Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Enough Already.

Ok. In the past week and a half, the following thrills have happened:

Saturday, I discover that the darlings who are painting our apartment building have managed to get tan paint spatters on my navy blue car. (They're still there, I declined a refund on detailing, because I thought I could get them off. I am a moron, who has been a wee bit short on time over the past week because...)

Monday I find out that my hoo really IS the raging cesspit my mother always believed it to be. Granted, it's in a non-lingering, non-life-threatening, yet totally creepy kind of way. AND it's not P's fault. It was, however pretty annoying to find out, thoroughly embarassing, and funny after the fact to show up at work with my Rx for my whore pills, and my filthy whore crotch clear up cream, and giving them to the same pharmacist I bought the pregnancy test for my coworker from. More fun still was telling P that the hoo was off limits till it felt less like the flesh was being flensed from my favorite bits, and more like normal, and that he was, most likely, fine. (but if not, I had a refill on my filthy whore crotch clear up cream, and I was permitted to share, should he also develop braille bits).

Simultaneously, and for the rest of that week, I spent every waking nanosecond working on a massive conference for 150 people that our office (read: me) was putting on. Did I mention that I just finished putting on an awards dinner for 235 nurses, and orchestrating a week's worth of celebrations about the 6-10th? And did I also mention my boss was gone for most of the intervening week, and almost all of this week too, leaving me pretty much on my own? Yeah.

Somehow I got through to Friday, and I thought everything was finally OK. I got to see P on thursday. I had a little time to bake on Friday, talked to G. Monkey on the phone and all was well. Then I find out on Saturday that G. Monkey jacked her arm up but good on Friday night, and ended up back in hospital (not quite her own decision) again. I wasn't allowed to see her Saturday, but could Sunday, which was better. She made me an awesome necklace too. She's safe now, nothing can happen to her in the hospital. This makes me somewhat happier. They screwed us all on visiting hours though- and you can only see for 1/2 hour now.

Monday was the conference. It sucked more than anything possible, PLUS I had a migraine for half the day. And my phone spazzes. And I make an early night of it.
Today my mom calls me at work. "How committed are you to being at work today?" "What's wrong?" "um... I kinda almost passed out at the gym again, and they said I could either go to the ER or my doctor, so I'm going to the doctor." And in the course of putting together everything that happened, and working on what's wrong with her to be her advocate (because she won't stand up for herself) she tells me that she's been having panic attacks for months, and hasn't told me because she didn't want to burden me. And that she's not eating because she is worried about what's wrong with her, and then she gets lightheaded, and then she worries more, and so on, and so forth...

So we've got her straightened out some, and follow ups, and medications, and things... but if tomorrow they tell me that they're putting the dog to sleep, or that the cat got run over, I'm done.