Admittedly Bitchy

I'm cranky.  The people at the hospital confused the King today, so I had to rush up here from work, which means that I had to tell my boss information that is none of his fucking business.

It's fine now.  Hopefully the King will be back in the castle tomorrow.

But right now he's getting a blood transfusion.  And I'm working from the hospital.

And his nurse is sitting in the room watching us.  And interjecting her opinion in anything we say.

I realize that she probably has to stay in here for some reason. 

But I don't really care. 

She's annoying me.  And I'm not in a sociable mood.

Single White Female'd

I've decided I'm being Single White Female'd. 

I tried to come up with a clever analogy for it, and I'm at a loss.

Mostly it's a people thing, not a look alike thing, but it's starting to irritate.

It all started with Facebook, where most things evil begin. 

I noticed that she seemed to be friends with all of my best friends.

Which is fine.  They hang together when I'm around and maybe they really like each other.

Then I introduced her to old friend of mine and she started a FWB thing with him.  (Well, I think it was a FWB thing for him, but an Always and Forever thing for her.) 

Awesome.  I wish them well, but please don't tell me details, he's like family.

Then, through him, she met some more almost family people and started hanging out with them.

Good for her, though kind of freaky, they are great people and very good at taking people under their wing.

Then she told me that she had a good time hanging out with my Aunt.

Not my almost Aunt.  Not my courtesy Aunt.  My born from the loins of my mother's mother Aunt.

Sorry.  I draw the line at real blood relations.  You can't hang out with/talk to almost every good friend I have now AND have had in my past AND spend time with my relatives without it looking a bit like you're invading my bubble.

And I didn't even place a personal ad.

Square One

At this point in the whole "The King is Sick" saga it's a whole lot of one step forward and two steps back. 

We're back again.

In the hospital, that is.

I hate the hospital.

I hate the sick people.

Often I hate the staff.

Like the one today that tried to move a bed attached to an IV that was attached to the King's vein.  Repeatedly.

Or the one last time who lectured me every time she came in on how to wife my husband.
She wasn't married.

Fortunately we finally have a set of Doctors for him who actually do rounds that we like.

His GP is awesome and funny and usually very nice.  And his GI is succinct and doesn't mind explaining to me, and totally understands that the King is NOT in the castle.

But oh my giddy aunt, I hate the smells.

The Out-Laws

I'm pretty angry with the King's mother right now.

I opened the door for it by being very honest with her, but still, I'm angry.  And more than a little hurt.

She told me that she thought it sounded like I was "punishing" the King  for being sick.

Excuse me?

She says that expecting him to help around the house, and the very possibility that I might have to cut off his smart phone said that I was punishing him for being sick.

And that I knew he was sick when I married him.

I'm sorry...

Bitch say what?!?!?!?!

First of all, I recognize and admit that I've been pretty waspish lately.  I'm tired, worried, stressed and sick.  So I'm prepared to believe that something I said came across wrong.  But seriously?!?!

Second, I didn't know this was coming before our second anniversary when I married the King.  True, I knew he had cancer, and I was starting to understand the mobility issues that would be later revealed as osteonecrosis.  But this?!?!  I had no fucking clue.  I didn't even know you could have cirrhosis of the liver at the ripe old age of 36 fucking years old.

Thirdly, I'm punishing him because I think he should fold the laundry and pick up the house a little while I'm at my two jobs?
Maybe you're Superwoman and able to:
get up, work-out, dress and feed children and husband, get ready for work, go to work, take husband to the dr., come home, help with homework, feed and bathe children and husband, work job number two, clean the house, do the laundry, check the backpacks, refill the pill box, go to the grocery store, unload and put away the groceries, then maybe get some sleep. 
But I'm not. 
I'm not Superwoman, and I need some help.  I'm not asking him to clean the floors with a toothbrush every day.  I just think that he's capable of picking up the house a little, maybe do some laundry and hopefully cook a bit. 
And believe me, he's capable.

And Lastly and Most Importantly,  I realize you're his mother.  But I'm his WIFE.  God chose you for him and you've done a fantastic job, thank you.  But the King chose me.  He chose me to be his partner because he loves me, respects me and trusts me.  He values my opinion and agrees with my choices.  We are a team.  And there is nothing that I would say or do that he would not agree with me on (at least in public).  So take your nose back to Colorado where it belongs.

Almost Human

I hate being sick.

I don't have time for it and besides all that, it's unpleasant.

It's too bad I don't lose weight when I'm sick, that might make it worth the pain in my ass, but no.

I never lose weight.

Anyway.

I almost feel human again. I even put my nose ring back in. And let me tell you, that hurt like a bitch after a week without it.

But surprise, surprise, the asthmatic smoker has a lingering cough.

Today I have not so big plans. The White King is having a good day and the girl has a sleepover. So I'm hoping that me and the King can have a movie night with the boy child.

See how exciting our lives have gotten.

But I do like popcorn.

Because I Have Time for This

I'm sick.

 

I have the plague.

 

I feel like I've been run over by a freight train and beaten by a gang of midgets.

 

Because I totally have time for this.

Topsy Turvy

It's 2:00 AM and I have to be bright eyed and bushy tailed at church in 5 hours, but I can't sleep.

 

In the last 3 weeks, my life has flipped upside down and I feel like I have to try standing on my head to make sense of any of it.

 

3 weeks ago:

 

• The White King was a relatively healthy guy considering his medical history. Which is to say he was fine. I had no reason to believe he was not fine, but I also wouldn't have been terribly surprised if he had a heart attack and died at any minute.

• Both The White King and I had jobs. Not great jobs, but jobs that we were capable of doing and that were secure.

• I was looking into going back to school as soon as a certain someone provided me with a certain paper that I need.

• We were planning out our payments on our debt so that we could possibly move far, far away from my family in the near future.

 

Now:

 

• I'm not even sure about The White King's health. He says he feels fine, he's just tired, but then he walks around like a zombie, and acts like an asshole zombie.

• The White King will be quitting his job on Monday. He will not be released to return to work for at least a year. We applied for disability on Friday.

• I'm looking for a second job. And I know from experience living with my husband and mother that they will not step up. So I will be working 80 hours a week, taking care of my children, husband and house.

• Forget school. There aren't enough hours in the day.

• I'm lying awake staring at the ceiling sleeping on the couch. The White King is vomiting every few hours and I don't do vomit.

I would say that I'm losing my mind, but we all know that I lost that a long time ago.

This is not promising to be a perky blog-scene for the next few months.

Your Bed

Let's all venture back into AnalogyLand..

Say you want a new bed, so you scour the internet and visit furniture stores and talk to friends and you find THE bed.

And everyone hates it.

Everyone tells you that it's the most uncomfortable bed ever made.

And it's fugly.

That's right, fugly, AKA - fucking ugly.

But you won't listen. You don't care, you want THE bed.

So you buy it.

And guess what?!?!

It's the most uncomfortable bed ever made.

And it's FUGLY!!!

What do you do?

I'll tell you what you do:

If you're a woman:

You sleep in the damn bed, because you fucking made it and you have far too much pride to admit that you paid a fucking fortune for a fugly and uncomfortable bed.

If you're a man:

You bitch and moan and complain and then you sleep on the couch and make your wife sleep in the fugly, uncomfortable bed that YOU made. And then you bitch and moan and complain about how you didn't get a good night's sleep and how it gave you a cramp in your neck.

And oh yeah:

Fuck you Friday.

Family Monopoly

This post is completely true, no analogies needed but also totally inspired by one of my favorite bloggers, bluzdude.

He commented on my last post that I needed to stop blogging about family members because pretty soon I was going to run out of chess men and have to move onto Monopoly pieces.

He's right. In fact with just the family members I have living in my house I have run out of white chess men.

But I do love the idea of moving onto Monopoly pieces.


As you may remember, I have a notoriously bad memory, but as bad as it is for things that happened yesterday, it's even worse for things that happened when I was a child.

I do however remember that my father (who incidentally was an asshole and a half), loved to play board games, and often included my older sister and as I got older, sometimes me.

As a parent, I now understand that playing board games with children is torture. And so understanding I have decided that either my father really loved board games and had no one else to play with or had multiple personality disorder and one of his personalities was an amazing parent with a tremendous amount of patience.

Either way, we played board games: stratego, sorry, risk, clue and most especially monopoly.

However, by the time I was old enough to play the games had been going on for some time and my sister and father had their favorite colors or pieces. For example, it wasn't until Clue Master Detective came out that I got to be Ms. Scarlet (but only because my sister was Ms. Peach), before that I was Mrs. White, and in Monopoly I was the Shoe or the Wheelbarrow, because my sister was always the Scottie and my father was always the Horse.

I was so jealous of those little game pieces. I don't think there was anything else of hers that I wanted so badly, and she had some pretty cool stuff.

I liked her other things, but that damned red Ms. Scarlet piece was the center of my universe everytime we played Clue and I always wanted her to be the character guilty of murder. And during Monopoly that fucking Scottie bought Boardwalk and Park Place before I even got out of jail.

In some ways this is the very reason that I'm so glad I've got a boy and a girl. They never fight over Ms. Scarlet.

Instead they fight over other things.

Sibling rivalry is a bitch.

Hot Rook

My cousin, The White Rook, is fucking gorgeous.  I mean in the "seriously you have a daughter and still have that body?!? I hate you."  kind of way.

She wears a size 2, is 5'1" and weighs 120 lbs soaking wet.  And as if that wasn't enough, she also has curves.  The kind that give you whip lash.  And long, beautiful, natural blonde hair.

If I didn't love her so much I might try to kill her in her sleep.

She moved in 2 weeks ago, so that would totally be possible.

Anyway.

My son's best friend, (who happens to be my best friend's son) came to stay with us last weekend.  We treat him and his sisters as if they were family and they all call me "Aunt Queen" and my mother "Grandma". 

On my way back from picking up said child, I was explaining to him that Aunt Rook moved in and would be sleeping late on Saturday and he needed to be quiet and let her.

Son's BFF: Is she my Aunt?

Queen No. But you can call her Aunt Rook if you want.

Son's BFF: OK? Do I have to?

Queen: No, but the alternative is Ms. Rook. She's an adult, you can't call her by her first name. Just call her Aunt Rook and then you can go back to school and tell your friends you have a hot aunt.

Son's BFF: eyeroll

So Saturday morning rolled around, White Rook rolled out of bed and I introduced Son's BFF to "Aunt Rook".

He took one look at her gave her a huge hug, calling her "Aunt Rook" and turned to me with a vapid expression of infatuation and gave me two thumbs way up.

Young love..

Labor Day AKA Dire Hospital Situation Day

For some reason The White King likes to try to die on me on/around Labor Day.

He's tried it twice. The first time was the week after Labor Day and this time it was the week before. (And since he's only tried to die on me twice that makes it every time he's tried to die on me).

I just read that last sentence: He's only tried to die on me twice. How sad is that. How many times do most women's 36 year old husbands try to die on them.. Jeez.

Anyway.

If I didn't get to have a paid day off, I might start boycotting this Holiday.

If I Only Had a Brain

I used to. 

Or at least I think I did, I can't really remember.

And that's another thing, my memory is shit now.

My kids keep saying things like "Do you remember the first time I had beans?", and I do, but in that fuzzy way that to me means you remember someone else remembering.  If that even makes any sense.

For the last 6 weeks I've had a hole in my ear drum and as disgusting as it is, there is stuff draining from my ear (plus I can't really hear, but that's an entirely different problem).  And I keep having this thought:

What if it's my brain?

Maybe that's why I can't remember anything.

Because my brain has turned to mush and its finally gotten so mushy that it's coming out of my ear.

Is there a pill for that?

Should I save it in a cup?

Will I still have migraines when it all drains out?

Will I still have to go to work?

Its a Conspiracy

We have three dogs, a dog door and backyard full of trash.  Up until yesterday afternoon I had theories as to how the trash came to the backyard, but no proof.

Yesterday I got my proof.

My dog Checkers is a beautiful, sweet, large, stupid goldendoodle.

My son's dog, Tic, is a smart, devious, adorable dauchshund.

My daughter's dog, Tac, is a bitch.  She's also a dauchsund, and she is pretty sweet, but she's a bitch in both senses of the word.

Our trash can is tall.  So I knew that Tic and Tac would never be able to reach it, and I also knew that Checkers is way too dumb to figure out how to open the lid by himself, and also to take the loot outside to hide it.

But then I came home from the hospital to take a nap and stepped outside for a little while. 

Tic and Tac were sitting on the back porch calmly and then Checkers bolted out the dog door with a plate in mouth.  He deposited it on the ground in front of Tic and then turned around and went back inside.  In a few seconds he came back out with a lunch baggy and gave that to Tac and turned around and ran back inside. 

Meanwhile I'm sitting in my chair amazed. 

When he came back with an empty water bottle I called to him.

He had the cutest look on his face and came right to me, tail wagging.

Tic and Tace ran inside.

Damn dauchshund instigators.

Fuck You Friday

This little meme is one I used to love and this week I'm so very excited that I remembered it, because if ever there was a Friday that needed to be give a big ole finger, this is it.  (Incidentally, it's really called "Fawk You Friday", but Christy and Boobies know that I don't Fawk, I Fuck, and they're okay with that, because they love me.)




Fuck you HOSPITALS.  You smell, and you make me nervous and seriously, I know that a hospital should be health conscious and everything, but when your husband is in ICU, you need a fucking cigarette.

Fuck you KNOW-IT-ALL-HEALTHCARE-PROFESSIONALS.  I realize that you work in the healthcare industry and that you have seen alot of patients and know where this road is going.  But you don't know me.  And my husband's poor decisions are not my fault, he's 36 fucking years old and I am not his mother.  I can not and will not MAKE him do anything.

Fuck you BOSS MAN.  You're a hypocrite.  You keep everything in your world secret, but then want detailed twice daily updates on my husband's condition? And then you try to make me feel bad that I don't have more information?  And then you turn around and tell the whole office everything that I've told you?
Fuck you.

Head on over to My Mad Mind and get your own button and tell your Friday exactly where to stick it.

The Bitch Won't Always Bitch

I promise.

I'm just getting a whole lot of venting off of my chest at the moment.

Because it's hard.

When you have to put a happy face on for overly sensitive children.

And for your mother, who lives with you.

And for your niece, who lives with you.

And for most of your friends and all of your family.


See, I learned a very valueable lesson from being married to Jack.

You and your spouse are a team.  You are a united front against the children and the rest of the world.  And there are very few people who need to know that your marriage isn't perfect.
Really it would be better if no one knew.

And it's not because you need this perfect image for everyone to see.

It's because there are not many people who can hear you tell all of your husband's deepest secrets and annoying habits, who can know about all of his weaknesses and still respect him.  No one is pretty under a microscope.

And even though today I would like to kick the living shit out of The White King and possibly bury him in the backyard, he is still my husband, and I need for everyone in my world to respect him.  And they won't if they know his every flaw.

Which is why Analogy Land is so fantabulous.

Because you guys don't know The White King, or Jack, or anyone else in my world.  Or at least if you do, you don't know that you do, and neither do I.  So I can get my venting out and off of my chest without ruining a reputation or a dozen.

And I need a weight lifted.  But once the load is a little lighter, I promise the bitch won't always bitch.

What Queens Do

I don't need another adventure.  I really don't.

The White King had a double hip replacement in May at the ripe old age of 36.  Before that we've done testicular cancer, ICU, breathing machines, kidney failure, pneumonia and a collapsed lung.  And that's only the King's health issues. (Mine are much more mild, but still baffling, and really just involve a dozen doctors telling me that I'm depressed and am gaining weight because I'm lazy - they are also an entirely different story).

But whether I want it, need it or not, I am getting another adventure.

The White King has slept almost continually for 2 weeks.  So I made him an appointment with the doctor for Thursday.  Then he went to work Monday and came home early sick.  And wanted to stay home Tuesday too.  I made him go to the doctor early. 

I have to admit that my motives for making and insisting upon the doctor's appointments were not entirely pure.  I'm tired.  The King has been sick almost continually for the last 3 years.  And I have been taking care of him that entire time, and I'm tired.  I have two actual children, a needy mother and an incompetent ex-husband to take care of as well, I deserve to be tired.  I deserve a break.

So I insisted on the doctor.  And honestly, I expected him to come home with directions to quit smoking and drinking and with a prescription for an anti-depressant. 

The White King has a depressed kind of nature. 

But nothing is ever simple where the White King's health is concerned.

Instead of a prescription, I got a phone call telling me to collect my husband and take him the the ER or an ambulance would.

Lovely.

Turns out he's jaundiced.

Probably due to alcoholic hepatitis.

Perfect.

Also, his potassium levels are non-existent.  Which makes him at risk for a heart attack.

Awesome.

And his blood pressure is very low when normally it's very high.

Fantastic.

So The White King is in ICU as I type and The White Queen is freaking the fuck out.

I've been here and done this, and its not pretty and I don't like it.  The last time was so bad that everytime I enter a hospital now I have flashbacks to my husband dying several times.

Plus, I've been up for 24 hours now.

Because even when the White King is in the hospital being taken care of by a team of nurses, I have to take care of my children and double check my ex-husband.

Because that's apparantly what Queens do.

Queens Like Flowers Too

Seriously.  Why?

If someone can answer this question for me, I might give you my first born child in payment (of course if he’s behaving anything like he was last night, I would be getting the good deal).

I don’t really like to bitch about my husband all over the intranets, but seriously??

This is why we moved to Analogy Land.

In my first marriage, my then husband, Jack, refused to ever give me flowers.  And he knew that flowers were very important to me.  I want flowers growing all over my yard and in vases on every flat surface of my house at all times.  It makes me happy.

By the time we got divorced, I hadn’t had flowers in months.  And the last time I had flowers I got them because I handed him $20 and said, “Jack, go buy me flowers.  Now.” .

Enter the White King.  We were friends during the demise of my first marriage.  Very good friends.  The kind of friends who talk about flowers and irritating husbands and loud children and flowers.

He knew that I was not getting flowers from my husband and that it irritated the fuck out of me.  He consoled me on the lack of flowers in my marriage and tried to help me understand why my husband refused to give me flowers even when I begged.

Then we started dating.  And flowers were everywhere.  He planted them in my yard and his (so that I could be surrounded no matter where I was), and even when he was very sick, he still brought me flowers.  And if he couldn’t get out of the house and flowers weren’t blooming in the yard, he drew me pictures of flowers or made them out of napkins and paper.

But here we are 20 months or so into our marriage, and the flowers in the yard have all died in the cursed drought and he hasn’t brought any new ones home in 9 fucking months. 

There are no paper flowers, or napkin flowers, or drawings of flowers.  My house is completely flower-less.

And we’ve talked.  And I have looked at him, handed him $20 and said, “White King, get me some fucking flowers.  Now.”

There are still no flowers. 

What. The. Fuck??

Am I not worthy of flowers?  Is there something about me that screams, “Do not buy this woman flowers.”?

No idea. 

All I know is that I’m the fucking Queen and I’m getting flowers.  And if a certain White King knows what’s good for him, he will start buying some flowers.  Soon.

Down the Rabbit Hole

If you've managed to find your way over here from TheBlogThatShallNotBeNamed, congratulations. If you're new to me and mine, welcome. Either way, here's the new digs.


I like them and I'm working on making it even more fabulous.


If you don't know me then you don't know that I am very fond of analogies. They make me happy, They help me say things that maybe I don't want to say, or maybe to understand things that I'm having trouble wrapping my head around. I don't actually plan on using analogies in <i>everything</i> I post here, but I will for things that maybe I shouldn't be blogging about if perhaps this blog were to fall into the hands of say, the White King.
Enjoy. Because I think I will.