Friendship is a Sticky Wicket

Apparently it’s National Friendship Week.  Next week reserved for red noses. But I digress …

My Dad once said, “If you have a handful of true friends, you are lucky.”  At the time, I thought he was being negative and ridiculous.  Why, I had a million friends (I was young).  Turns out, he was right and I was wrong.  And, surprisingly, I love when I am proven wrong because I learn from it.  And it’s important to me to never stop learning.  I am lucky. I do have a handful of true friends, precious gifts I love and treasure.

Friendship is a sticky wicket. A delicate situation.  I love my friends.  I’m hard to love, so I’m lucky to have any.

imageAnd then there are the others … fabulous and not so much –

  • The Forever Friends – these are the wonderful people I may not see for 10 days, weeks, or years yet we pick up right where we left off  – ahh, beautiful!
  • I Wanna Talk About Me” Friends – we all have them; as long as they are the subject of all conversation, all is well.  Try to get a word in edgewise, like “Oops, I’m bleeding to death” – impossible.  Just gotta love them anyway.  From a distance.
  • Let’s Have Lunch Friends – never happening, don’t kid yourself.  They are really awesome people but chicken salad sandwiches and iced tea are not anywhere in your future.
  • Spill Your Guts/I Don’t Know You Friends – they appear at your door, spill their guts about a situation, situation gets fixed.  Next time they see you, they look right through you.  Pitiful.  Don’t answer door next time.
  • Deep As A Pie Pan Friends – can only talk about parties, travel, clothes, and light fabulousity; requires massive quantities of NoDoz and temporary loss of short-term memory.

So now I’m thinking I really am lucky to have my handful. As for the rest, move along. In the words of my new hero, Mark Manson, “I don’t give a f*&@!”.  (You are thinking this started out so nicely … SURPRISE!).

Off to work out snarkiness … maybe

Later

P.S. Many thanks to bestie Austin Ann for intro to writing of Mark Manson

Massage Mayhem

Just mentioning the word “massage table” might give you the idea that I am filthy rich and eating my weight in bonbons. When I’m not on the massage table.  And you would be wrong. You would also be wrong if you thought I was at one of those *wink wink* massage places. Just so you know.

I “accidentally” signed up for a monthly massage (reduced rate) at a massage therapy spot nearby. I say “accidentally” because I don’t want to be rude. And the first visit was great. They charge me for a monthly massage, whether I’m dead or alive. I thought I could cancel easily … but the fine print says I must send a handwritten letter in a bottle on the second day after a blue moon. Aggghhhhhhh! I thought it would be a good idea to cash in on my monthly “purchase”; am residing in Stressville and, to quote my dad, currently, “If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” I thought a massage would help. I am an idiot. A polite idiot, but idiot nonetheless.

“Jacey” took me to my room where I disrobed and jumped under the covers. He returned, asked me what type of massage therapy I wanted, and I was VERY CLEAR that it would be shoulders, neck, and arms ONLY.  And I began to relax as he removed my shoulders from my ears. Ten minutes in, I was r-e-l-a-x-i-n-g.

The next thing I know, “Jacey” moved to my feet. And the conversation in my head went this way for the next 50 minutes:

“I HATE feet. What is he doing? Feet are ugly. Useful. But ugly. How can he confuse feet with shoulders?”

Oh, God. He has a foot fetish. What is he doing? This is weird. Get away from my feet or I will kill you.”

Then he wrapped my feet in hot towels and told me to flip over. I thought maybe now that I was face up, he’d snap out of it. My mistake. He put an eye pillow over my peepers, then proceeded to drape the covers so that my right foot, leg and almost my “privacy” was exposed.

“Excuse me, freak, but that is not a shoulder. What is he doing? Get away from my privacy. I’m supposed to relax. This sucks!”

He returned to foot fetish land, working that right foot for all it’s worth; then regrouping and groping the left one.

“What is the freaking deal with my feet? I am NOT relaxed, I am in a misery. And am too chicken to yell at you, you perv!”

Finally, he covered my feet. Then he came to the head of the table and ruffled my hair, as you would a little boy or a dog. WTH? And then he left.

“God is good. He’s gone. I am free!”

It was the second weirdest, worst massage ever. Second only to the one where the massage therapist had a hang nail and when she was finished, my back looked like a barber pole.

I need to grow some. When my life luck changes. Hopefully sooner than …

Later.

Sheesh.

A Crock of …

 

I wish I had his shirt. Not his shit, just the shirt.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I’ll write. If you are coming late to the party, I absolutely DO NOT  nor have I ever had any interest in online dating. Soooo happy for all the happy couples who met that way. So glad it works for so many. So glad if you like lima beans. I don’t. And that is my prerogative. Online dating + me = NO FRIGGING WAY. Which makes the next part of this story ironic.

Stuck in the house like the rest of the country, I’m on the computer … a lot. Oh boy, here’s a free personality test. I love those, I mean, there is always room for improvement, right? It started out simply … no real names, interests, yada yada … and before I knew it, I was in a bait-and-switch operation, on an online dating site. Ok, screw you, scammers. So I filled in their questions with some real and many false answers.

  • Do you smoke? Constantly!
  • How many drinks do you have per week? Can’t count that high.
  • Education level? Forth fOrt fourth grade
  • Income? ( -$150,000.79) that would be negative
  • Favorite music? Appalachian garage bands
  • Your idea of a great date? Get stinking drunk, throw up on the beach, start drinking again, get arrested.

Then there was a spot where you had to write 200 words about yourself. I typed “Blah” until it reached the stopping point. No photo, nothing. Next thing I know, an email address I have reserved for “trash” is full of creepy “matches”. DELETE. And they just kept coming. DELETE x 30. Really. I assure you, with the information I provided, a man would have to be a psychopath to want to “chat”. Psychopath is so last year. Really.

Had to make all sorts of threats to the administrators of the site to remove myself. I never “joined” or paid a dime. So, my inadvertent and very brief experience with online dating was over before it ever got started. Thank God.

Today, Lady Di sent me an email. She has a precious friend in Arizona who does use one of those sites. The email included her friends’ new “matches”. I almost started crying for her and I don’t even know her. Never have I seen a more motley crew of Eeyores. I know it is shallow to judge anyone, especially by photo. But if these poor souls were putting their best face forward, well, it can best be described as desperate Photoshop situation.

If it’s not organic, I don’t want to play. Which brings many “tsk tsks” from well-meaning friends; the few who haven’t given up on me as a “hopeless case”. After my divorce, I was with a group of women and we were talking about dating. Out of eight, two of us were single. When I said  it was rather difficult to meet nice people, one of the women turned to me and said, “You had your chance and you blew it. That part of your life is over”. Meaning, because my marriage didn’t last, there was absolutely no reason to consider another relationship. Ever.

Hmmm. That comment knocked the wind out of me. I’ve made peace with her and her comment; I make daily peace with the fact that all circumstances indicate she’s right. At least she didn’t say, “Good things come to those who wait” or any of the other platitudes that do more harm than good. And this is the part where I say …. WHATEVER. Enough.

In the WTF department: just stepped outside to turn on a light and A BIRD SHAT ON MY HEAD. This is getting ridiculous. First my wrist, then my chesticle, now my head. Surely someone can find some meaning in this other than I am a bird shit magnet. Aggghhhhhhhhh!

Stay warm. It is colder here in Texas than it is in Alaska right now.

Later. Maybe.

 

 

How I Lost 250+ Lbs and a Bunch of Other Stuff in One Easy Step

Good Grief! My mom just called to rehash how lucky I am to be “unencumbered” by last year’s Cooking Partner. Tell me something I don’t know.  I was just texting my locksmith about my new safety situation. Just in case. 

Didn’t plan on writing about this, but when the inspiration presents itself, a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do. If you are expecting me to call him a big, fat, lying, creepy, tightwad con job – forget it. I’m taking the high road.

This was Round 3 with him. Round 1 ended with me thinking, “Maybe he has some serious issues“. Plus, I was in no shape to even make a grocery list, much less deal with man troubles. Round 2 was a tie; it left me thinking, “Wow. I can’t deal with his serious issues. Have enough of my own, thank you very much!” Round 3 – which lasted about 11 confusing months – ended as the holidays started. And I thought and will think forever, “HE AIN’T RIGHT IN THE HEAD”. Shoo!

Family and friends have threatened intervention AND a good, long stay in a mental ward if ever I speak to him again. AS IF. But, considering I did go three rounds with him, I understand where they are coming from. But friends and family, you have my word, I’d date a greased pig before that would happen. Correction: the similarities between mr. loser and greased pig are way too close; I’d rather date a … a … I’d rather live with 500 cats and watch Grey Gardens over and over and over again. Capice?

Back to mother, her nicest comment regarding the human lugnut included, “I think he was two-timing you.” Ya think? Crossed my mind many moons ago; also crossed recreational fun and games right off my “to do with CP” list. So sad, too bad, love dad. Gah! Gak!

Oh, meh! My high road isn’t as high as I thought. Ending this right now so I will not get ugly.

Later.

*If anyone spots a large loser with an Oriental rug, new luggage, gourmet cooking skills, and a bunch of other good stuff, please make a citizen’s arrest. He is an inventory criminal. Just look for a big old boy wearing fake topsider Crocs as dress shoes. Air-conditioned shoes …SO not cool. Oh yeah, and donate my stuff to Goodwill. Merci!

TTFN 🙂

Torture on Tuesday: A Visit to the Dentist

Who likes to go the dentist?

 

Not me! And I like my dentist; he’s been a friend of mine since  high school. And he’s good – and gentle – at what he does.

I don’t care how you “dress up” and modernize dental offices and equipment … it’s still like putting makeup on a pig. A total waste of time, I say, to fluff up a torture chamber. It is what it is. And I love all the perky, hands-on dental assistants; they are kind, they are reassuring, they are happy they are not in that chair. Or paying that bill.

I’ve hated going to the dentist since I was six. Dr. Monster Head told my mother I needed to have my front right baby tooth pulled so the big one could come in. The front baby tooth was not ready to come out. MH said to look at his crappy wallpaper and pretend I was watching cartoons. While he yanked and yanked and yanked on the poor little tooth that didn’t want to come out yet. I HATE cartoons to this day because of his bad bs. He finally got the tooth out. 

I walked around like a gap-toothed hooligan for a year. Then, my mother dragged me back to his office (there are still skid marks my heels made in his parking lot). Seems that Dr. Stupid S*&t made a mistake. I had no right front tooth. So he designed a clever retainer for me; one that was all pink and shiny and had one fake front tooth on it. Lovely. It plugged the gap, sort of. Couple that weirdo denture with orthopedic high-heeled saddle oxfords x three years and you will know why I wasn’t part of the fast crowd in elementary school. The real tooth finally came in but I am forever scarred. And don’t even get me started on the Tooth Fairy. Meh!

This morning I found myself sitting in the dentist chair. Crown replacement. No frigging diamonds. Paid $5000 (long story) for this crown a couple of years ago. So this replacement was “free”. The staff outfitted me in dark black shades (splatter … barf), noise-blocking headphones (NOT), and put me in a chair position that can only be described as “yogic”.First they needed to make an impression that must have been wet concrete ; when I was told to open my mouth, it almost pulled the rest of my teeth out.

Then came the instruments; so many it looked like silver service for 12. Several professionals were on hand to manipulate all the torture devices. I couldn’t move due to all my accoutrement until I smelled something burning. Oh, that would be inside my mouth. Before I could jump up and run outta there, my phone rang. I could use my hands so I flipped it on and handed it to Dentist Friend. My mother was calling from Colorado to say they were having a wonderful time, my father was getting some oxygen at the moment as he was not taking the altitude so well, but they were having a wonderful time and would be home tomorrow. Lord a mercy, OXYGEN? And they’ve been there a week? I couldn’t talk, of course, so when the story was related to me, all I could do is roll my eyes. Which were invisible behind the black spatter shades.

One and a half hours later, I’m on my way with my faux crown. Which will be relinquished in a month for the real thing. Which means I have to go back. Which, for me, is sheer torture … sort of like pulling teeth.

Later.

Who Are You & How Can You Do This?

 

 

Last night, I watched Boston Med, ABC’s new medical reality docu/drama. I thought it was excellent … and disturbing.  One of the stories told was that of Marvin Pollet, a 55-year old man from Louisiana.  He suffered from amloidosis, a protein disorder that can attack vital organs.  If the heart comes under attack, cardiac failure can occur.  And so it did, in Marvin. His cardiologist at Mass Gen was Dr. Kimberly Parks.  Apparently, Marvin was scheduled to see Dr. Parks three weeks earlier but an alleged insurance snafu delayed his visit. He desperately needed a heart transplant, but he had to get to Mass Gen to be evaluated in order to be put on the transplant list.  He lost three weeks, his health deteriorated rapidly, and despite Dr. Park’s determination to save his life, he went into cardiac failure and died before a donor could be found.

What I find so disturbing is the insurance link in his tale. There are too many Marvin stories in this country. People who pay for health care only to find that if they become very ill, it’s a “too bad, so sad” situation. Insurance declined. Insurance Company says, “No”. The ridiculous maze of hoops we must jump through, just to get a portion of health care we pay dearly for, could also be cause for cardiac arrest. If you are very wealthy, a public figure, or a celebrity, well, you’re golden. For the rest of us, unless we hit a goldmine, the pot at the end of our rainbow reads, RIP, Insurance was Declined.

Who sits on these health insurance death squad committees? You know, the statistics gang who will decide whether you and I live or die someday? Any day? Is this a vaunted position? What are your credentials, seriously? Is it easy to sentence people to death because they are just names on paper? How does it feel to bankrupt Average Joe? Now he sits in his house that has been foreclosed on because his medical bills took him to the bank and closed his account. Do you get paid big bucks to let people die? How does it feel to know that you have, in your special way, contributed to the ruination/end of an untold number of lives?  Every Single Day. Sleep well? Hope not.  Just sayin’…

Later.