100!!!!

This is my 100th post. 

I feel like it should be something spectacular. Something that will make a difference, something that will catch a person's eye that is just jumping from one blog to the next, just trying to find one special.

Instead it's just another post about nothing.  I mean I've talked a lot on here about random things.  I've said relationships, dating and love 5 times in the labels section.  The only thing that beats that is the 7 times I've said Milo.  I gave up on using the label things because I don't think it actually was doing anything for me.

I don't know what I thought I was expecting with this blog.  I seem to have clammed up lately and I don't know what to say on here anymore.  That's not to say I'm going to stop spouting off.  I like to hear myself type.  And I really like to hear what you have to say about what I have to say.

So...what can I leave you with?  I'm glad you've either just started reading or that you've been reading me all along.  I appreciate each and every comment.  I more then appreciate that you read me at all.

My commitment for the next 100?  I can't commit anything because l have zero control over my life at this point.  Not for lack of trying but because God knows how funny I look when I try to do things my way.  My 12 Step program likes to subtly tell me that I have no control and God just hammers it home in his not so subtle way.

Thank you everyone for allowing me to rant about the shit in my life.  Whether you read me once or regularly, thank you...

The Life of Sammie

Sammie was born a poor black child....no, she was adopted in 1998 by myself and my practice husband. Actually, Sammie is the ex's dog so I try to blame him for all the shenanigan's that Sammie has done over the years.  It's more my fault then anything but I'll never admit that again.

Sammie was only a couple of months old when we adopted her but she was born with a way to drive myself (and I think the practice husband) crazy.  She whined.  All the time...just because.  I know I was concerned at first but quickly became annoyed (which is not hard to do).  She just wanted constant attention.  Not hurt or needing something, we'd run through the possible needs she might have.  We'd fret around the house, asking her if this was it or maybe that....sometimes it would be food or water.  Needed to go outside.  But most likely it was 1) rub my belly, 2) pat my belly, 3) tickle my belly or 4)play with me.  It was ALWAYS a plead for attention.  So her whining became a source of frustration for us.

Sammie became Sissy because I just loved that name.  I know it caused countless hours of frustration and general pissed off feelings for the practice husband.  He named her Sammie and that is her name.  So I will admit that I did call her Sissy at the beginning as a rouse to torture him but then it became her name; in my head.  I call her Sis, Sissy Girl, Sammie Leah and Samantha Leah when she's in trouble.  That last one irritates me because my Mom called her that and I repeatedly told her that Sammie's name was NEVER Samantha.  Stop calling her that...only to find myself calling her Samantha Leah when she's in trouble.  

Fast forward and you get a 12 year old Sissy Girl who still whines (non-stop) but is a much more calm girl.

Sammie has always been a belly slut.  She will flip onto her back in an instant and offer her belly up to you for her amusement.  She actually purrs.  She will sleep with a constant snore and when you rub her down, she'll purr like a cat. Also like a cat, she will follow the sunbeam across the floor when it's sunny out.  She'll sit outside for an hour; even when it's 102 degrees.  Come in panting and when she cools down from that, she'll go right back outside.



This is my favorite of my Sissy Girl and is what I have up in my office and home

Sammie is going well.  She has a few more bumps on her and I'm trying to ignore them because, at $80 a pop to biopsy them, I am stuck with the hope that she is just getting more fatty pockets.  Nothing has changed with her personality or habits.  So I choose to believe she is fine.  I have added a new routine and she is loving it.  Every day she gets either 10 minutes of scratch, pat and cuddle or a good brushing.  Most of the time she will purr her way through a rubdown.  I think the standing and getting brushed hurts her hips.  But after every brush, she runs laps up and down the hallway.

And Milo gets a brushing too.  He loves it.

Next post will be about Milo.  Thank you for indulging me in my need to document the two "children" I have.  They are truly special to me.

Dual Diagnosis

No...I don't have any new news about the saga of my vagina.  No, nothing so much as a peep from the doctor because she wants me to sit in the silence and be OK with it.  Nothing wrong with my doctor.  She actually just wants me to wait so they can have "clearer" view when we do the 2nd pap.  We're not looking at diagnosing anything at this point.  I'm just supposed to wait.

Now...if you know me....I DO NOT WAIT.  I actually suck at waiting.  More specific, I do not wait well.  I tend to take people hostage and include them in my misery.  I'm hoping to not do that this time because I really am tired of the guilty feeling I have every time I open my mouth and start talking to someone.  That's what has seemed to be happening lately.  I feel like I start talking and then people start telling me something and I don't get a chance to tell my story.  So I've just stopped talking to people for the most part.

Which brings me to my Subject...I have given myself a dual diagnosis and here is what Nurse Shannon has found.

1.  I don't give a shit.  About anything really.  I don't feel like I'm participating or at the most giving my limited attention.  I'm fucking off at work.  I'm getting "talks" from Dick the boss.  All chummy and a little motivational.  Which, for Dick, is a bad thing because one of the side effects of not giving a shit is that I have a very low tolerance for motivation and will just throw "fuck you" signs to his back.  This is affecting my personal life too by encouraging me to gorge on just about anything.  I go in spurts.  Today was egg drop soup.  Monday was Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Both are crap for you.  I know I'm in denial at this point in my life.  Hiding one thing has proven to be convenient and so I lump other things in there with it.  Weight, skin issues, budding tendency to spend money again...all things I need to get under control.  But, like my 12 step program, admitting you have a problem is the first step to concurring it.

2. With this "don't give a shit", I am also struck with the inability to write something.  I was used to writing something every day...may not post it but it was something I wrote.  Now, my well feels dry.  I'm surprised I'm getting this out of me.  I am just lifeless and I hate that feeling.  I hate going back to the place in my head where I am struck mute and left to waste away in my feelings of inadequacy and loathe for the physical person I am.  Right now I would be just as happy to stay up in my bedroom and order chinese food.  My boss actually told me today that he knew I didn't want to have "interaction" with anyone.  What the hell am I doing to make him think that?  I know I've told him that I don't want to be friends with people at work; I meant that I don't want to be friends with them outside of work.  But he's taken it to mean that I just really don't want to know people at an even basic level.  And that couldn't be further from the truth, I really like to think I've become more open.  I just don't want people at work to know me outside of work.  That's just the type of person I am.  So, the only things I can write about lately is around my compulsions to leave work and get a smoothie at Quik Trip, spending an hour updating my calendar or bringing out my new phone and learn the ins and outs of it.  The most exciting thing I've been looking at is the 335 page user manual for my Android.  I'm tired of hearing myself say I'm busy, behind, overwhelmed and running late.  I think, with doing the action in number 1 (admitting I have a problem) will encompass this issue.   I just need to find the motivation to take that step.  And I promise to not throw "fuck you" signs as I motivate my way to a more enjoyable life.

Here's my argument

I’m so tired of the bullshit, gossip and just plain rude people at work. I’m tired of doing a job that gets no kudos but tons of grief. I’d like to find a job that I can do something that makes a direct impact at least a couple of times a month. I’d like to be able to talk to people on a 1-on-1 level and not have to defend or placate. I’m tired of listening to others conversations about their kids, their in-laws, how their husband isn’t paying enough attention and how he grabs her boobs all the time. I’d like to make more money; being paid for my talents and work ethic instead of my inability to finish a degree.



While wishing…I’d like to get back to a size 10 body. I’m tired of having to squish myself into jeans and tops. I’m tired of having to readjust my bra every time I raise my hands over my head; showing half my fatty boob has fallen out of its cup and I now have to manipulate it back into the too small metal cage I try to corral it into. I’d like to be able to sit or bend over and not have to hike my pants back up in the back because my waist is now more then it was when standing and the pants fall down. I’d really like to be able to put my shoes on while standing and most definitely without gasping and hyperventilating before just sitting down and putting them on. I’d like to walk into a store and be able to wear something off the rack. I remember when men did look at me and not in horror. It was nice to see a guy turn his head when he walked by. That was kind of nice.



Maybe I should include money? Why not…I’d like to have a better handle on my money. Maybe I could learn to bank some money each check. Just a small amount but enough that over time, I’ll have a small nest egg. Is it possible to not live paycheck to paycheck? Can I actually actively manage my money; be present and accountable? I’d like to live on a cash system and pay for everything through dedicated means. I would never go overdrawn or only have $3.58 in my account for a week. Is it possible that I would learn that buying a 52oz of soda every day would add up to more then I really think it does? Where is my willpower?



I really need to find a man and preferably a rich one. Mostly rich so I can stop working here and find something that is less painful for my spirit and one I could actually love. I’m assuming that that job would make less then I’m making now. But I want a man because I’m lonely. I don’t like coming home to an empty home. I’d like to talk to someone about my day and ask about his. I want someone that is looking to be around me and wants to do things with me. I want to feel loved and wanted. I want to touch someone every day. I’m tired of sleeping alone and I’m tired of turning the lights off by myself. I want to fight with someone because then I know that they feel strongly about something and he wants me to understand his side of the coin. I want to be able to walk up behind him and hug him around the waist. I want to make him laugh and I want him to get my jokes. I want him to bring me things he wants to explain to me. I’m tired of walking my dogs alone. I am tired of eating alone.





So….I guess those are my complaints for the day….I have so many other pain points but I guess this is good for now.