartment again. For us non-allergists, this is called sensitization.  You can eventually get more and more allergic to these allergens over the years.

Contrast this inane scene to that of my friend and former neighbor, who tragically lost his wife to cancer which left him with four devastated kids.  This had just happened when their hamster (when it rains it pours) also got cancer and he very responsibly brought it to a vet’s to have it put down for its own good.  “We’re not going to discuss end-of-life scenarios,” scorned the veterinarian, at a man who was absolutely haggard from nursing his terminally ill wife for the previous year.  Nobody wants his loved ones to suffer a drawn-out death and that is precisely what the real Dr. Kevorkian was getting at. I guess some vets aren’t down with hastening a compassionate, quick end to everyone’s suffering.  But my mom took an incredibly liberal interpretation to it.

Anyway. About she of the death knell—whatever, man. As with Eric Cartman from South Park, there is a certain “whatevah, I can do what I want” mentality in some folks that makes a terminal case of pet hoarding NBD.  Or allows it to make any sense at all.

We got our kids a “guilt” kitten for Christmas after having had a hellish year. I wash my hands and face every time she looks at me and she does NOT rub her @sshole on my pillow or whatever those cats at my mom’s used to do.  Holly the Christmas kitten is (hopefully) here to stay. 

Unless somebody gets to her first.