Rantings of the Reckmonster

One from the vaults...

2012-03-04T20:04:00.000-06:00

So, I'm still technically on my "hiabattical" but I was going through my iPod and found this hilarious fucking video from my days of hanging out with Dr. A. So, I had to take a break from my hiabattical to post this video.

This was from some time last year when I was over at Dr. A's crib "helping" him do something really important and technical to his motorcycle that he is restoring. I think it's a Norton or something like that. Apparently, that's supposed to be cool or something, but it's fucking "broken" so it can't be that cool. It's not as cool as riding on his Ducati, which "works." Anyway - as you all know, Dr. A was subjected to my numerous video-taking escapades (*I should clarify: my numerous "drunken" video-taking escapades) and he was always a good sport about my general drunken obnoxiousness when taking said videos. Oh, and the reason you can barely understand a word he is saying is because he has a cigarette dangling out of his mouth while he's answering me. You can make out some of what he's saying though. But, truth be told - it's what I'M saying that's so fucking funny. BAHAHAHA!

In any event - I should add a disclaimer - while the romance thing never really panned out with Dr. A - he and I have remained friends (okay, I'm not gonna fucking lie - it took me a good long break from him after all of the bullshit hit the fan, but no sense banning a decent human being from your life just because you're not compatible in the "life-mate/soul-mate/all-of-that-other-bullshit-mate department"). So we talk now and he's still one of the coolest cats I know - and I'm glad that he's still my friend. (Even if I do think he's a total dumb ass for NOT recognizing how utterly fucking cool and rad I am as a girlfriend...but - different strokes for different folks, I guess..)

Anyway...I'm like Mooner "the Fucking Overlord of the Universe" Johnson with my digression. Here's the damned video:

So, check it out

2012-02-21T18:15:00.000-06:00

No, no...I'm not coming off of my hiabattical or anything. I just felt like I needed to post something right quick (that's how they say shit here in the South). And the only reason I need to post this is because I haven't really said one damned thing about it to anyone - and not one fucking person has even noticed even though they sweated my mother fucking ass about it non-stop for like EVER.

I stopped smoking.

A week ago.

A FUCKING WEEK AGO.

Just stopped. BAM. Like that. Cold turkey. No "aids." No "nicotine gum." No "group therapy." No "life coach." Just STOPPED. I'm weird that way. I smoke for a while when I "need" to (haha! like there is seriously a "need" but that's what I tell myself to justify it for that discrete period of time) and when I'm done, i just stop. Well, this little period has been a bit longer than I planned. I think I've been in a two-year phase this last little spell - maybe even a little longer. Before that, I had stopped for a good 2+ years. I go through these phases. I don't even consider myself a "smoker." I just go through "smoking phases." Mostly when I'm uber mother fucking stressed out - it seems like the only thing that will stop me from stabbing someone in the eyeball and pulling their testicles out through their eyesocket. Yeah...it's just safer for people if I go on ahead and smoke when I feel like I "need" to. Heh. Heh. Heh.

So, like - I don't even smoke hard core. Maybe at most a half a pack a day on a SUPER stressful day. Not that it makes it "safe" or "better." But still, it's not like I was a heavy smoker to begin with (well - back in college, yeah - I did have a pack a day habit back then). But everyone and their mother fucking preppy brother has been sweatin' my fat ass to stop smoking period. Especially my kid. You can't avoid the hooligan begging you to stop smoking. So, I decided, "Fine. I'm just about done with it now anyway."

So, last Tuesday, I smoked my last cigarette at about 8:15 pm. Nearly one full week ago. Do you know that NOT ONE SINGLE MOTHER FUCKER I KNOW HAS NOTICED THAT I DO NOT SMOKE ANYMORE?! I didn't go out on some campaign to be like, "Ooooh! I'm stopping smoking! Give me your support!" or throw in a well placed whine like, "Damn! I wish I had a cigarette - but I don't smoke anymore!" I'm not one to whore for THAT kind of attention (other kinds of attention - sure - but not THAT kind of attention). I didn't stop smoking for attention. I just stopped because I wanted to and it is better for me and because my kid was like a broken record with that shit. But, FUCK! Can't some bitches take notice and actually ack-fucking-knowledge that I did what you asked, suggested, hinted at, and guilted me into? (haha...just kidding on that guilt thing). Can't I get a "Congrats"? or "Way to go!"? or even "Good, it's about time. Your hair stunk."???? Nope...not one single fucking comment from anyone - NOT EVEN MY KID. [And no I'm not posting this to get you all to blow sunshine up my ass - but rather, to commiserate with me about how fucked up it is...that's why I froth here! tee hee hee]

I'm just about annoyed enough to need a smoke. [KIDDING!!!]

That is all.

I'm on hiatus...

2012-02-13T18:36:00.000-06:00

Yeah, yeah...I know, I know. I am getting somewhat lax in my posting on the ole blogger. I'm still reading all of my favorite blogs...I just can't really think of much intelligent to write in my own blog.

SO, I have decided that I'm gonna try and sound all "self important" and announce that I am on hiatus. Like I'm some kind of famous actress or something. Or maybe I should say I'm on sabbatical...like some really important professor. It's all just a ruse - because like I said - I've got "blog block."


Whassup, Bro? source

I'm just so fucking tired all of the time. I think my insomnia and my being constantly doped up on anti-allergy medication has me in a fog. Let's just say I fucking hate winter...I hate the heater...I hate that my cat's dander is a bitch in the dry heater air in my house as the result of winter...I hate waking up several times every night to have to roll over so that the damned snot can roll into the other nostril (that isn't plugged up)...I hate having itchy eyes and sneezing and looking like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man's little sister...I hate wearing closed-toe shoes...I hate not being outside in my yard...I hate dull, dreary, overcast days...and blah, blah, fucking blah.

But, I don't want to just bitch about EVERYTHING (hahahaha!), so I've skipped posting about everything that pisses me off. I know it gets old to just hear about how much shit pisses me off (unless it's a good rant about things affecting veterans or shitty people I work with). But, before I go on "hiabattical"...I have a few random things to share. And since I'm not feeling creative, I'm just going to list them in no order of importance.

Here we go:
1. My ex (the douchebag) is in for a major surprise. I have talked extensively with his (soon to be ex-) wife - and she is actually a very nice lady who was duped and manipulated. She has been very kind and called the hooligan and had her kids call the hooligan so that the hooli doesn't feel "abandoned" by them and knows that they still love him. This, no thanks to the douchebag, who would just as soon sever the ties and deal his kid another loss. Good thing I've read lots of parenting books.

2. I STILL work with some real mother fuckers. I can't stand them. They lie, blame, and pass the buck as often as possible. The sick thing is that they are in charge. This chaps my ass to no end. Someone please send GALLONS of chapstick for my poor chapped ass.

3. I have planned myself a nice little getaway to Gatlinburg. Cabin complete with fireplace, hot tub, porch swing and allows me to bring my Lexi Doxie with me. Squat - I have finally taken your advice, and I'm fixin' to whoop it up in the Smokies! I am soooooo ready for this little excursion.

4. I'm tired of hearing about Whitney Houston. I feel exactly like my buddy Coffey, who points out that she took a God-given gift and shitted it down the commode like an insignificant turd. I do NOT think that needs "rewarding" with an outpouring of love. If anything - there should be a huge campaign to say, "THIS, boys and girls, is what happens to you when you fuck with drugs and can't keep your shit straight...You fucking DIE. End. Of. Story." Yeah...you can "rest" in peace - but look what the shit has done to your daughter, you selfish bitch...she's in a psych ward on suicide watch. You get NO love from me. The nicest thing I can muster up is, "I wish you could have gotten your shit together...for your kid, and for the millions of people who enjoyed hearing you sing."

5. Did I mention how much I hate winter and I'm ready for a warm up??? Yeah...this when we're getting a forecast for a mix of snow and rain tonight? Fuuuuuuuuuck.

I called it!!!

2012-01-29T18:56:00.000-06:00

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Soooooo...I know that it's really an annoying quality to gloat and be all like, "I told you so!" but I really can't resist this time.

Any of y'all who have been reading my blog know the history of the hooligan's sperm donor, whom I refer to as the "douchebag." I don't really need to re-hash all of the reasons I cannot stand him, but suffice it to say - he will NEVER be on my list of "Top One Million Favorite People In The World."

When he called to talk to the hooligan the other day, he said, "Let me talk to your mother." Immediately I knew that something was up - because when I took the phone he said, "Am I on speaker?" He went on to tell me that he was moving AGAIN (this is the eighth residence he has moved to in the (less than) four years since I kicked him out of MY house, but who's counting???). Apparently wifey # 3 kicked him out. He is moving in with some dude that he works with. He was all vague and tried to say it was something about disagreements over the influence on her kids...and that when the wife's oldest daughter moved back in, it was a big problem. Of course...I know that man better than he knows himself - so I knew right away that was complete bullshit.

The only thing I said to him was that I hoped he would handle this transition with the hooligan appropriately - because, when all is said and done, the hooli IS attached to wifey # 3 and her kids. He has had wayyyyyyy too many women yanked out of his life because his dad can't keep his shit together. (*Wifey # 3 was the fourth woman that the douchebag has lived with since I kicked him out) Anyway - my concern is that because the hooli is a sensitive little guy - he will take this loss rather hard. And when he takes things hard - he tends to act out. I've talked about some of his behavioral problems in the past - and now he is in a really good place, finally "leveling out." So, to say that I am concerned about how the douchebag presents this to the hooligan is a huge understatement.

Of course, I am an information hound...so I managed to find out the real scoop - and it turns out that wifey # 3 kicked him out because he was running around on her and "wasn't who he said he was." Hmmmmm...deja-mother-fucking-vu! My friends and I actually placed bets on how long it would last before she caught on to his bullshit - and I said, "About two years." BAM!! Next month would have been their two year anniversary. I won!!

Now, I am not happy about "winning" this contest because that means that he is not "distracted" by someone else. And it means that he may resort to bugging me again. He is much more tolerable (for me) when he is with someone else. But, I knew that all was not glorious because he has said some weird shit to me since he's been married to her. Par for his douchebag course. And more importantly, I am not happy about "winning" this contest because of the impact it will have on my hooligan.

I am already fucking pissed beyond pissed because the douchebag texted me today and asked me if I would help him find a home for Coco (my SON'S dog) - obviously, wifey # 3 isn't going to keep Coco. And I had Coco for the first two years of her life - but thought that it would be good for the hooligan to have Coco at the douchebag's house when he got married, so that he would feel like he had something of "his" at his dad's place (well, technically wifey # 3's house). The hooli was throwing fits about not wanting to go there, so it was better when he could look forward to seeing Coco. Now, I am not thrilled about what they have done with Coco. She was an absolutely healthy, beautiful AKC, show-stoppingly beautiful beagle when she went to the douchebag's house. Now, she is a HUGE sausage link. They let her get obese. She looks fucking miserable, and when I go to pick the hooligan up - every time, Coco is in the crate. It breaks my heart. Coco really is a sweet dog. But the truth is, now that I have a dog and a cat...I can't really take care of ANOTHER animal. Two dogs and a cat and a hooligan is too much. But, on the flip side - I do love Coco - and I would be heartbroken if he took her to a pound.

I really don't know what to do about Coco. I don't want to "rescue" the douchebag and fucking bail him out of his fucked up situation - because he has no concept of responsibility. Obviously, he doesn't give too much of a shit - because he isn't taking Coco with him. I would like to make him take the blame for getting rid of his son's dog...but I know that he would just turn it around and say that, "Your mom wouldn't take Coco back when I couldn't keep her." I don't think it's fair to make the dog (or my son) suffer for the douchebag's fucking stupidity. It would be a HUGE burden for me to take Coco back...plus, my doxie, Lexi, was pretty friggin' mean and attacked Coco a lot (let's just say that as sweet as she is, Coco isn't exactly the brightest bulb in the bunch...she never realized that she was twice the size of the mean doxie!). I am really torn about this. Any input/feedback/two cents or whatever would be welcome...

A list of shit I will NOT be doing anymore

2012-01-22T20:01:00.000-06:00

So, in direct response to dealing with the aftermath of "Prince Misrepresent-yo'self," I have done some careful assessment and decided that I need to beef up security around "Castle Corazon." I have determined that there are some tell-tale signs that too much "attachment" has occurred, thereby compromising security at Castle Corazon. No more fucking security breaches, dammit. We are doing some serious fortification - putting more 'gators in the moat, strengthening the drawbridge, and putting another layer of bricks around the fortress. See diagram below for the kind of measures we're taking here at Castle Corazon.


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These tell-tale signs are actually RED FLAGS and need to get nipped in the bud, real quick-like. So, from this point forward, I vow to refrain from engaging in the following behaviors as it relates to males with whom I may consider going to dinner, drinking beer, watching movies, or possibly even a round or two of the horizontal mambo:

1. I will no longer unwrap your stick of gum and hand it to you if you are driving. You are perfectly capable of unwrapping the gum your damned self, and you can dispose of your own trash as well. I don't need to be that nice to you because I'm not planning on you getting too close.

2. I will no longer "fix" you a plate, bring it to you, and even take your plate from you and carry it to the sink when you're done eating. This breeds wayyyyyy too much possibility of you thinking I am "sweet." On a similar note - I won't be cooking shit for your ass either. We can either go out to eat, you can cook if you want to - but you will NOT be partaking in my fabulous cooking skills for the mere fact that you might want to hang around me more.

3. I will not tolerate your dutch ovens. If you are LUCKY enough to get between my sheets, during the post-coital time known as "pillow talk," you will NOT be allowed to do a dutch oven. That is a sign of "WAYYYYY too comfortable" and "WAYYYYYY too familiar" with each other. This is a HUGE red flag. You can keep your flatulence to yourself, thank you very much. Any incidence of the dutch oven will result in automatic disqualification from presence between my sheets ever again. And as much as I hate to admit that I have the sense of humor of an eighth grade boy - I can save the burping, farting, and other bodily function jokes and such for my time with my son - who will eventually be in eighth grade.

4. Similarly, do NOT expect to sleep in my bed overnight. This creates the possibility of you to wanting to "snuggle" with me - and my "snuggle" can actually be likened to an illegal drug - highly addictive. Like I need to end up planning some kind of "Intervention" for your ass...ugh, who has time for that shit?

5. I will no longer allow your pets to fall in love with me. I will now treat your pets (if I happen to meet them) as I do "O.P.K" (Other People's Kids) - politely, but not allowing them to get all up in my grill and love on me. I will save that for my own kid and pets.

6. I will NOT ever change my calling plan to have more minutes to accommodate your need to speak to me every day. I'm simplifying: Just text it. Besides, all of that "talk time" gives you too many opportunities to get to know me better. And furthermore, you're a MAN, for fuck's sake...you don't NEED to call me up randomly and you don't NEED to tell me about your day - and I really don't think you are supposed to give that big of a shit about my day, for that matter. Talking on the phone is now reserved only for super important stuff, m'kayyyyy? If it's too long to text, you'd better be damned sure that it really needs to get SAID.

7. Under no circumstances will there be any "pet names" given. None. I will call you by your given name. No cutesy nicknames. And while I understand your propensity to want to call me "baby" or "mami" or "sweetie" - I think it's safer if we stick to our birth names. Understand also that this means in the throes of passion, nobody's name is getting called out except for the "Big Guy" Upstairs. Because quite frankly, I seriously doubt that any man is that deserving (to have me call your name out in the throes of passion).

8. I will NOT, repeat NOT, take a back seat to anyone other than your kids (if you have them). If you're lucky enough to get a round of the horizontal mambo with me, you'll leave when I'm finished with you. NOT because your brother in law wants to go fishing. It is important that you understand this particular rule in its entirety - because violating it means that I have to get annoyed - and if I have to get annoyed - that means I am expending energy exerting emotions on you, and that, my friend, is exactly what we are trying to avoid here.

9. NO.SEXY.OUTFITS. EVER. 'Nuff said.

10. The MOTHER OF ALL No-No's is the "L" word. You will NOT say this word in my presence except for in the context of, "Man, you're right...now I love Michigan football, too!" or "Damn...I LOVE these Abita Strawberry Harvest Lagers!" or "Holy shit! These are some tasty-mother fuckers...I never knew I'd love crawfish this much!" And the converse is also now true: I will NOT ever be saying the "L" word TO you with regard to YOU in YOUR presence. In the unlikely event that I do develop some type of affection for you, you can betcherass I'll never tell you.

All of these new rules (also known as "a list of shit I will NOT be doing anymore) are to be enacted forthwith, henceforth, and any other obscure words that mean "right fucking now!" These rules are necessary to avoid the following scenario:

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I should be pissed, but I'm not

2012-01-21T22:34:00.000-06:00

I truly detest dishonesty in people. I think my "motto" for life is: Mean what you say, and say what you mean. The only thing I hate even more is when my radar sucks and I let dishonest people "into my bubble" and they betray my trust.

Turns out that Prince Charming turned out to be a toad after all. And the saddest thing is that I'm not even really that surprised. Not going to go in to all of the gory details, but suffice it to say that this latest "rude awakening" has just made me even more cynical. I won't get all "man bashing" here because I know that there are decent men in the world - they all just happen to be married already!

After finding out what I found out - I should be pissed. But, I'm not. Nope. More like indifferent. It's like I knew it would turn out shitty at some point, so it's not a surprise - no need to waste my time even being mad.

I read something the other day that said, "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." I guess that's a good way of looking at it. I learned another valuable lesson about myself. And learning = growing, right? I just think that the next few rounds of "growing" that I do won't be the result of anything to do with men.

If there is one thing about this that I do find annoying, it's the fact that I think I'm a pretty cool chick, and I just don't get why someone would waste their time trying to get close to me only to turn around and betray whatever trust and favor they managed to curry. That's a lot of effort to go through just to end up being a dick. I mean, damn...if you're a dick, just be a dick. I'm a bitch, so I just it's no surprise that I'm bitchy. I just am who I am. At least with me, what you see is what you get. I'm so fucking over people misrepresenting themselves.

For now, I think that I've got a good group of honest people in my inner circle, so I'm sticking with them and closing the door on letting anyone else into the circle.

And I'll just let my favorite bitch, Karma, do her job.

Welcome to the Outback Clinic!

2012-01-18T21:04:00.001-06:00

Mother bitch, it has been one ass fucker of a day! Today pissed me off in so many different ways that I'm ready to spit at, flick boogers at, hock loogies on, and stuff used tampons in the nostrils of all of the idiot-ass mother fuckers who have dared to display how stupid they really are today. Seriously, we need a fucking retardo-meter invented just to measure HOW asinine these dillholes are.


This is ME today source

As if the garden variety shitstorm that hits on a daily basis wasn't enough (but, that IS technically the stuff I get paid to deal with, so I'll refrain from beating THAT dead horse), today provided yet ANOTHER glimpse of how people who make too much fucking money get paid to WASTE government money even MORE, when "gub'ment money" is in short fucking supply these days.

To say that there is an assload of incompetence - coupled with some "fraud, waste and abuse" - going on at my hospital would be like saying that Moses was just "kinda" Jewish. But, that's really nothing new - and it's definitely not a secret, as far as what I've shared with you all as regards administration at my hospital. Today took the fucking cake.

I was at a meeting today and it was shared that there is some look at "reorganizing" some shit at the hospital - some "realignment" as it were. It's stupid, but as we all know, every few years, some people (who make way too much money as it is, and are looking to make a "name" for themselves in the hopes of making MORE money they don't deserve) feel like they need to stir shit up - just to make it look like they're doing something. I'm a firm believer in two concepts: Change is good (sometimes "that's the way we've always done it" is a fucked up excuse for letting fucked up things continue) and If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Both of these concepts allow for change when it's needed, and for things that are working fine to continue to working fine. Is that such a ridiculous thing? Apparently so - at least where I work. So, this "reorganization" that they're contemplating - totally ridiculous. They just changed shit up a couple of years ago - and now they're thinking about changing things back. But...this time - they have hired an outside private "Consulting Firm" to come in and "evaluate" and "advise" what kinds of things we need to do to "change things back" to the way they were a few years ago. Seriously??? Yeah, seriously. The announcement was made at this meeting today. Two announcements later, it was stated that we're still having "budget problems." Oh REALLY???? You don't say...

WHAT THE FUCK???? You mean to tell me that we don't have enough fucking money in the budget to fill empty positions - like therapists, doctors, clerks, nurses - BUT - all of the highest paid pencil neck positions are filled (to the tune of over $200K+ a pop per pencil neck) and now, we've got enough discretionary guidos to just up and hire a fucking private consulting firm to tell us how to run the fucking hospital? A hospital that is so strapped for fucking cash that they've put a freeze on hiring positions because we've got a "cap" on the number of full time employees that we are allowed to have (to meet the budget constraints), a hospital that is in the hole to the tune of $12+ million for the fiscal year, a hospital that is trying to limit the services provided to the veterans so that we can "do more with less" NOW all of a sudden can pay outside people (who I am quite sure are NOT doing this shit "pro bono") to evaluate and advise - and who knows what the goddamned price tag on that shit is.

And what I find even more annoying is that someone thinks that it's a good idea - because, well, you know, with all of the fucking M.D.'s, PhD's, MBA's and other fucking higher degreed individuals we have in our employ - not a single fucking one of them is smart enough to head up a panel that provides critical analysis of the problem and makes recommendations. Nooooo...we're all so dumb at our own jobs that we have to hire someone to tell us how dumb we are. That would be like BMW saying, "Oh shit, dudes! We've got some fucked up and gnarly shit going on with our radio knobs! Holy McFuck Nuggets...let's hire the dudes over at Mercedes to take a peep and tell us what THEY think is wrong with our radio knobs and we can pay them scads of cash because we're all too stupid to think up some way to deal with these gnarly radio knobs! Rock on, Wayne! Rock on, Garth!"

THEN...as if that weren't enough evidence of our tax dollars being wasted - another little brilliant nugget came up when I got out of the buzz-kill meeting. I get back to my clinic and I see this box of restaurant style "pagers" sitting in my reception area. I'm like, "What the fuck are these? Are we starting a wait-list for lobby seats now?" My clerks were almost afraid to tell me what they were for. Some fucking brainiac thought it would be a good idea to spend a shit-ton of money for these "Outback Steakhouse" style restaurant pagers to give to the patients when they check in for their appointments. Say fucking WHAT?! And apparently, they were ordered for every clinic in the hospital. Now, nobody said shit beforehand about this pager bullshit happening, so I was less than thrilled that these shitty pagers were sitting in my clinic, no doubt assigned to ME to be responsible for. But apparently, I'm not one of the fucking MENSA members who thought this would be a brilliant thing to spend our non-existent money on. Did I mention lately that my pay is frozen for two fucking years?! Oh yeah...who cares about THAT?


Welcome to the doctor's office!! source

And really - what exactly are you supposed to do with these pagers that would be more efficient than checking in at the window for your appointment and then your doctor coming out to the reception area to escort you to their office for your appointment? Is the doctor now supposed to call up to the clerks, tell them they're ready to see their patient, then the clerk punches in a code on the control box to buzz the patient SITTING RIGHT THERE IN THE LOBBY so that the patient can get up, come back to the window to turn in their buzzing pager, and the clerk can tell them, "Your doctor will be coming out to get you, please go BACK and have a seat," and then the doctor comes out to retrieve the patient...just like the clerk told them they would???? That's maximum gub'ment efficiency right there, folks. Welcome to the Outback Mother Fucking Clinic. We don't have enough doctors to see you within reasonable time-frames - so who cares if you have to wait an extra month to get an appointment - but by golly, we've got fucking pagers, folks!!! Oh, and what do you want to bet that a helluva lot more money will get wasted when the patients walk off with these pagers...because you know goddamned good and well that your 78-year old dementia patient or your 53-year old schizophrenic or your 24-year old PTSD-addled/pissed at the world combat vet are all going to be uber-conscientious about returning the pagers. And what's it gonna cost to replace all of those pagers? I'm willing to bet that someone at the company that provides these pagers has some kind carnal relationship with someone at my hospital's "money-wasting" department. Payton Place ain't got shit on my hospital...

I am so done that putting a fork in me wouldn't be enough.
*SIGH*

Where have I been and other shit...

2012-01-13T19:01:00.000-06:00

Holy shit-skittles, Batman...I haven't posted since January 3rd! What the hell have I been doing? I turn around and it's the middle of January. I've been busy, that's what! Hope all of you have had a groovy start to the new year. I have been trying to keep up with everyone else's blogs - they seem way more interesting to read than anything I have to say right now. Maybe I have "blogger's block" these days.

I have been furiously attempting to battle the forces of the dark overlords at my place of employment...as they have once again renewed their vows to fuck with me and how shit gets done, thereby interfering with the best way to deliver services to veterans. All because some ass wad has a fucking hard on for me - because my vocabulary and acerbic wit are sharper than his. Like I give a shit. He's evil and doesn't really care about veterans, so he must GO DOWNNNNNNNNNN! I, do, however, have to put up with a raft of shit because of his arrogant ways. And that does get ever-so tiresome. But, I'll never give up the good fight because there are vets who need help. Certain dipshits don't have a clue that micromanaging shit (when they have no idea what "shit" goes down on the front lines) makes service to the vets suffers. And that's not cool. So, I, and some other folks at work, have joined forces to make it our mission to restore "cool" to the business of taking care of vets. That's my story on the "work front."

On the home front, I have been dealing with other stuff. Had to get a certain relationship thingy squared away earlier this month, which kinda kicked my ass. But I think things are worked out...for now. I swear, I just need to marry a gay man. It would be ideal. I'd have a shopping partner. My house would be THA BOMB! We'd like the same shows. We could totally cap on skanky chicks wearing ridiculous things out in public and giggle like giddy school girls. And I'd never have to fucking worry about him cheating on me with another woman!

And, in addition to dealing with the work and home front stuff, there has just been getting used to the regular routine shit after the holidays. Getting the hooligan to school and picking him up every day (after a nice nearly three week hiatus) and to his O.T. appointments every week. Getting back to my own therapy appointments. I'm exhausted by the time I get home.

And I've begun a whole new "avoidant behavior." According to my therapist, I engage in all kinds of avoidant behaviors - like with the jewelry making, the blogging, and now - the crocheting. I'm up to my eyeballs in yarn! I call my "avoidant behaviors" therapeutic - because they're calming to me. I don't really give a shit what my therapist says about my avoidant behaviors. Actually - it's kind of funny, because during my last therapy session, I got a smidge sassy with my therapist (imagine that!) One thing I cannot stand is getting lumped into a "one size fits all" mode of therapy. My therapist recommended that I read this one book, which I felt had NOTHING to do with my issues. So, I basically called him on it - and let him know that I feel pretty confident that I know what my issues are - and want to address those issues - but did NOT feel that the book he was recommending was even remotely related to what I want (or need) to work on. The reason that I was so snot-pottish about it was because I have a friend who goes to see him for therapy too - and he recommended the same book to her (which actually does apply to her issues). I was like, "Hold the mother fucking phone here, G. You do NOT slap a 'one book fits all' issues on to everyone." Isn't it a bitch when you have a client who is an "armchair therapist" and fucking critiquing what kind of job you're doing?! I kinda feel sorry for the guy. But, he'll get it right by the time I'm done with therapy. BAHAHAHAHA!

Oh, and by the by...today was a fucking snow day and they cancelled school. For fucking what?! For a teensy-weensy dusting of snow. It's cold as mother fucking witch's titties in a brass bra (which also serves to highlight how hot it can get, too!). It's been in the 20s all day and may dip into the 'teens tonight. Brrrrrrr...that means I actually have to put some fucking socks on! MOTHER BITCH! (I hate socks!) But, since I stayed home with the hooligan today and we've been in our pajamas all day long, I ain't complaining too much. However, if this shit keeps up and I have to burn up more leave - you can betcherass I'm gonna have a problem with it. I mean, DAMN! If it really SNOWS (like a fucking LOT!) then fine...cancel school. But this bullshit "WOLF!" cry from these snow-pussies here in the south is seriously annoying. [and I say that with love in my heart, because I typically do love all things southern...but their inability to deal with s-s-s-s-SNOW is ridiculous.]

A reminder about what I "DO"

2012-01-02T09:16:00.001-06:00

On Friday (12/30/11) at about 3:45 pm (approximately 15 minutes BEFORE my "end of tour of duty" at 4 pm), I was in the reception office "helping out" - and I happened to answer the telephone at my clinic's main phone number. At the other end was an obviously inebriated man who was babbling on and on about who knows what. My initial reaction was one of annoyance, thinking, "Fuuuuuuuuck...dude...why are you calling here all fucked up NOW?" I was well on my way to a four day weekend (and only because I HAVE to take off on Tuesday, 1/3/12 because my son has no school, his dad can't keep him that day, and I have no other childcare alternatives).

As I listened a little further, I recognized the man as a "regular" in our clinic. He was drunk, but he was also quite distressed. He was asking for various staff members that he was acquainted with - but no one he was asking for was there (we were running on a skeleton crew the Friday before the New Year's weekend, obviously). He kept asking me who I was, and I kept saying my name - and finally he said, "Oh, are you the little Mexican girl who sits in the corner at the far desk?" [Seriously...why the FUCK does everyone think I'm Mexican?! I just do NOT see it!!] And I confirmed that when I did go in to help out in our reception office - I did sit at the desk in the far corner - but noted that I wasn't Mexican. He apologized profusely for getting my ethnicity all fucked up, and then felt comfortable enough to start spilling his guts.

He was hearing a voice telling him to kill his sister in law. But that was quite in line with his diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. He did say over and over that he didn't want to do anything to hurt anyone, so he was doing his best to ignore the voice.

And never mind the fact that he has PTSD - 100% service connected for this - seeing as how he served one particularly "disruptive" tour in Vietnam as a Marine in 1968. Never mind it because that would have absolutely NO bearing on his present mental status...40+ years later, right???? Right.

So, back to my story...he was distressed because he heard the voice (and, mind you - he has been having quite a bit of drama with his current wife (who was filing for divorce) and her sister, his sister in law) - and was calling to let his provider (who was on leave...so he was stuck talking to me) that he wasn't going to do anything - that he didn't want to hurt anyone.

Long story short...because he had expressed some type of homicidal ideation (as the result of his auditory hallucination), I had no choice but to ensure that someone arrived to his "vicinity" before I could let him off of the phone. Now, like I said - this man was well known to my clinic - he's a character and is always joking it up with us when he comes in for his regular appointments. I know him. He was having a rough patch, and I didn't want to send the cops out to his house - which would be the "typical" thing to do when someone says the kind of shit he was saying. That would have made things worse, in my opinion. Plus, he's a Vietnam Vet - and I know that a lot of times, they say things that they don't necessarily mean or have any intention of acting on. There is this clinical concept of "Alexithymia" whereby a person has difficulty explaining their feelings - and a lot of times will use descriptive behaviors rather than actual "feeling" words. For example, instead of saying that they are angry at someone, the person might say, "I could snap their neck and rip their head off." Hearing something like that tends to raise an eyebrow to the untrained ear. It is actually quite common for vets with PTSD, because they have suffered a trauma that makes it so hard for them to actually have a connection to their feelings. I've seen it enough times over the years to be able to pick it out - and then the task becomes clarifying that they are just saying they're pissed - and not really making some kind of suicidal or homicidal statement. I don't necessarily think that was the case for this particular vet - because of the auditory hallucination he was having - but my point is that he didn't want to actually hurt anyone.

So, I had one of my coworkers call his daughter (whose number the vet gave to me willingly - another reason I didn't want to send the cops to his house), and she agreed to go to his house immediately. He was cool with that when I told him she was on her way to his crib. But, I let him know that I couldn't let him off of the phone until she arrived and I could speak with her directly. He was also cool with that - but a couple of times, he tried to get off of the phone and I had to let him know, "Uhh, uhh, uhh...you know the deal, Mr. H...I can't let you off the phone 'til [the daughter] gets there!" One time, he said, "But, what if I have to wee wee?" (which made me chuckle my ass off!) and I told him, "Okay...you put the phone down - go pay the water bill, and then get back on the phone with me, got it?" He went to take a leak and came back on the phone laughing saying, "Okay...I paid my water bill!" At least there were a few moments of light-heartedness in the coversation. Shit, at one point, he was trying to get his dog to come in the house and "speak" to me! The dog, however, was having nothing to do with me.

I talked with him about all kinds of stuff, waiting for his daughter to get there (which seemed to be taking a fucking eternity - as I watched people leaving the office for the long holiday weekend as I sat on the phone).

Finally, after what seemed like 27 fucking years - his daughter and his niece arrived and I spoke with both of them. They agreed to stay with him after I briefed them about what kind of shit he had been saying - and they understood the situation brewing with his wife and her sister - so they agreed that it was probably a good idea to keep a comfortable distance between the vet and the wife and sister in law.

When I spoke to him for the last time before getting off the phone with him, he seemed genuinely relieved that his daughter and niece were there, and he assured me that he wasn't going to do anything to anyone - and that he would come see his provider at my clinic pronto as soon as he got back from his annual leave. He also promised to bring in his medals from his service in Vietnam to show me the next time he was in the clinic. And then he said, "I'm not going to forget this." And that one statement made the 27 year wait for his daughter to get to his house, the initial annoyance at getting caught on the phone 15 minutes before I was supposed to leave work for a long holiday weekend, the hour+ I spent on the phone with him, and then the 20 or so minutes I spent documenting the call in his chart - all disappear. It reminded me why I go to work every day. And why I put up with the incessant bureaucratic bullshit that chaps my ass every which way but delicately on a daily basis. Because these are MY vets. And I've promised to take care of them.

I will probably be facing a whole raft of shit when I get back to work on Wednesday - since I didn't follow the proper protocol about calling the police and associated shit when I heard certain words pass this vet's lips. But, I made a clinical judgment call (and spent quite a bit of time trying to properly "document" this shit in his chart) - because if the po-po had rolled up on his house - that could have destroyed any potential trust this man had built up with my particular "organization" - and might have stopped him from calling for help in the future. Plus, I don't know what kind of reaction he could have had if 5-0 had knocked on his door - a lot of vets (especially my older Vietnam vets) don't exactly have a "great" working relationship with "the law." I didn't want to fuck his world up any more than it was already fucked up with his sixth marriage on the rocks (Yeah...see? Poor bastard already has enough of a shit serving on his plate! SIX marriages?! Shit...shoot me - I could barely handle ONE!). I'm just glad that he called for help and that he had someone who was actually willing and able to get to his side to be there for him (a lot of my vets don't have family members who would rush over to help out). I know that he'll come in for his next appointment and he will bring his medals to show me - just like he promised. That, in and of itself, will be worth the bureaucratic shit-storm I have to deal with.

Exhale...

2011-12-26T10:23:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I've been M.I.A. for a little spell. What, with the holidays and all - it's been a gigantic roller coaster - and I've not even had time to get off of the ride to take a piss before the damned thing took me for "another" spin up and down and all around.

Some people get the holiday blues - but me, I get the holiday "pissies." Why, you ask? Well, it's simple - occupational hazard - and being descended from a long line of crazy fuels the fire as well.

Around the holidays the hospital becomes a ghost town - everyone LOVES this time of year because things slow wayyyyy down and they don't have nearly as many patients bopping through their areas (I mean, seriously - who wants to get a colonoscopy a couple of days before Christmas? And for real, I'd totally pass on a fucking pap smear on Christmas Eve.). Everywhere except for "Mental Health," that is. My clinic gets even busier. And people get edgier. And I totally understand that. It's hard for folks around the holidays - anniversaries of significant events and the holidays tend to uncork all of that pent up bullshit that people carry around with them all year long. And when it becomes "uncorked" - they usually end up in my clinic - or worse - on the locked unit upstairs from me. So, to say that the stress level goes up a bit around the holidays in the mental health clinic would be like me saying that I'm just a wee bit inclined to tell you how I really feel, if pushed to do so (HA! Right?!).

Reckmonster BEFORE the holidays

This past week has been pretty fucking palpably stressful at work. People have been losing their shit left and right. And I've spent quite a bit of my time putting out little fires here and there. And I'm not just talking about patients - I mean, hell, I expect that from them - that's what we're there for. But the staff has been a bit on the fucking whacked out side too (myself included). I had one of my usually timid and very sweet docs lose her fucking shit and fully expose her fed up ass to me one day - and after I got done picking up my mouth off the floor - I had to use that very same mouth to tell her (in a very professional and "caring" tone, to the best of my ability) that she needed to knock her shit off and cover her ass back up - and that she was taking her shit out on the wrong person.

And then...there was the whole "Momster" issue - after the last Showdown at the OK Corral, I have been dreading the whole Christmas scene. My hooligan went to spend a week with the grandparents and they were supposed to return with him the Friday (23rd) before Christmas. And then they were supposed to stay for a couple of delightfully fucking tension-filled days for the Christmas festivities. I was really dreading it. Because after the Momster and I exchange any kind of words, I usually get disowned for a good spell (I think I've been disowned a grand total of three times now - since age 21).

So, factor all of that in - and I was one crabby Reckmonster - and extremely emotionally labile (which I fucking LOATHE, because I pride myself on actually being the "stable" and calm one in the face of adversity. It's the small shit I can start WWIII over - steal my pen - and it's ON, mother fucker. But your house burned down, your dog is missing, and your wife just left you for your hillbilly cousin? I'm cool as a cucumber with the big shit.). That, and I sure as shit must have been PMSing - making the whole shebang a complete fucking "Pompeii In The Making." Hardly the stuff for making the season bright and cheery. But, some of it I have no choice but to fake - for the Hooligan's sake.

If I didn't have my besties, Donnabelle and the Tamster, smacking me in the head with some well placed "reality checks" during this time - I would probably be typing this post from my padded room at the Betty Ford Center. Instead, I had a few minor tantrums (which = cuss fests to Donnabelle and the Tamster) and some "Come to Jesus" moments.

Alas...the holidays are (pretty much) over - and I can now exhale. Because, amazingly - the Momster behaved pretty well during their brief visit (amazing what a pair of bomb-ass boots from Neiman Marcus and me cooking the entire Christmas Eve dinner can do to put her in a good mood! HAHAHA!). The hooligan had an extremely good Christmas, making me very grateful to have the generous parents that I have (because there is no way that I could have footed the bill for all of the shit he got on my own!). And then there was the joy of seeing my cat, Julz Kitteh, on catnip for the very first time (one of her presents was a ball of catnip that the grandparents brought). I thought my dad and I would fall out watching her on cat crack! She was rolling around like she was at a revival and possessed by the Holy Ghost - and she kept kicking herself in the head. [I think she has a catnip hangover now, because ole girl is looking totally wiped out and she barely looks like she could utter, "Duuuuuuuude."] I guess I should put that shit away and save it for "special occasions" like the fine Cognac or something.

And even though Friday at worked sucked big fat hairy donkey balls (which, incidentally, taste like SHIT!) - I have a renewed energy to take on tomorrow. And tomorrow promises to be an even bigger shit storm - since I will be the ONLY "clerk" in my clinic (how the hell that happens every fucking year at the holidays is beyond me - this is my fifth holiday wherein I will be the only person in the clerical reception area - despite the fact that I have my own office right next door which I will be spending NO time in at all tomorrow, oh, and the fact that I'm not a "clerk," per se, but rather - I'm supposed to kinda like be IN CHARGE of the clinic...but, I digress...). But, I will take that fucking bull right by the horns, and I will bully that bull right into submission - and you know what else? That bull will fucking LIKE it by the time I'm done. He may even ask for more. (snicker snicker snicker) And I will simply say (with a big ole cheesey Reckmonster grin), "Next???"

Yep...I've exhaled and it's all good. Tomorrow, I go back to saving the world...one veteran at a time. Today, though - I'm hitting JoAnn fabrics for some crafty shit - because that damned Donnabelle taught me how to crochet last week and I've already been through three skeins of yarn! That Donnabelle is so wise...she always knows what to do. I told her under NO circumstances would I sit there and learn how to fucking crochet, that I was NOT a "crocheting" kind of person...but she persisted, telling me that it was good, mindless activity that would keep my hands and mind busy so that I wouldn't ruminate. So far, I've made a crate pad for Lexi Doxie (which started out as a scarf), a mini misshapen blankie for Julz Kitteh (which started out as a scarf), and a bonnet for Lexi (which started out as a scarf). By golly, by hook or by crook - I'mma crochet a fucking scarf if it kills me or I go bankrupt buying yarn until I get one finished! Good times, man...good times.

And I hope that all of you had groovy times over the holidays...and don't worry - for everyone who has had a fairly shitty 2011 like I have...I am CLAIMING a rockin' fucking fabulous 2012 for all of us!


Reckmonster AFTER the holidays source

The 674,829th reason I HATE war

2011-12-18T08:48:00.001-06:00

Like I even needed another fucking reason to hate war and all of the fucked up shit it leaves in its wake...

I recently watched a story on the news and read an article in the NY TIMES (Here: Read this story real quick and then come back...) that broke my heart just a little bit more. Not only are our soldiers coming back bearing the scars of war, now our beloved pets are suffering as well. Combat dogs are suffering from PTSD.

Yes, I realize dogs were domesticated for the purpose of doing "jobs" - like hunting for badgers (a la my beloved weenie-dog, Lexi Doxie), guarding property, herding sheep, or bringing booze to dumb asses stuck in the snow...but come ON...when did we domesticate a breed of dog for sniffing out bombs, and subsequently developing a "disorder" rendering them riddled with anxiety and the other delightful assortment of symptoms associated with PTSD?! Now, we have to fucking treat them with doggie Prozac as a result. We have taken our very human behaviors (and subsequent ways to deal with human behaviors) and plopped them squarely on the muzzles of our faithful companions. I know that the Marine Corps motto is Semper Fidelis, but this is taking that motto a little too far...our "always faithful" furry companions didn't sign up for the kind of shit that results from serving in combat.

I worked with a Vietnam Veteran (who I'll call "Rod") who worked with the K-9 units in Vietnam. His dog, a German Shepherd, saved his life (and the lives of others) on many occasions - sniffing out booby traps while the unit was out on patrol. This dog slept with Rod, ate with Rod, stood in formation with Rod - and hell, I think Rod even joked that they took shits together. One day (which is cruelly seared into my vet's memory for eternity), when the unit was out on patrol, Rod's dog started behaving very oddly and was not following his commands - which was quite out of character for this dog, according to Rod. To make a long, sad story short - apparently, they had gotten too close to one of those booby traps - and Rod's dog knew it - he wouldn't let Rod move an inch. The dog ended up jumping onto the landmine himself, which helped to absorb the majority of the concussion from the blast, ultimately saving Rod's life (although Rod still suffered some significant injuries from shrapnel wounds). Rod said, in retrospect, he figures that his dog was acting oddly because he instinctively knew that they were too close to the booby trap and that something bad would happen...and that he was ignoring Rod's commands to try and stop Rod from stepping onto the landmine. And once his dog figured that Rod was getting frustrated and would eventually walk past him - the dog put himself in harm's way to save Rod's life. To this day, Rod cannot own a dog - despite being an avid dog lover, because he cannot bear the pain of losing another best friend (not necessarily to combat in this instance) and because he knows that dogs are so faithful, they will do anything to save their owner's (or handler's) lives - and he didn't want to be "responsible" for the death of another dog. [Yes, his logic is flawed by rational standards, but remember, "rational" is a relative term when you are talking about what happens in combat.] And there is a reason that, for the life of me, I can't fucking remember Rod's dog's name - and I'm quite sure it has something to do with me doing my own "self-protective" shit and not committing certain details of emotionally charged stories to memory.

And so, I am disgusted AGAIN about the carnage that results from war - not just in the area where the war is waged - but in how it insidiously insinuates itself into the fiber of the warrior's being - and in this case, now, the canine warrior's being.

This story came at a time when I have already been almost panicking about the official "end" of the War in Iraq (yeah right...don't get me fucking started on that...) and the return of thousands of troops back "home." I'm panicking because I know what is fixing to happen:
1. These troops will come home - have a few months or so of "settling" in time.

2. After the "settling" is done - the problems will start to arise (e.g., the nightmares, the flashbacks, the wives' annoyance with their husband's "emotional distance," the alcohol abuse, the rage, the silent tears, the yearning to return to the war zone because Stateside life feels "weird," and on and on and on...).

3. If they're savvy - the troops will seek help (if they're too proud or embarrassed, they don't - and you can do the fucking math there - War + Not getting any help afterwards = DISASTER).

4. They may just happen to seek help at a well-known government agency that is SUPPOSED to "care for him who shall have borne the battle..."

5. They will quickly discover that said agency is ill-equipped to handle the demand for "help" because the very same politicians who SENT them to war (and spent a bajillion fucking dollars doing so), are the same mother fuckers who are now screaming, "POOR!" when it comes to funding the agency to employ the very people who can help these warriors.

6. They will find very long wait times, because there aren't enough providers to do the jobs (since the agency's new motto is: DO MORE WITH LESS [side note: doing "more" with "less" in a hospital setting isn't exactly the smartest fucking idea. Yeah - let's cut that defibrillator in half - this guy gets the right half and that guy gets the left half. And yo, let's cut that dude's oxygen down to half of what he usually gets - so that we can "save" it and stretch it out to make it last a little longer. And hey - why not just start doling out half of the dosages of meds to everyone - so that we can cut costs and make that shit last longer. Fuck, why not just do two operations at once in the same operating room?! Brilliant idea, fucktards!]

7. They will get so frustrated with NOT getting help that they may choose to take matters into their own hands (yes, there are a ton of veterans committing suicide EVERY FUCKING DAY), or they will spiral into other pits of doom, like: divorce, jail, injuring other people, homelessness, substance abuse, etc...

8. Americans will act horrified when all of this gets publicized as some "new atrocity" on the evening news - never mind the fact that the shit has been sitting in front of their ignorant faces for years - but they've been too busy worrying about getting the new I-Phone or whining about the 24-hour McDonald's drive-thru cutting back their hours and now only being an 18-hour drive-thru. These same selfish Americans could have been writing their congressmen and women voicing their opinions about how fucked up we treat our veterans - or better yet - taking action like demanding term limits for these assholes who sit in Washington for 96 fucking years in a row, luxuriating in the hip pockets of generous "donors" who pay them to vote on shit in the donors' favor. These same selfish Americans will be "demanding" answers and solutions for this "new" problem.

9. And The Reckmonster will be rolling her eyes and screaming, "I TOLD you fuckers so!"

10. And The Reckmonster will go to back to work, every day, helping to try and clean up the "mess" of war that the politicians created...because that "mess" = a human being in need of help.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE...if you don't already do so - become active in voicing your opinion - let these jackasses that we elect to "represent" us know that they're doing a fucked up job by TELLING them or refusing to re-elect them. You don't have to be an all-out hippie protester, sleeping in a tent downtown or getting yourself into a heap 'o trouble and landing yourself on "big brother's watch list," to be "active" in voicing your opinion. And I don't give a shit if you lean left or right - as long as you speak your piece to those we elect and let them know what issues are important to you and let them know when they're fucking up, and by showing up at your polls on election day to oust the fuckers who don't listen to your voice. I have all of my congressmen and women's e-mail addresses in my "virtual Rolodex" - and my goal is to one day get a call or visit from the Men In Black telling me, "Dude...stop sending e-mails...Senator So and So GETS it...you're pissed."


HULLO!!! Is anyone LISTENING in there?!

If you need a little help to get you started, here's a handy link: WRITE YO CONGRESSPEEPS!

The truth hurts, doesn't it?

2011-12-12T23:33:00.000-06:00

Holy mother fucking bat ball cheese, I need to get this froth off of my chest real quick like.

First of all, my momster has been a real "gem" as of late - and has refused to speak to me. No big whoop. I still let my son call to speak to his grandparents, because I'm not trying to punish the kid and deprive him of his grandparents just because we have World War III brewing between me and the momster. When he's done talking, she usually at least says good bye to me - but as of late, she has taken to just hanging up the phone and not even acknowledging my existence. Whatever. I'm a big girl - and I seriously have no energy for the drama. So, I've let it go.

Tonight, however, my dad calls me up - and I can hear "World War II and a half" brewing in the background at their house. He tells me that I need to go ahead and say my "piece" to the momster, because she totally did not believe that I had anything to say to her.

So, I take a deep breath and say my piece about being an adult and wanting to be treated like an adult, and that if any MORE hurtful comments or "boundary breaches" occurred, then I would choose (oooooh...the therapy word: CHOICES!) to distance myself. SHE. WAS. PISSED. In usual fashion, she went off, tried to throw a guilt trip on me - with the martyred response of, "FINE! You want to distance yourself, go ahead. From now on, I will NOT call you. If you want [the hooligan] to talk to us, then you call US!" She did tap a few buttons of mine with some fucked up comments - and a couple of times, I raised my voice - because I was soooo not fixin' to tolerate being talked to like a fucking child - or even worse - a fucking red-headed step-child! I actually managed to get through "my piece" without swearing once - if you can fucking believe that! But, I felt it was very important to say "my piece" in a respectful manner so that nobody would have any fucking ammo to come back at me with (and you thought it was because I was so "respectful" - HAH! I'm just a planner, that's all...).

Anyway - in another one of her usual fashions, as soon as she got to the part where she didn't like what she was hearing, she abruptly ended the conversation - and said she was "DONE" with me. She proceeded to commence screaming bloody murder in the background - I don't know if she was screaming at me or my dad (actually - it was probably both of us), and I just told my dad, "I'm not getting pulled into this shit. I'm not taking the guilt trip, because I don't ride that train anymore." He was steady trying to yak about how we needed to "keep the peace" - what, with the holidays coming up, and not wanting any of this BS to be put on display in front of the hooligan. That much I agreed with - but I DID have to point out that I was not the one with the fucking temper tantrum problem - like for real - I asked him when was the last time he saw ME throwing a tantrum? It's pretty pathetic when you have to say that your kid doesn't tantrum, but your wife does.

I also went on to tell the dadster that whatever it was that went on between them in their house was THEIR business - and that they would have to solve it on their own (and I threw in a well placed suggestion for a marriage counselor...). I said what I needed to say to the momster about the issue between her and myself. Interestingly enough - he texted me shortly after to tell me that she got on the horn to her sister and was saying all kinds of fucked up stuff about us (me and the dadster) - and then proceeded to tell the dadster, "Fuck you AND [The Reckmonster]!" Right, fuck US. *Cue the exaggerated eyeroll and head-shake in disbelief.

SIGH...

This really fucked with my plans to go to sleep early.

Mesosilly!

2011-12-09T22:02:00.000-06:00

This will be a short post, because, well, there's not much to say other than I went out after work today with the girls - had beer-n-wings - and this is what happens when the Reckmonster is on the sauce...

I am just such a dingbat that I allowed my friend Donnabelle to record this, then send it to me, then take her dare to post it on the internet. Yes, sometimes I am not too smart - but it's all good, because, dammit, we laughed our asses off.

*My disclaimer is that I can totally get away with this kind of humor because I am half Asian and half American - so there! I am technically making fun of myself with this dumb little video.

And to answer your question, YES, I am totally retarded.

HAH! I got the picture...

2011-12-07T19:21:00.000-06:00

Okay, WHAT THE FUCK? If I start a brand new post, before I type anything into it, it allows me to post a picture. I was trying to post a comment on "Make Daddy A Sammich" and this is what I got (see screen capture above). Any ideas about how to fix this?!

Stupid fucking BLOBBER.

Blogger is pissing me off!

2011-12-07T19:16:00.001-06:00

I promise, I have been reading all of my favorite blogs, but for some fucked up reason - when I go to comment, it keeps telling me to "Please choose a profile" - and I'm logged in as my Reckmonster self. But, the stupid pull-down menu is all scrunched up, and it won't let me pull anything down. Fuck my luck.

See...this is what it looks like:

OH MOTHER FUCKING BITCH!! I can't even upload a picture of the screen capture!!! What the fuck is going on here?!

Is anyone else having problems with Blogger?! I'm getting pissed. FUCKING PISSED! Those bitches don't WANT me to have to FROTH about their asses...

Let me see if I can fuck around with some settings and see if that does anything. In the meantime, I promise, I'm reading your posts...but if you have Blogger, then I cannot comment on anything at the moment. Sumbitch.

The Standoff Continues

2011-12-04T21:43:00.000-06:00

In my last post, I discussed my wonderment at my chronological age and the age my mother seems to think she can treat me as. That was over a week ago. Since then, I've had time to consult with my therapist (ya gotta love when a therapist needs answers from their own therapist!) and cool off a bit. On the other hand, as my dad has informed me, my mother has had more time to fester and stew and boil. Who is being more of an adult here? [No worries...that was a rhetorical question.]

I have decided to handle my mother the following way: The next time she calls (which may be in about two and a half years, since she is way more stubborn than I am, and allows her festering pot of piss and vinegar consume her), I will simply tell her, "Mom, I need for you to know that if you violate boundaries with me, like calling my ex-husband, or if you speak to me in a hurtful way, then I will have to limit my interactions with you. You have a choice. And I have choices too. Everyone has choices, and I'm letting you know what choices I will make if I am put in certain situations." That's it. That's all I'm going to say. I'm not going to get into a long, drawn out finger-pointing, accusatory conversation. And if she proceeds to go off on me, then I will say, "If you choose to discuss this in a hostile way, then I will choose to end the conversation/hang up the phone." And bam...I guarantee you, I will be hanging up the phone.

I have "discussed" this briefly with my dad - as I know this will affect him, because he will be the one living in the war zone...but, as my therapist pointed out - that is also HIS choice. My dad wants me to just let the issue "fade away" because that's his way of keeping the peace. But, really - all it does is enable her to do it again. I have kept myself in the delusion that I HAVE to put up with unnecessary behaviors, just because she's my mother. But, I am just now coming to fully understand what my therapist says when he tries to bang it into my fucking thick skull that I have CHOICES. (BTW, I am convinced that "CHOICE" is the new therapy buzz word...it has now replaced that ill-fated therapy word, "ISSUES.") I have no intention of being disrespectful, because, in all honesty - and as hard as it may be to believe - I find disrespect and rudeness to be two of the most unsavory traits a person can possess. I will always start out being respectful and cordial to you - but if you show me that you don't deserve my respect and mannerly behavior, then I'll be sure not to waste them on you any longer. And THAT'S when shit starts to get raw. But, this is a different situation - I mean, she is my mother, so I'm not going to go all fucking nut-job on her and cuss her out. I choose not to cuss her out, but I'm also choosing not to put up with any more unnecessary bullshit. The comical element in all of this is that my dad told me that my mother thinks I'm being disrespectful to her because I don't answer her every call by the third ring. Fuuuuuuuuck. Vastly different definitions of "respect" here.

And interestingly enough, my dad texted me this evening to tell me about my mother's most recent "temper tantrum." And he went on to say that he was just at his wit's end because her tantrums are so random (and FREQUENT) now. I basically told him that it was his choice to enable her behaviors, and that it was her choice to behave that way, and that ultimately, it was my choice not to get pulled into the bullshit anymore.

Here's how I broke it down to my therapist: We (my mother, my father and I as the "nuclear family") spent the first 20 years of my life enabling my dad's fucked up behavior. We have spent the last 20 years of my life enabling my mom's fucked up behavior. Goddammit, I am going to spend the next 20 years QUITTING involvement in ANY fucked up behavior. And when I'm 80, I'll just sit around telling crazy stories about all of the fucked up shit that went on and how my joints ache and how you can't get any decent prunes at the supermarket, but how it beats the shit out of taking those synthetic laxatives that just tear up your system. Yep...I'm going to be that crazy old bat who talks about her gastrointestinal system. And I'll still be cussing and making people laugh with my ridiculous stories about the time I tried to be "sexy." But, I will be AT PEACE, motherfuckers! Because I will have chosen not to get caught up in the needless bullshit that just wastes so much precious time.

And, just in case anyone was wondering...Prince Charming will be sitting in the rocking chair next to me...

GO BLUE and how old am I again????

2011-11-27T09:22:00.000-06:00

First and foremost...yesterday was monumental for my beloved Michigan Wolverines. We FINALLY beat Ohio State, something that hasn't happened since 2003! And it was a nail-biter down to the end - last two minutes of the game, the fuckeyes get the ball (with Michigan up 40-34) and if they score with a PAT, they beat us by one point. But, not so fast, my friends...the defense said, "Hell to tha NO!" and picked off the fuckeye QB with about 40 seconds left in the game. End. Of. Story. And to make it even better...this may give Michigan a chance at a BCS bowl game now. THAT hasn't been a thought in any Michigan fan's head for the past three seasons...but thanks to Coach Brady "BADASS" Hoke, Michigan is well on its way to restoring its reputation as a real force in the world of college football (and Squat, if you're reading this...I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT about the SEC...Christ on a pony, TN lost to KY!!).

Okay, now on to the second, "frothier" part of my post. The last time I checked, I had just turned 40 the NEW 30. I also believe that I pay my own bills, run my own household, was (making an earnest attempt at) raising my son BY MYSELF, and have managed to spend four decades on the planet without putting myself in the path of a serial killer (that I knew about). At what point do I get the elusive "vote of confidence" from one of my parental units (that would be the momster, because that dadster is pretty cool about treating me like a real live "grown up" these days)?!!

Friday evening - after having spent the day at the auto show with my son - I arrived home, and was trying to unwind and relax. I had my phone on "silent" during the day, because, well, quite frankly - I didn't feel like yakking or texting with anyone and just wanted to enjoy the day. I think I have earned that right to NOT answer the phone or text back for ONE FUCKING DAY if I feel like it.

Fast forward to about 8 pm, as I go to plug my phone in to recharge it - and I happen to look to see I have two missed calls and a voicemail, and a text message, AND an e-mail from my momster. I didn't even bother listening to the voicemail (because I find voicemails annoying - having to log into the voicemail system, blah blah blah...). I read the text and it says, "WHERE R U?" I read the e-mail and it says, "I tried calling you twice and I sent a text." So, I call her back, and she proceeds to go apeshit on me, telling me how she's been trying to get in touch with me and she was so worried that she texted MY EX-HUSBAND to find out if he had spoken with the hooligan that evening. WHAT THE FUCK?! You texted my ex-douche bag?! Seriously, I felt my blood starting to boil. Was there an emergency? FUCK NO! She just wanted to see what we were "up to." And she didn't get me RIGHT THEN, RIGHT WHEN SHE WANTED, so she felt compelled to do the very thing that would annoy the piss out of me the most: she asked my ex-husband! She tells me that she was worried because I live by myself with the hooligan. Do I need a fucking babysitter?! How long have I been living with the hooli by myself?! And how long did I live on my own ALL BY MYSELF since I left their house (at age 17), for that matter?! Sure, my life often looks like a freak side show at a circus, but I do manage to keep two furry creatures and a hooligan alive, fed, sheltered and well cared for. So, I'm not exactly retarded or incapable. Shit, SHE'S the one who couldn't survive for 5 minutes on her own...she makes my dad take her car to the gas station to fill it up because "that's the man's job" to pump gas. REALLY?!

source

Then she had the audacity to say, "I tried calling you, texting and e-mailing, and you didn't answer. That's not like you." Oh really? That's a crock of bullshit right there. Did we NOT have an "episode" a couple of years ago, wherein the dadster had to intervene and tell you to stop calling me EVERY FUCKING DAY at 5 pm as I walked in the house with the hooligan?! Did he NOT have to tell you that I am busy, I am tired, and sometimes I might not "feel" like gossiping with you just because YOU'RE bored?! Did he NOT have to tell you that I AM a grown up and I DO live my own life, seven hours away from you (by car)?! Yes, as a matter of fact, he DID tell you all of those things...and you DID have to back off of me and get off my ass.

What pisses me off the most (other than the texting the ex-douche bag thingy) is that she NEVER has an emergency - because she could just text me with something brief like, "Call me as soon as you can - something is up." God forbid that she would ever need to call me about some kind of emergency - but no, she just texts," WHERE R U?" And she gives me the third degree - asking where I was, what I was doing, who I was with and why didn't I answer the phone? And why? Because she just felt like shooting the shit because SHE was bored.

I GET the idea that even when your kids grow up, you still worry about them. I am sure I will always worry that my hooligan is okay once he grows up and flies the coop. But, dammit, there is such a thing as crying "WOLF!" when there's no emergency and acting like its a federal fucking case just because I don't answer the fucking phone. It makes me want to NOT answer the phone when you call even more now, because you just want to get up in my beeswax. Looks like I may need to ask my dadster to "remind" her again about "THA RULZ." Because my dadster and I have established that it is far more "diplomatic" coming from him than it would be coming outta MY mouth. She has been spared from MY Frothy McFrotherpants many times by my dad's intervention - and even when SHE was the one who was in the wrong. I'm starting to wonder why we keep sparing her when she is allowed to act all crazy whenever she wants and she is allowed to say nasty, hurtful things whenever she wants and she is allowed to make people feel like shit whenever she wants...

Comment on the comments

2011-11-18T18:25:00.000-06:00

I decided to write a whole new post based on some of the comments from yesterday's post. Because I think some very good points were brought up. First of all, thank you Coffey, Sarge, and David, for your thought-provoking comments.

I don't want to seem like I endorse all out "blanket excusal" for any soldier's over-the-fucking-top behavior. I know full well that there are bad apples in the military barrel. It's an interesting paradox though - some of those "bad apples" that we would consider sociopaths or antisocial personality disordered folks here in "the real world," actually end up making the best kinds of soldiers in a combat situation - they are real, live killing machines. If you're talking strictly about the business of making war, then these are your men; if you're talking about the "duality" (kill the enemy/protect the innocent) involved in war waged by and against human beings - then you are all (David, Sarge, and Coffey) right...the white hat must be worn, and "rules" such as those in the Geneva Convention must be followed, and senseless killing cannot be tolerated.

I experience such a dichotomous split when it comes to forming my opinions about soldiers being convicted of war crimes during a war. I see the men and women who DO have souls returning from the combat zones and my heart hurts for them; I know the sociopath when I see him. Frighteningly, the sociopath combat soldier is often rewarded hugely for "gains" made in combat. That makes them all the more untouchable - a highly decorated combat soldier - nobody's going to fuck with him (and actually, he becomes a bit of an "idol.") . I do NOT defend THAT kind of person in any situation (although, secretly...I am fascinated by them - I have this morbid obsession with antisocial personality disorders).

I know that many of the men and women I have seen are dying inside because of things they have seen or done. Some of the things they have done (or seen, and not "intervened") DO torture their souls. But, my overall point in my passionate pontification yesterday was to point out that even the most unassuming person can be persuaded, goaded, cajoled, or even shamed into committing the most heinous acts in the ripest situation in war. I know this not only from the hundreds of combat veterans I have had the privilege to do therapy with, but also because my own father is a Vietnam veteran. He isn't even aware that I know of his "acts." I overheard him one evening - confiding to someone (after the beers had started flowing) the heinous act that he and a friend committed (or I should say were "goaded" into committing). When I heard what he was saying, I sank to the floor in a pool of tears (I was only a teenager at the time). MY dad is not a monster. Yet, based on what I heard my dad disclose - and what Sarge, Coffey and David have brought up as salient issues, my dad could easily have been convicted and sentenced to life, just like SSG Gibbs or any of the soldiers with him.

I don't purport to know all of the details associated with SSG Gibbs' case - because as Coffey pointed out - there is the element of "cover up" or "blame game" that is possible - or it's possible that SSG Gibbs is just an evil mother fucker. What I do know is that my dad's soul is tortured, but he is NOT an evil mother fucker because of what he did. War is insanity. I hate war. I hate what it does to our soldiers after they get home. I hate what it does to the innocent people in the place where the war is waged. But, my allegiance, which will NEVER change, is to the warrior who does make it back home. I know which ones I can try to make "whole" again - and which ones are the rogue sociopaths who will never have any kind of empathy.

And David - I never want you to feel afraid to disagree with me. Yes, I have a sharp tongue, I'm loud, and I am VERY opinionated, but I do make my living as a "listener." I fancy myself being particularly adept at hearing other people's opinions and respecting that they may be different from mine. As long as you're communicating - I can deal with whatever comes out of your mouth. It's the silent fuckers who just let the status quo remain that I have more beef with. And I'm gathering that you're from "across the pond" (based on your use of "s" whereas we Americans use "z" -tee hee hee!) - so I AM interested in knowing what other folks think about Americans. I'm actually quite jaded when I think of Americans as a whole. I think we used to be a nation of "salt of the earth" type people...but nowadays, I think most Americans forget what it means to BE an American. And most Americans do nothing but reinforce that stereotype the rest of the world has about Americans (having lived in several different countries growing up - I am well aware that Americans aren't exactly "loved" everywhere). The retarded Americans piss me off. The ones who either STAY ignorant and egocentric or the ones who go off too far in either direction (left or right) that they could be considered "fanatical." That said, I will always be a proud American and I will always try to be an American that a citizen of another country would be proud to know.

Give me a mother fucking break

2011-11-17T21:36:00.001-06:00

Mother bitch. I am fixin' to froth my ass off. I'm pissed. Why, this time, you ask? My dad sent me a link to an article here. It's about SSG Calvin Gibbs, a 26-year old soldier who was just sentenced to life in prison after he was convicted of murder, conspiracy, and "other" charges in the deaths of civilians when he served in Afghanistan in 2010. Complete and total fucking bullshit. It's My Lai all over again.

I have so many fucking soap boxes to get on right now, I don't even know where to start. I guess I'll just "freestyle froth" and let it flow:

1. Hello, bitches. You send soldiers to war to KILL people. Then you want to get all fucking "holier than thou" about HOW they do it. THAT pisses me off. You sent those troops there to do a fucking job; until you're willing to do the exact same mother fucking job, you DON'T get to judge them. Why? I'll fucking tell you why:

2. Any person who goes to war returns a "changed" person. You DO NOT enter a combat zone and witness the gruesome things, live in a constant state of fear that today could be "your" day, lose your best friends, and all of the other "fun" shit that war has to offer, and NOT get impacted in some way, shape, or form. As a matter of fact, brain chemistry actually changes, boys and girls. Yes, it does. The primitive part of the brain, the amygdala, which is command central for all things "fight or flight," basically works a shitload of overtime when a person endures combat. You know that feeling you get when you think you heard something rustling at the door in the dead of night? Have you ever had that feeling as your car skids across three lanes of highway, your steering wheel is locked, and there's an assload of cars headed straight for your vehicle - and there ain't a damned thing you can do about it? Or maybe you've experienced a certain feeling when you find out someone did something really fucked up to your kid, or your mom, or your spouse? Yeah...take those kinds of feelings and multiply them times 1000. THAT'S what it feels like to be in a combat zone. Not exactly a real "normal" state of mind, right? Exactly. Which leads to my next point:

3. When you're not in a "normal" state of mind, (because, well, what the fuck could be NORMAL in a fucking war zone?!) you become susceptible to influences that you might not normally succumb to if you were back home watching Monday Night Football on the couch, drinking a bud and eating chips and bean dip in Statesboro, GA. I think the best example I have ever read that explains this perfectly is from Dr. Jonathan Shay's book Achilles in Vietnam. In this book, Dr. Shay draws parallels between The Iliad (Homer's epic story chronicling The Trojan War - and focusing on Achilles). In The Iliad, when Achilles' best bro, his cousin Patrokles, is killed by Hektor - he basically loses his shit. Dr. Shay calls this the "berserk" state. Achilles gets really fucking primeval and slays Hektor and then gets totally raw by dragging Hektor's dead body behind his chariot, basically parading it around for all of the Trojans to see - and to basically flip them the bird. It was considered the biggest "fuck you!" to not allow a warrior to have a proper burial - the greatest infraction or dishonorable thing and the largest violation of "the code" that could be imagined. Achilles was so overcome by his grief over the loss of his beloved cousin - his comrade-in-arms - that he goes ape shit and commits this heinous act - which, if you know Achilles, is so totally out of character - because he's like the primo, honorable warrior and shit. Dr. Shay says that THIS state (the "berserk" state) is experienced by warriors in all wars - and accounts for some of the "behaviors" that seem so "out of character" for otherwise stand-up kinds a guys. My point? You put people in fucked up situations and train them to do fucked up things, don't be surprised when some fucked up shit happens. DUH, bitches! You don't get the luxury of saying, "Well, THIS kind of fucked up shit is okay, but THAT kind of fucked up shit...whoa nellie, no way!"

4. Save me the fucking sanctimonious posturing about, "We're better than that! American soldiers were there to protect innocent civilians and take out ONLY the Al Quaeda operatives." Bull-mother-fucking-shit. First of all, we went over there (Afghanistan) with a purpose after 9/11 happened. [Don't get me started on Iraq...I still don't believe the "purpose" that was crammed down our throats as a reason for getting involved over there...but that's a different rant.] Small problem though, when you go over to a foreign land to start a war: Sometimes identifying your "enemy" is not as easy as you would have everyone believe. In Vietnam, the mamasan who washed your clothes could be the same bitch who was gathering information about the surroundings and habits and feeding it to the Viet Cong so that they know when and where to try to blow your ass up. She's "technically" a civilian, right? But, is she so fucking innocent??? Or the little kid who runs up to your jeep and removes the gas cap to dump a grenade with a rubber band wrapped around it into the gas tank...another civilian, right? But is that kid really innocent anymore??? The lines become so blurred when it comes to identifying "friend" or "enemy" in a war zone.

5. The "enemy" doesn't give a shit about the fucking Geneva Convention - nice, tidy little rules about "How to make war PROPERLY." Yeah right. I could tell you a million fucking stories about how the Iraqi "enemies" would hole up in mosques when the shit got deep, knowing full well that American soldiers are not allowed to fire upon "houses of religious practice." Yet, they had no qualms about firing on those American soldiers FROM the fucking mosques. And I'm quite sure they laughed their asses off knowing that the American soldiers were strictly forbidden from firing back. They don't "do" war fairly - but we HAVE to?! You've got to be fucking kidding me. We essentially tied one arm of every soldier behind their back and asked them to go "DEFEND AMERICA!!!" THAT pisses me off.

6. In the American Justice system, you have the right to stand trial before a jury of your PEERS when you get accused of shit. The UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) has a lot more latitude when it comes to doling out "justice" to soldiers, but in general, a court martial does afford you the opportunity to sit before a jury who decides your fate when you get accused of something uber-naughty. Guess what? I'd be willing to bet you a million bucks that every single member of the court martial "jury" was NOT a peer of SSG Gibbs. If they were TRULY peers, they would all be enlisted soldiers who have seen combat. At a very minimum, if an officer served on that jury - he or she should have been required to have combat experience. Why? Because if you have never walked in that man's shoes...then you are not qualified to call "foul." I truly believe, with 100% of my heart and soul, that the experience of walking in that person's shoes is absolutely necessary when it comes to passing judgment on a soldier who has seen combat. Am I excusing their behaviors and just chalking it up to PTSD or contagion or some other trumped up defense? Absolutely not. But, I will NEVER pass judgment on a war veteran because I will never, ever know what it is like to walk in their shoes. For THAT, I am grateful and forever indebted to them.

7. I'm fucking pissed at the pussies who testified against him. I know that sounds harsh, but there's a "code of honor" amongst comrades when you're all in danger of getting blown the fuck up at any minute and you HAVE to have each other's backs. War is like Las Vegas. What happens "over there" STAYS over there. You don't want that kind of shit to happen...then DON'T START A FUCKING WAR. And if you don't think you can handle possibly seeing "atrocities" go down...THEN DON'T JOIN THE FUCKING MILITARY, bitches! The only exception to this would be the poor fuckers who got drafted to go to Vietnam...because they really didn't get a choice. But, we don't have a draft in place...so we have a 100% volunteer military. Pussies should NOT join the military.

8. Americans are some fickle mother fuckers. The vast majority of Americans are fucking lemmings who follow corrupt, self-serving jackasses off the cliff of rationality into the abyss of ignorance and stupidity. Get this straight, everyone: "WE" SENT SSG GIBBS TO AFGHANISTAN. "WE" TRAINED HIM HOW TO KILL. "WE" TOLD HIM TO GO OVER THERE AND KILL. But, when it's not "tidy" enough - then "WE" have the audacity to pass judgment on this man?! How is it that I say "WE" have responsibility to bear? Because "WE" elect the assholes who make decisions about where to send soldiers like SSG Gibbs. And "WE" don't do enough to take these very same assholes OUT of office when they do a shitty job. That is another reason why I will never pass judgment on a soldier like SSG Gibbs, and why I choose to do everything I can to make soldiers like him "recover" from what "WE" created him to be.

9. Just in case you're wondering WHY I am so chapped in the ass about SSG Gibbs being convicted on all charges and being sentenced to life in prison...it's because I have listened to hundreds of SSG Gibbs' tell me what it's like to walk in his shoes. I've heard thousands of different accounts of what the fuck really goes on in a war zone. I cannot even begin to fathom what it is like to carry that weight around. And because of brave men and women who DO have the balls to join the military, I'll never have to know.

10. And not like I OWE anyone any "disclaimers" for having my opinion, but I do feel compelled to say that I don't advocate violence, despite all of my own ridiculous urges to kick certain mother fuckers' asses at various points in time. But...war is different. War changes everything and everyone.

Blog Con 2011 a success!

2011-11-13T21:41:00.001-06:00

So, that crazy bastard, Mooner Johnson really did come to town, and he really did bring autographed copies of his recently published book, Full Rising Mooner: The Most Inappropriate Man in the World - you can get it here. It's also available on Kindle here. I can't wait to start reading it.

OUR Blog Con 2011 was so cool
that we even had our own cake.

Okay, so Mooner came to town late last week and met up with me, BJ from Un-Original Thoughts, and Squat from Squatlo Rant. Who'd a thought that crazy fucker would actually have driven across several states just to come meet some fellow bloggers?! Well, I think it's pretty fucking cool that we find "friends" on the blogosphere - and they turn out to be the raddest mother fuckers in real life too! It's actually quite amazing that you can find your "peeps" of a feather, flock together on the Internet, and then meet up for beers and barbecue! I realize that there are "Blogger Conventions" every year - and people do get to meet for real, but this particular "Blog Con 2011" was even better shit, well, because of the cool people who attended. snicker snicker

Mooner did stop to see Q from Thank, Q! first...and the fellas made Q report in with the 4-1-1- on Mooner (to make sure he really was just a crazy fucker from Texas who drove across several states, and not actually some crazed cannibalistic serial killer).

BJ and Squat spent the most time with Mooner, and I hung out with the gang on Friday and then met up with them for lunch on Sunday.

On Friday, we ate delicious "all kindsa" barbecue (er, um, I should say we ate all kindsa barbecue "several times") and drank Carta Blancas (which, I have to admit, are pretty damned good cervezas!). I got to meet Mrs. Squat, Squat's lovely (and dangerous) wife - and she IS lovely (and uber cool!), but I wasn't gonna test the dangerous part. I also got to meet Ms. Baby - BJ's better half - and she is just the cutest little southern mama! Squat and BJ definitely have good taste in ladies, so I am cool with them being my "big blogger bros" - since there aren't any bitchy sister-bloggers-in-law in the picture!

Squat, doin' what he does...takin' pictures!
Never mind the fact that I had already taken a picture
of the Blog Con 2011 Cake. BJ is in the background, but
you kin' hardly see 'im.

I had met Squat once - when he was gracious enough to do family photos for me and the hooligan...but Squat - he's a hoot when the Killians are a flowin'!! And he really is up on all of the political 4-1-1 (sometimes, secretly, when I want to know what is going on in politics, instead of looking it up myself because I'm too lazy, I just wait for Squat to blog about it - then I get like the "cliff notes" with Squat's funny slant on the issue). Squat's got a pretty good southern drawl going on - and I believe one of the discussions we all had revolved around some kin-folk a his thinking that all southerners were essentially "blonde dingbats" and couldn't hold an intelligent conversation - and them being surprised that he actually kept up with politics and had salient points to make. Personally, I think it would be just about the most entertaining fucking thing to let Squat be the moderator at some of these Republican debates! But, truth be told...I think as "on the ball" as Squat is...he very likely owes it to Mrs. Squat, because I'm thinkin' that she's the real brains behind the operation!

Now BJ, I hadn't met before - and the shin-dig was going down at his crib. BJ is one of those guys who has never met a stranger - a real down to earth kinda guy (and so is his wifey, Ms. Baby - who joined us after she got off from work). And the embodiment of a true southern "host with the most." And of course, one of my most favorite kinds of peeps - a Vietnam Vet! BJ had quite the barbecue spread all laid out and I ate myself stupid. And when we met up for lunch on Sunday - at Monell's Manor in Nashville - it was one of those "family style" deals where you might end up sitting at a table with folks you don't know (which we did) and you pass all of the dishes around the table. BJ made sure that we were all properly introduced to the two other parties (one grandmother and her grand-daughter combo and another mother and her daughter combo - all of whom looked like they had just come from church...whereas it was quite obvious that NONE of US were gonna be accused of just having come from church any time soon!). Those two other parties were a bit uptight at the beginning, but BJ made sure that everyone got friendly - and by the end of the meal, he had the grandmother asking Mooner if his book was available at Barnes & Noble!! We had quite a chuckle afterwards - joking about what might happen to that grandmother if she really did read Mooner's book!

MOONER JOHNSON - In da flesh!!

Mooner...well, let's just say, if you read his blog - he's just like that in real life. ADD abounded - and we all took turns reminding him what he was talking about after he would go off on tangents! And it turns out, Mooner really does harass the Catholic-right-to-life old lady at his local Planned Parenthood. When he whipped out his "retaliatory" board - I thought I might piss myself laughing! Mooner's rally cry of "Fuck Rick Perry!" really has some meat to it - there is a real reason Mooner hates ole Ricky - because he really has met him! And quite frankly - after hearing the hilarious story told Mooner-style - I think EVERYONE ought to say, "Fuck Rick Perry!" for real. Jackass.

Watching the dynamics between BJ, Squat, and Mooner was absolutely hysterical. The good-natured, "Fuck you's" and "You mother fucker's" flew around as freely as beer from a keg at a frat party! It was like those guys had known each other for years (well, technically, BJ and Squat have known each other for years). It was great fun hearing so many different stories and getting to know the guys! I feel pretty lucky to have been invited to the shenanigans - I think I rightfully assumed my role as the "bratty little sister." Tee hee hee! And I'm thrilled to add some supah fly new friends to my very select group of people I consider "RAD to the bone!"

And here is an example of MY fine photography skillz...
(and a few Carta Blancas put away)
Reckmonster and Mooner
"The Pre-Engagement Photo"

Yeah, Mooner's still got to find, marry and divorce Wife # 11 before I become his 12th wife. So, he'd better get on the ball, because I'm thinking that Prince Charming (PC) is gaining on him...

Happy Veterans Day

2011-11-11T10:32:00.000-06:00

11/11/11 - a good date for Veterans Day. A noteworthy date. For a very noteworthy group of people.

Y'all know I loves me some vets. They are my "peeps." I get to spend five days a week in their company (well, some days I'm holed up in my office chained to the computer, but I'm still working on stuff for them).

I enjoy chewing the fat with them when I get the chance. I always make sure to tell them thank you for their service. And if they've been deployed, I always welcome them home.

I love all of my vets, but today, I just want to make sure that I give a special shout out to my dad, who retired from the Army after 26 years and served 3 tours in Vietnam, so I introduce you to Poppa Reckmonster:

This is my dad, circa 1968, in Vietnam, striking what he would now call his "studmeister extraordinaire" pose by the company jeep. I think he was about 110 lbs soaking wet when he was 19 (19, and already a SP4 by the time this picture was taken!). He has since filled out and perfected his studmeister pose, since he's had 40+ years to do both!

So, Happy Veterans Day, Dad...and to all of my special blogger peeps who are vets - meloveyoulongtime! And a heartfelt Thank You to everyone still serving and all vets out there! I don't just thank you today...I thank you every day.

The death of a giant

2011-11-09T21:31:00.004-06:00

I'm pretty fucking stingy with my compliments. It's safe to say that if I'm not bitching about you or giving you some kind of stank eye, I think you're pretty cool or you're doing a good job or I dig you. If I DO happen to pass along a compliment, you can consider that a HUGE and monumental big fucking deal, because I do not do that lightly. I am actually trying to work on that and to be better about giving compliments and acknowledging positive things on the regular (especially where it concerns my hooligan). My praise and kudo-giving are big deals to me, so you know damned well if you hear it come out of my mouth, I really fucking mean it. I do NOT blow sunshine up anyone's ass just for shits and giggles. It's just how I was raised - expectations were high - so if you were doing a good job, you were just doing what was expected. If you did something extraordinary, THEN you got praise. I'm not saying it was right, but that's just how it was in my family, don't know what else to tell you.

So, for me to heap LAVISH PRAISE on anyone is a rarity and reserved for only the finest human beings on earth. There are a few folks who get that automatically: folks in the military, vets, and people who put themselves in harm's way to keep other people safe. Other individuals are determined on a case by case basis.

One such individual was a giant of a man, whom I'll call Dr. M. Dr. M. is the man who hired me for my current job. He retired about two years ago, due to a debilitating spinal condition that wracked his body with pain. It was horrifying to have to watch him struggle to even walk some days - especially if you knew what a Giant he really was.

He was the Chief of the Psychiatry Service at my hospital. He was an Indian man, who was actually quite tall and very well-built and had a very solid presence given his stature. He was roughly around my parents' age and had a bit of a paternalistic quality to him. He also happened to be one of THE finest men I have ever had the pleasure to know. And I was lucky to have him for a boss - he was a mentor and he was protective of his subordinates. But, he also trusted you to do your job, and he stayed out of your ass. If he was in your ass...you'd best believe you were doing a really fucked up job.

I don't think I've ever come across a man/supervisor/mentor/doctor who had such a noble, honorable, and regal presence about him. The man just oozed of class. He carried himself with such an air of confidence and dignity. He was the quintessential gentleman. I NEVER once heard him call anyone by their first name in the years I worked for him - I always heard him address folks by Mr. so and so or Ms. so and so. Everyone. Even our housekeeping staff (which meant that he went out of his way to know everyone's last name, so that he could address them "appropriately."). But, he wasn't stuffy by any means - he was just a very firm believer in formality and respectfully addressing people, and very old school in his beliefs about what "professionalism" meant.

He was also a veteran of the Indian Army. He had pictures in his office of himself in his Army Uniform when he was a young lad, and he once told me that serving in the military - regardless of which country you served for - created a lasting impression on an individual - and so, he took the business of caring for "veterans" very seriously. He tolerated nothing less than complete perfection when it came to caring for our patients. He was proud to serve American veterans.

He was also a force to be reckoned with in the administrative halls...he could school your ass in a very hushed tone, using the simplest of words, without ever once raising his voice or demonstrating any malice - but you knew he meant business. He was very respected throughout the hospital. It was always good to have him for a boss, because you just knew he had your back - he would go to battle for you and you felt glad for having him on your side. And even if you fucked up (which our residents did regularly, because, well, they're residents...) - he was very dignified in how he dealt with you (never in front of anyone - always behind closed doors) - but you knew when someone came out of his office with their ass crispy-fried, that he had just delivered the ass-reaming of a lifetime (we laughed about the residents getting "fried" all of the time). And you also knew that they wouldn't be fucking up like that again!

He was a teacher and a mentor. He was a brilliant doctor. He was THE only psychiatrist in the entire State to have X, Y, Z and Q certifications - but he was not boastful or narcissistic (which is a feat in and of itself for ANY doctor with that many certifications in sub-specialties). He helped me immensely when I would get frustrated with the bureaucracy - gently explaining the subtleties of dealing with "the machine." He helped me understand which pieces of bull shit to ignore and WHEN it was important to speak my piece. He also helped me "hone" my speaking skills and to keep them appropriate - but to still have fortitude.

And despite his outward demeanor of professionalism and dignity, the man had a wicked sense of humor that he didn't let everyone see. He kept things professional with the residents and with most of the casual acquaintances. He enjoyed collegial relationships with the other doctors and providers that he supervised. He was choosy about who he would "let loose" with and I felt uber honored to be in that club. There were times when I would meet with him, and he would actually CUSS (which he NEVER, EVER did within public earshot) - and I would fucking roll - because it made him all the cooler to be "real" like that. And one time, he was sharing some "on the down low" info about some retardo-happenings in the hospital, swearing me to secrecy - and adding, "And if this ever gets past the walls of this office, I will swear to God on a stack of bibles that I never heard such a thing...because I can do that and get away with it - I'm a Hindu!!" And he rolled his ass off with the heartiest laughter - and I nearly lost my mind because I had never heard him cut up like that!

After the first year of working for him, he was doing my performance evaluation, and he told me, "Ms. Reckmonster, you have made my life so much easier. I never have to worry about the {Reckmonster's} clinic - I just know you have everything taken care of. You have no idea what a burden has been lifted for me since you have taken over the clinic. So, when you come to me with something, I know that I had better drop everything and deal with it because you do not bring me frivolous issues. For this, I am grateful. Thank you for lightening my stress!" You would have thought I just won the fucking Nobel Peace Prize...to get that kind of compliment from Dr. M. meant a lot.

Why am I telling you about this man? Because he passed away suddenly last night. And I am so sad about that. The world lost a fine human being. They don't make 'em like Dr. M anymore...and I wish they did. The world would be a much better place. I feel like I am a better person for knowing him.

WOOT! I'm a BILF!

2011-11-06T08:38:00.002-06:00

This has got to be, hands down, THE most hilarious blogger award I've seen yet - this one literally made me laugh out loud - perhaps even snort (just a little - and in a totally cute-not-gross kind of way).

That's right, bitches: I AM A BILF!

This highly prestigious, newly created-hot-off-the-blogger-press award was bestowed upon me by my ole pal, Q, from Thank, Q! Q always brings the hot topics in grand fashion and some really smart shit comes out of his mouth. Q is totally one of my favorite bloggers! It's no wonder he was THE first blogger to win the award, like EVER. Jewels from According to Jewels just crafted this rad-ass new award, and she's totally bad-ass right to pick Q as the first recipient of the BILF award!

So, I feel totally honored to be in the first crop of bloggers that he is passing the award to...because he completely "gets" how fucking cool I am to think it completely normal, acceptable, and en vogue to eat gumbo for breakfast (every damned day, if I could!).

Now, I'm going to treat this as an award that is completely devoid of sexual orientation, and I will pass this on to male and female bloggers that I think rock like a new pair of socks, and that I'd totally do. Oh, and just as an aside...if Matt Damon wrote a blog, I would TOTALLY give him this award...for obvious reasons (What?! He's a smart guy! I'm sure that he would write a very thought-provoking, witty, entertaining, and smart blog. Duh. Plus, I'd fuck him in less in a milli-second, if, say, the opportunity presented itself. MATT: Are you listening?!! I've got an a-warrrrrrddddd for youuuuu!!!)

1. Just because she's a fucking rock star and my own personal Goddess of Blogging and a supah-sexy Peach of a gal, I pass the award to Peachy, over at The Pits of Being Peachy. Not too many people can make me laugh so hard that I fart (which SHE does every time we talk) - and we all know that is SUPER sexy!

2. And I am also passing the BILF award to another rad chiquita, Mel, from No, Really, You Can Eat It! If you haven't been to Mel's blog, then get your ass over there, stat, and you will get why I'd totally do Mel: BECAUSE girlfriend bringz tha noize when it comes to FOOD! I just want to hang out in her kitchen for a day...okay, I lie, more like seven weeks...but I have to stop it there, because seriously, my "back nine" doesn't need to turn into the "back forty." Mel's got the skillz in the kitchen! Plus, she's funny. Plus, she's my Michigan sistah. Plus, she totally understands what jackassery comes with working in a hospital and commiserates with me on the regular!

3. And because I worship Juls over at Julsbeads so much that I named my kitteh (Julz) after her...since she totally enables my beading obsession, I bestow the award on her. After I spend seven weeks in Mel's kitchen, I'd spend eight weeks in Juls' shiny shack watching her make the beautifulz and lust after her mad glass skillz (she knows the raku makes me cray-cray!!). And Juls, I know you run a bit of a "family friendly" blog, so I totally understand that you wouldn't advertise this award on your bloggie, so just know this is because I think you totally rock balls!!

[Is anyone noticing that I'm totally rockin' out the females here...do I have some latent tendencies I am repressing?! I do play strictly for one team, but I think if I played for the other team (not that there's anything wrong with that...haha - I still love Seinfeld!), these three chiquitas are top of the list!]

4. And now, onto the penises. I would be remiss if I didn't pass this award to my future husband, that is, after he finds, marries and divorces his 11th wife (because I have made it clear that I will only be wife #12, since I don't think being an "odd numbered" wife works for me). My future fiance, Mooner, over at Mooner Johnson: The Most Inappropriate Man in the World is my kinda guy because, well, he's fucking crazy. And inappropriate. And because he has been trying to get in my "virtual pants" for like EVER. So, dahling...enjoy this BILF award (does this count as foreplay?). We'll toast at the Blog-Con 2011 gathering.

5. Now, before I pass this award onto the next recipient, I am going to "edit" it a bit. Squat over at Squatlo Rant is like my big bloggie brother. So, I can't give him the "BILF" award. That would be incestuous. Plus, I do know him in "real life." And I know that he has a lovely (but dangerous) wife. So, Squat, because you DO rock balls, you're getting the award - but in an edited form. I hereby bequeath the BTLBDWWLF award upon you. Oh, that stands for: "Blogger That Lovely But Dangerous Wives Would Like to Fuck." I think Mrs. Squat would totally approve, and that allows me to shout out your rock-star-ness without going near that whole "you're like my big brother" thing. I'll toast you on this award at the Blog-Con 2011 gathering too!

And I can't pass it along to Brandon at My Own Private Idaho because he already received it in the inaugural ceremony bestowing it. And I can't pass it back to Q, because he gave it to me...but if they hadn't already received it, I would totally give it to them because they rock balls too!

P.S. Did anyone notice how many fucking times I said "totally" in this post?! I just re-read it and I am feeling pangs of 80's nostalgia right now. Totally.

P.P.S. OMG! I totally forgot someone I totally have to give the BILF award to!! (that's what happens when you turn 40 The New 30. Retardation. Totally.).

6. I am such a lame-ass for TOTALLY forgetting my pal, Coffey, over at Coffeypot. Coffey gets the BILF award because he is one of "my guys"...my vets...my heroes. And he kicks ass because he helps rescue doggies...see what I mean by "hero?!" Meloveyoulongtime, Coffey!

The cooties...I gotz 'em...AGAIN!!

2011-11-03T09:08:00.000-05:00

Mother fucking bitch. I am sick again. I am a walking breeding ground for germs. I don't actually feel too sick this time, and I wouldn't have known I was as sick as I am if I hadn't been at my doctor's office yesterday for my yearly physical. I thought she'd give me the what-for about my fat ass, but when she looked in my ears and at my throat, she started in on a whole different diatribe.

source

Apparently, I had a lot of fluid on my ears, and if y'all remember those nasty pus-filled sacs that I so graciously shared with you here - those were in my throat AGAIN. And my glands on my neck were super swollen. But the weird thing is that I didn't feel super shitty. I felt shitty on Monday when I had to take the hooligan trick or treating, but I just took 800 mg of ibuprofen and "sucked it up." Little did I know I had some nasty germies wreaking havoc on my system. My doctor asked me if I was tired, and of course I replied, "I'm always tired." [translation: Uh, yeah...YOU try running the nut hut and wiping figurative asses all day long and then come home to be mommy, daddy, zookeeper, tutor, maid, chauffeur, and chef all by yourself and then ask me again if I'm tired.] She said, "Well, you look tired. You really need to get some rest. You have a nasty infection going on there."

On a positive note, my blood pressure was really good - 107/78!! So, I am learning to let a lot of that bullshit at work slide off my back without it giving me migraines and putting me in, "Danger, Will Robinson! You're in the stroke zone!!" I'm guessing though, that the stress at work probably has my immune system running at 'below optimum levels' and that's why I keep falling prey to these fucking cooties, whereas I am usually an iron horse and none of that shit fazes me. So, thanks, work...you're a real fucking peach. I can't wait until you get your shit out of my system. And trust me when I tell you that the shit at work is getting worse...I will save that for another post because it's a long one. Suffice it to say, shit ain't even NEAR being "fixed" or "better" and I'm having to take it to the next level, which I am dreading like a case of genital fucking herpes (and NO, Coffey...I don't know what genital herpes are like...I'm just imagining that they're really fucking nasty! LMAO!!).

Tha fuck did you just say????

2011-10-30T20:47:00.000-05:00

I am guilty of listening to pop radio stations from time to time (especially if the hooligan is in the car, because some of the stuff on my iPod is not appropriate for little ears!). And every now and then I'll hear a song that has a really catchy beat and I can't get it out of my head. I'll find myself bopping along like a 14-year old, and repeating the chorus, not really paying attention to what they're singing about. I only really pay attention to lyrics of songs that I totally dig (i.e., songs that make it onto my iPod).

However, today, I heard a song on the radio, and I found myself car-dancing like a mo-fo, boppin' to the beat like I used to when I was clubbin' back in the '90s (btw...'90s dance moves DO still go with music from today), thinking, "Oooh, this song has a fresh little catchy beat." And then I heard what I was repeating (in the chorus): You look better with the lights off.

Wait a minute, what tha fuck did you just say?!!! Dude says something about, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way," and then a second later he says, "You look better with the lights off!" He says some shit about, "You're so beautiful...blah blah blah something else...so unusual." WHAT?!

I am DYING to know what the fuck this chick would look like that he's singing about. She's "beautiful" but "unusual." Is that like saying she's an exotic beauty - or more like you had your beer goggles on? And then you say, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way," and then lay it all out there with: You look better with the lights off. Who in THE sam-mother-fucking-hell would not take that the wrong way?! I mean, shit, I know I look better with the lights off - that's if we're talking about clothes not being in the picture and some bowchickawowow going on! And that's because I have an ~~addiction to~~ unparalleled appreciation for food and beer and everything else with calories and/or unhealthy slant, and an ~~aversion~~ complex allergy to "organized exercise." Plus - I have several years of gravity helping me out and a few dimples (that are not on my facial cheeks, therefore, not so cute) and a few "fluffy" spots here and there (hahaha!) that are much better left UNDER the clothes and not viewed in direct light - so yeah, I could see that I would look better with the lights off - but I pity the fool who would have the balls to say that to my face, much less write a fucking song about it! But I'm not the subject of the song (or at least I'd better NOT be...hold on, I need to see who wrote that fucking song...Okay, it's nobody I know, I don't have to go milli vanilli on anyone).

So, of course, now that I've entered the second half of my life, and what I can say is officially "middle aged," I seem to think about things a little differently. More like, I hear something, I furrow my eyebrows and start ranting with a curmudgeonly smidgen of "These fucking kids today. Tha fuck is this all about?!"

And that is precisely what I was thinking when I actually looked the song up on YouTube to see what the hell I couldn't figure out about this song. I watched one of those videos with the lyrics on it so that I'd be sure to understand what they were saying. Here, join me for a sec and watch:

So, I've read the lyrics, and I am nowhere NEAR being any closer to figuring out what the fuck was going on in these little wierdos' heads. In some of those lines, I have no idea what they're fucking talking about. I think they would have actually done much better to sing, "You look better with the lights on" - definitely a much better "panty dropper" line than what they are saying.

Wait! EUREKA!!! I think I figured it out: It's just a dumb fucking song (but the one line about the Khardashian dingbats is pretty fucking funny!). With a catchy beat. And it's not the '90s anymore. And now, I actually think some of the shit on my iPod might not be so bad (for the hooligan to hear) in comparison to pop music today. But you just wait, the next time that song comes on the radio, I'll be bopping to it like a dip-shit all over again.

Am I getting older, or are THEY getting younger???

2011-10-26T21:57:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah...I officially entered "middle age" last month when I turned 40 The NEW 30. But seriously, today, I was torn between feeling like I SHOULD feel "older" (even though I just DON'T) and having serious heartache about how young THEY have become.

Who are THEY? THEM. My veterans.

I was working on a project today that required me to be in about 200 or so different medical records (our medical records are electronic, so everything is on the computer). And I swear, at least half of the veterans I came across were born in the 1980s. That puts them in their 20s and early 30s. I had one gal who was born in 1990! I was 19 and in college then. I am "technically" old enough to be this girl's mother. That's how I gauge how "young" I think someone is now - "Well, I'm technically old enough to be your mother!" I was 19 and partying like a rock star. A lot of these vets were 19 and serving in a combat zone - definitely not partying like rock stars. And they're 24 and 25 now, with some of the most broken bodies and tortured minds. I was still retarded when I was 24.

19, incidentally, was also the average age of a soldier serving in Vietnam. My dad was 19 the first time he went to Vietnam. I have to keep that in mind whenever I start getting on my high horse and thinking he doesn't "get" something (which, I believe, presently at age 40 The NEW 30, is the prime time age for kids to start picking on their parents as being "old farts."). My dad "got" a whole lot more than I'll ever "get" way sooner than I will ever dream of "getting" it. Remember this song from the 1980s? ["19" by Paul Hardcastle]

This song has a whole lot more meaning for me now that I work exclusively with veterans. With Veterans Day right around the corner, I am thinking about MY vets with a whole lot more reflection. And more compassion.

Today I also had to take a very strong stand against what one of the resident psychiatrists said and did. I usually try to have "mah peeps" backs, but today...she was dead-ass, straight-up, triple-fucking-dawg WRONG. I got called by one of my clerks to come and deal with "an irate patient" who was causing a ruckus at the check-out window. Apparently, he was upset because the doc that saw him told him she couldn't prescribe a certain medication and that he'd have to see another doctor. What the fuck, right? Not so fast, though...technically, she is under the supervision of an attending physician and for Schedule II drugs, you have to have a DEA number to prescribe them. So, she couldn't "technically" write a prescription for the medication in question, BUT...she could have her attending physician write the script for the patient. So, the info was "half right/half wrong." Regardless, the patient was pissed.

When I spoke to the resident, she had a really shitty attitude - and started immediately saying, "He's a drug seeker! He wants a stimulant and a pain medication and a benzo! And he was rude!" She was visibly irritated and it showed. Not terribly professional. In "the field," we call that "counter-transference." That's when a patient evokes a marked response in you, as the provider. When a patient has a reaction/response to you, it's called "transference." That's expected. Counter-transference can be expected too, because, face it, we're all human. But the difference is - we, as the providers of mental health care, have the onus on us to DEAL with it and not let it reflect in the care we provide.

When I went in to speak with the patient, I was half-way expecting to see some strung out dickhead who was just waiting for an opportunity to cuss me out. What I saw was a 25-year old "kid," in a John Deere cap and Carhartt jacket. He was on edge. He immediately started spewing how the doctor "lied" to him and told him she couldn't prescribe a certain med and told him he'd have to see another doctor and then rushed him out of the office. He was being loud and on the verge of being what I would consider "hostile." But then I listened to what he was telling me...that he just wanted some "help" to be able to focus and concentrate on things. That he had two kids and a wife - and he was barely able to sit with his kids to help them with their homework because he was always on the verge of "losing it." That his wife was constantly pissed at him because he was constantly getting pissed about every little thing. That he was failing his classes in college because he couldn't sit still long enough to get anything completed.

Not ONCE did he mention serving in Iraq. But, instinctively, I knew. So, I just listened. I let him get it all off of his chest - standing right there at the check-out window of my clinic. His biggest complaint? "She [the resident doc] didn't even listen to me! She just started telling me she couldn't prescribe what I wanted and that I'd have to see another doctor. How is THAT helping me?!" I let him know that I understood why that would upset him, and that I would do what I needed to get him paired with a doctor he felt "listened" to him. I also set some boundaries with him - and told him that just because he would see a different doctor was not a guarantee that he would receive any particular medication that he was asking about. He seemed cool with that and said, "That's fine...as long as he [the new doc] gives me what I need." I tempered that with, "And remember...what you think you need as far as medication goes may not be the same thing the new doc thinks you need after he assesses you and gives you his opinion based on his medical training...okay?" He calmed wayyyyy the fuck down, and replied, "That's fair."

That is when I got pissed. Not at the patient...but at the doctor. She pigeon-holed this vet and started labeling him as a "drug seeker." She was pissed that he asked about pain meds (narcotics...controlled substances). Well, duh, bitch...this "kid" is service-connected for a back injury he sustained in Iraq. She was pissed that he was asking about a benzo (another controlled substance - for anxiety) - but in reality, he was asking for something to help him sleep (he never specifically asked for a benzodiazepine because, quite frankly, dude wouldn't have the slightest idea of what a "benzo" really was). Well, duh, bitch...he's service connected for PTSD...a diagnosis on the "anxiety disorder" spectrum. And she was pissed that he was asking for something to help him "focus" and concentrate" - automatically insinuating that he asked for Adderall or Ritalin or the like (more controlled substances). Well, duh, bitch...if you would have listened to him - you would have heard that he is flunking his college classes and he's concerned that he can't even help his two kids with their homework because he's so on edge all of the time. So, she put all of those things together and decided he was a "drug seeker." And the biggest travesty??? She said he was "rude." Rude????? No...try IN AGONY...TORTURED...EDGY...that might start to explain why he came off a little "out of sorts" and wasn't presenting his best southern boy, genteel manners.

Now, this doctor can't be a day over 30 herself. But I promise you...I would trust my life with that "rude" patient for the next 600 years before I would ever trust that silly little pretentious, judgmental, unprofessional and uncouth bitch to pass me the fucking salt. And I told her attending (read: SUPERVISING) doc just that...in so many words. Yeah, I had to clean it up a little bit, but still...the "flavor" of my rancor was not lost.

I don't care if you're a doctor, a clerk, a social worker, or whoever...if you have the balls to call one of MY vets a dick - WITHOUT listening to them first...then YOU go on my shit list. If you listen to them first and decide they are a dick, fine...as long as you can tell me that you LISTENED to them first. "Listening" is the least bit of courtesy we can show our vets while we're keeping our promise to them. When you don't listen, you're being "discourteous." When you're being discourteous, you're technically being "rude." Imagine that.

Why I hate "dating"

2011-10-24T18:13:00.001-05:00

I hate "dating." It fucking sucks. Why? Because I'm 40 fucking years old and it just seems unnatural. At my core, I'm a "one on one" kind of person. I don't like having "casual" relationships. I'm not a "casual" kind of chick. I mean, I can be casual, but it's not my preference. And trust me, with some of the dolts that I've met and dated, I've had no desire to move toward anything beyond casual. As my ole buddy Squat would say, the dating pool needs some chlorine (except he says that about the gene pool!). Actually, truth be told, I don't really let anything simmer on "casual." If I think you're a no-go, I don't waste any time...I just pull the plug and that's the end of that. I have pulled the plug on more occasions than I can count. And sometimes, the "plug-pullee" didn't really get the memo - correction - they "got" the memo - they just didn't "get" it, if you know what I mean. When I don't answer your calls or return your texts AFTER I've said, "I'm not really feeling this..." then the onus is on your stupid ass to get a fucking translator, because I think that is pretty damned clear in MY language. I have better things to do with my time than to let things simmer in "nebulous-land" and just "hang out" every now and then. Especially if you have a few character traits that grate my nerves like a waiter slinging the parmesan on your pasta at Macaroni Grill.

Oh, and I also hate dating because I have really tall walls guarding mi corazon. I'm not someone who lets folks in very easily. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever really ever let anyone in that close again - well, anyone of the male subspecies, that is. My best [chiquita] friends are super close and I trust them with my life and all of my secrets.

And then there's the issue of meeting someone you think you might like...and that whole stupid game of how close you'll let them get while you try to get a fix on their intentions and whether or not they have serial killer tendencies or if their IQ is within a plus or minus 20-point range of yours (yes, that's generous, but that would either make someone a super genius or merely high average for me. Tee hee hee.). And then you have to find out if they really don't still live with their parents, or have some kind of "restricted" license because of a little run-in with the law, or a whole host of assorted factoids that can "make or break" the deal (including, but not limited to: whether or not you pay your child support, if you do actually see your kids as often as you can, if you have mental health issues that surpass even mine, how long you really are on parole, if that swastika tattoo on your hand really means that you're a white supremacist or not, how many times you really have been married - and to piggy back that one, whether you really are "divorced," because to me "separated" but you don't even have a lawyer and nobody has filed for divorce means the same thing as "still married"). And no, these are not just "random" factoids that I pulled out of my ass...unfortunately.

Don't worry...I'm quite "OVER" the online dating thing

The worst part of all is when you think you do like someone enough to maybe let them see sides of you that not everyone gets to see. If I even come close to doing that, it comes with a lot of expectations. Because let's face it: I'm a pushy, demanding broad. If I let you "in" even the teensiest bit, then dammit...there are a few expectations. And by "expectations" - I mean, you can honestly tell me that you aren't dating three other women at the same time and that I won't even need to question your integrity, to say, resort to snooping around to see if you are. And by "snooping" I mean - seeing if you still have that dating profile up online (for the whole world to see) - not "snooping" like getting in your personal shit (because that's just raw). If you tell me that you're only seeing me and you think I fucking rock harder than Twisted Sister in 1984, then why the need to keep that shit up there???? You can always put it back up if things don't work out, but for pete-rose's-mother-fucking sake, why on earth are you still soliciting feedback from other people if you're only seeing me? I think that's disrespectful (especially since I closed mine because I thought you might be cool enough to have my undivided attention for a minute, oh, and because I also decided that the online thing was just not worthy of my presence any longer). Or maybe I think you're not on the up and up. Or maybe I think you're insecure and you need to see what kind of attention you can still get. Or maybe I think it gets you put into "plug-pullee" contention. Or maybe I think I'm a nutcase for even giving a shit. See?! Dating sucks. I fucking hate it.

It seems like a waste of energy to run the circuit of dating to even let it get to that last phase I just described. It never gets past that. I really shouldn't even bother any more (but that will greatly decrease the entertaining stories I have to tell...ooooh, which reminds me, I still need to tell y'all about the time I scared the shit out of a white supremacist!). Besides...it doesn't really matter anyway - I'll be getting married again at some point - as soon as Mooner finds, marries, and divorces his 11th wife. HAHAHA!

A bird shit on my head

2011-10-23T10:04:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I went to get my hairs did at my beauty salon. My hairdresser is the fucking rock star of all hair dressers. She did a bang up job on restoring my hair color to its natural state (because I didn't really dig the highlights that were put in this summer) and trimmed it up so that I would quit my bitchin' about my bangs being in my eyeballs all the time.

This is in anticipation of having my family pictures made today - by none other than my buddy, Squatlo. The hooli and I will be lookin' uber cute with fall foliage in the background while Squat captures it in an acceptable way for me to frame it and slap it on my living room wall.

On my way home from the salon yesterday, it was gorgeous outside, so I had the sunroof open. As I pulled into my driveway, I felt a little something on my head...I thought maybe the hooli had thrown something in the car (yes, he does that...even though he suffers the wrath of the mommy afterwards) and it brushed my head. So, I reach up to my hair to brush my hand over it - and as I look at my hand, I notice a wad of bird shit smack dab in the middle of my palm! MOTHER BITCH! Bird shit on my freshly cut, colored, and styled 'do...straight from the salon, a hundred and fifty bones later!!! Let's just say, it was one of those times that I didn't even give a shit about controlling the stream of expletives that flew out of my mouth (with the hooligan sitting in the back seat). What. The. FUCK!!!!!! Un-motherfucking-believable.

source
Assholes.

So, of course, I had to post this on my Farcebook status, for the world to see and laugh WITH me (haha!). So many people said, "Only YOU..." or some variant thereof. Even my hairdresser said that after I texted her and told her what had happened. Only ME. Lucky ME. But wait a minute...I remembered some old wives tale about bird shitting on you = good luck. Could it be true?!

According to Feng Shui, it IS good luck...

When Bird Droppings Land On Your Head: Many people believe this to be a major sign of wealth coming from heaven. Hence, although, it is really yucky and a major inconvenience, when something like this happens to you, take comfort in the fact that this is described as good luck being just around the corner! In fact, most things associated with birds tend to spell good fortune, such as when birds fly to your home and start making nests in and around your house. While bats bring abundance, birds bring good news and opportunities. The next time a flock of ravens, pigeons or magpies come to your home, feed them with bird seeds. Birds are also said to be powerful protectors and guardians. Even crows are said to be messengers of the Gods. So welcome birds with open arms.

I don't know about welcoming them to SHIT ON MY FUCKING HEAD with open arms...but I'd welcome the "auspicious" events they bring if it has nothing to do with me JUST leaving the salon with a new 'do, the day before getting family pictures taken.

So, today...I'm browsing a few of my favorite blogs and taking in some leisurely Sunday morning reading, and I notice that my buddy, Gary, over at Klahanie, had bestowed a blogger award upon me! YAY! An award for me!!

Thanks, Gary!
Take off, eh?!

So, anywhoooo...I am deeming THIS as my good luck from the bird shitting on my head yesterday. Yes, see, I am "reframing" so that I can make myself feel better!

And the best part? No silly rules associated with the award...Gary is cool like that...he just said, "To do with as you wish." Well, I wish to smile and be happy about this friendly nugget and take a few days to think about who I wish to pass it along to. And that is just want I'm going to do...

The reluctant mother

2011-10-18T22:52:00.000-05:00

This goes on my forehead,
as far as "parenting" is concerned.

I have said a bajillion times that I don't think I'm wired to be a mother. I think the mom factory fucked up when they were building the moms and the Reckmonster rolled by on the assembly line - maybe some of the workers were high, or it was a Friday late in the afternoon right before a long weekend. I don't know if I'm missing some parts or if they just got a few wires crossed, I just know that I often feel like I just don't know what the fuck I'm doing when it comes to raising a kid. And doing it alone really sucks big donkey wang.

It's a miracle that I even have a kid. I think I've mentioned a time or two that I was told I couldn't have kids, and I was okay with that (and my ex-husband was more than okay with it, because he didn't want to have any kids). I wasn't going to go through the drama of having whatever surgery was required to unclog my tubes and shit because I'm not really one of those people who has ever spent time in a hospital (when I had the kid, that was the first time I ever slept overnight in the hospital). So, long story short...shit happened, and it turns out that my doctor forgot to mention that one of the tests she had me go through (the hysterosalpingogram) carried a minute "risk" of unblocking what was actually blocking the tubes. Whoops.

Nine months later, the hooligan entered the world. And I was completely unprepared for this thing called "parenthood." I even remember having one of those post-partum hormonally induced meltdowns a couple of days after we brought the hooligan home and telling my ex, "I don't think I can do this!" and him laughing and replying, "Well, it's not like we can give him back." Yeah...off to a roaring good start for the hooli.

I mean, I have the basics down - make sure he eats, has clean underwear, goes to sleep at a decent hour and does his homework. I get that. That's the kind of shit you just DO to make sure that child protective services doesn't come knocking on your door.

You're also supposed to make sure that he goes to the doctor and to the dentist and that he has everything he needs to be successful in school. I mean, you don't want a sickly kid with buck-teeth being held back, right?!

Not my kid...
but might as well be.
source

And you have to make sure that he learns not to pick his boogers and eat them (although, ahem...that is proving to be a challenge with a certain little hooligan I know) or to teach them it's not polite to point and stare at people with disabilities.

Oh yeah, and apparently these little beings like to have fun and play and shit. I have some problems in that department - especially at 6:45 on a Saturday morning when all I want to do is sleep in and relax and NOT be bothered with getting out of bed to "entertain" his ass at the butt-crack of dawn.

So, today - one of the biggest tests of my parenting career occurred. I get a call from the hooligan's sperm donor this afternoon - and he says that the hooligan's principal just called him. My first reaction was, "Why the fuck did he call you?!" Because, technically, the donor has no legal rights to make any calls about the hooli's ed-ju-ma-kay-shun, since I have full custody (residential AND responsibility/decision-making). But, that is beside the point. The point is WHY the principal called in the first place. If I could have turned any lighter shade of pale after the ex told me why, I'd have been surprised.

It turns out that some parents of a kindergarten kiddie called the school and reported that a second grader told their kid yesterday in the after school program that (because of whatever they were squabbling over) he was going to put the youngster on his "death list" and asked the little kid for his address so that he could find him. THAT is a very disturbing thing to hear in general. But for fucking real, when you hear that it's YOUR kid who said it, the blood starts to run cold in your veins. To think that YOUR kid would say something that could get him expelled - or worse - arrested (in today's day and age) spurs a gigantic fucking panic attack, that's for damned sure. And then to roll around in your head, wondering if you did something wrong as a parent - well, that right there is a total mind-fuck and a half. I mean, I am a bitch and all, but I don't generally go around telling people they're on a death list (well, not out loud anyway...I KID! I KID!). I do, however, have a list of people whose funky asses I would like to see hung out on a line to dry - but, I digress...

I started questioning the ex about what exactly the principal said had happened, in between trying to pick my mouth up off the floor and get some tissues ready to shove in the back of my pants before I shit them. We were both actually stunned - to say the very least. The hooligan is a drama king and a little ruffian in some cases, but he is NOT a bully. He is actually pretty tender-hearted and sensitive - and a hell of a lot sweeter than his mother is.

I immediately called the school and spoke with the principal, and he related that yes, indeed, MY son, had threatened this other little kid yesterday - and that he spoke with the hooligan (with the school Police Officer present) this morning, and my kid broke down and bawled and admitted that he did say it (putting the other kid on a "death list") yesterday. He cried, saying that he didn't mean it, but that he was mad at the other kid, yada yada yada. [I don't really give a shit WHY he said it, just that he actually said something so vile is what my focus was - because there is no reason good enough to actually get him out of the trouble he was fixin' to be in.]

I left work immediately to go to the school (which was just letting out at that point) to go and snatch that little hoodlum up by the scruff of his neck and have a little "discussion" with him. When I got to the school, I spoke with the principal (which the hooligan saw) briefly and assured him that the issue would be addressed and to please relay my apologies to the parents of the other child. The hooli knew he was in trouble. And I was going to make damned sure that he was as close to shitting his pants as I was when his father called me to tell me what the principal called about.

Now...handling this was about as fucking annoying as I care for parenthood to ever get. And my brat is only 7. I'm not sure I'll be qualified to handle the teenage years. I may need to hire a part-time surrogate parent once he hits 13, just to help keep me out of the fucking nut bin.

I do not spank my kid - not because I'm some kumbayah "save the homeless gay baby whales" tree-hugging liberal - but because I know that spanking does not work for MY kid. I also happen to think that you can't "teach" a lesson (especially about violence) by enacting violence. Think about it - trying to teach a kid that they can't hit their little sister by, well, hitting them (i.e., spanking them), just seems retarded to me. You're basically telling them, "You can't hit other people, but I can hit you." Anyway...my point isn't to get into a debate about spanking. If you spank your kids, that's your business. I just choose not to spank mine. Besides, he's only 7, and he's already 4'4" tall (less than a foot shorter than me) and he already weighs 65 lbs. I'm not trying to introduce a power struggle using physicality into this parent-child equation, because in a couple of years, I'll likely be holding the short end of the stick (I'm no idiot - he's in the 93rd percentile for his height at his age, and in the 87th percentile for weight). I need to exert my control as "THA MOM" sans physical means.

So, I have to be creative about how to discipline my child. The obvious thing is to hit him where shit hurts - in the video game department. That was an automatic "GONER." And then I decided to sucker punch him while he was down - and take away all toys that are related to "violence" - like any toy guns, knives, swords, etc, and take them to Goodwill...to send a message about NOT diggin' the whole violence thing - threatening to put a kid on a "death list" definitely falls in that category. And finally, to pour salt in the wound - the boob-mother-fucking-tube privileges were revoked.

Hey, do they have one of these in
MY state?!!
source

Okay, discipline tactics handled...now, the really fucked up part...talking to him about WHY what he said was so wrong...but not making him feel so fucking raunchy that he would be afraid I didn't love him anymore (I told you, he's pretty sensitive). Where is the fucking instruction manual, dammit?! What chapter is that in? Can I get a fucking flow-chart or something to spell this shit out for me?! Is there a script for the "Don't-crush-his-spirit-but-let-him-know-you-are-fucking-serious" lecture????

GAHHHHHHHH! I was beside myself. I'm not wired for this shit. I muddled my way through it - and had to sit through more bawling fits and "WOE-IS-ME!" commentary from that little ankle-biter than I cared to. I'm hoping I scared the holy dog shit out of him and that the disciplinary tactics I chose sting for long enough to make an impression.

Oh, and by the way, in an amazing stroke of luck, the hooligan is not in trouble at school. I know that schools take this shit really serious nowadays (which is the reason I was feeling the double dawg need for a xanax margarita when I got the call). The principal basically gave him a stern warning. If it ever happens again though, I'm gonna have to look for the receipt and take the kid back to the "Kid Store" and see about a refund. Or maybe I should start looking for a "parenting" app now. After all, they've got an app for everything now, right?!

A new job for the Reckmonster?

2011-10-12T21:08:00.000-05:00

So today I stumbled upon what I think would be the PERFECT new position for me at my current place of employment. While I enjoy my position (on most days) as the self-titled "Chief Deputy Undersecretary for the Coordination of Poop Cleanup in [my] Clinic," I think I've found something I am wayyyyy better at and that would actually make me SHINE like a GIA-certified flawless diamond!

This morning, this patient came into my clinic - first thing - right as we opened the window for business - and he was lost. Not that uncommon - it's a big hospital. So, we (my clerks and I) were trying to figure out where he needed to be. We looked in the computer and printed off his appointment list - except - it just said "Building 9, ground floor." He had already checked in at the admissions desk (because he had a "special" kind of appointment that required him to check in at the main desk). So, I called over to admissions and asked where he needed to be to see Dr. So-and-So. Dude that answered the phone was oh-so-fucking-NOT-helpful. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: Hi, this is the Reckmonster. I'm trying to help a patient figure out where he needs to go for his so-and-so appointment.
[Dude looks the patient up on the computer - which, I already fucking did, thank you very much]
Dude: 9G
Me: Yes, I know that...but I need to know which room number to send him to.
Dude: Well, all it says is 9G.
Me: Yes, but you guys checked him in, and you didn't tell him where in 9G to go, so now I need to tell him exactly where to go.
Dude: I don't know what to tell you, all it says is 9G.
Me: So you want me to send him to building 9 and have him just wander around the ground floor until he finds his doctor????
Dude: Well, call an ambassador [these are the "escorts" that are volunteers, and they take people around the hospital so they don't get lost]
Me: Well, if the ambassador takes him to building 9, he's still going need to know which room to go to.
Dude: Well, if the ambassador is with him, at least he won't be alone.
Me: WHAT?! You know what??? Never mind. I'll take him myself. Thanks for nothing.
CLICK (*actually, more like BANG-slams the phone down-then CLICK-hangs up on your worthless ass)

So I tell the patient, "Come on, sir. Let's go for a walk and find out where you're supposed to be." I grab my coffee and meet the patient out in the lobby and apologize to him for people in the facility being such assholes (and yes, I said "assholes" to this patient at 8:07 a.m.). I walk with the patient, heading toward building 9, and start chatting with him. He's roughly my dad's age - and judging from his hat and jacket, I quickly figure out he's a Vietnam veteran. I ask him what branch he served in, and he tells me he was in the Army. I ask him when he served in Vietnam, and he tells me he served two tours there and the years he was there - and how his second tour basically ended his army career after a grenade kind of "blew him up." The guy walks kind of slow and with a limp, so I don't need to pry too much farther...and I simply tell him, "Welcome home, sir...and thank you for your service." He says thank you, and says, "I'm sorry that your morning had to start out so crappy." I tell him he has nothing to apologize for and how it just burns my ass that people who work in the hospital can be so rude - and I share that my dad is an Army retiree and also a Vietnam veteran, and if someone was treating my dad so poorly at the hospital, I'd be crawling up someone's ass to make it right.

I ask around and find where the patient needs to be fairly easily - and hand him off to his doctor (in building 9 on the ground floor), who is waiting for him. I wish him a nice day and walk back to my clinic. As I'm walking back, I decide that I've discovered my perfect new job: "The Worthless Fuck Detector."

I think I would like to troll around my hospital - and locate every employee who doesn't give a fuck about the patients - or veterans in general. I want to locate every employee who is a lazy asshole. I mean, I can deal with some lazy people - because face it, some lazy folks are just funny as hell - and they're good for a laugh, so it's okay to keep a few of 'em around. And I can deal with some assholes - because some assholes work their tails off - and those kinds of efficient fuckers are hella good to keep around when you need to get shit done (you just kind of "deal" with their gruff demeanors and work around it). BUT...if you're a lazy asshole - you are a worthless fuck, as far as I'm concerned.

So, I would make my rounds and wave my "Worthless Fuck" wand around to detect everyone who needed a kick in the ass OUT the door. I'd pick all of the jackasses who don't give a fuck about veterans or helping patients and wave the wand and declare them a "WORTHLESS FUCK!" and POOF! They'd be gone. I'd pick all of the lazy assholes and wave the wand and declare them a "WORTHLESS FUCK!" and POOF! They'd be gone. I'd take all of the crooked administrators who screw their subordinates over and take credit for shit that's not theirs to take credit for, and wave the wand and declare them a "WORTHLESS FUCK!" and POOF! They'd be gone too! You get the idea...

I think that would be SO MUCH FUCKING FUN I couldn't stand it. Shit, I'd look forward to going to work every day! And I'd even volunteer to work overtime - without pay or comp time!! I'd stay busy though...because for every Worthless Fuck I poofed away - I'd still have a fresh new crop of employees to comb through (you'll always have Worthless Fucks on the payroll...so the herd would always need to be culled).

If I weren't so lazy right now,
I'd change it to say,
"Have a great day,
YOU WORTHLESS FUCK!"
source

I'd also have to be part of the Orientation Team - and let all new hires know who I was, and how to contact me, and how I wholeheartedly endorsed and encouraged any employee who knew of "Worthless Fuckery" that existed to report it (of course, there would be an option for anonymous reporting). That means I would also have to man the "Worthless Fuckery Hotline," and field all of the calls and do all of the investigating myself. Because face it, in a big organization - you're going to have cases where some folks who do the calling to report shit are, in fact, just trying to get other people in trouble - and would, in fact, be the actual "Worthless Fucks" themselves!! I'd be like an investigator as well as a detector! I would totally stay busy, that's for damned sure. But it would be so worth it - because when it came time for the annual "Job Satisfaction" Survey - I know I'd be marking smiley faces all the way across!

In the "Red" Hole and a giant "FUCK YOU!"

2011-10-10T00:31:00.000-05:00

Ugh. Just UGH. I went to a staff meeting last week. Normally they're filled with a bunch of boring bullshit and I just play "bubble buster" on my phone (on "silent" - of course!!) during these kinds of meetings. But, this particular meeting - piqued my interest - and then burst MY bubble and sent me reeling into this particular froth.

Just in case you hadn't heard...the gub'ment is having some problems managing money. Budget woes. For the vast majority of ~~lemmings~~ Americans, it's just another "topic" to yak about. For me - it is a VERY REAL and visceral daily problem.

In the staff meeting, there was discussion about the budget problems - and then some very specific talk about very specific statistics and numbers impacting my specific hospital. It was reported that my particular hospital that treats America's heroes (y'all know by now that I'll never actually SAY which of Uncle Sam's brothels I happen to work for, but I do fancy myself one of his finest hookers! tee hee hee!) is entering the new fiscal year $13 million in the red. IN THE HOLE. As in "fuuuuuuuck...we already overspent our allowance and now we're robbing next year's peter to pay for this year's paul." And the number of full-time positions for my hero hospital has been capped. Apparently, we're "over" that cap right now, so they'll "meet" the cap by attrition - allowing positions that are vacated to remain empty - until we get "down" to that specific little number. Yes, we are reducing staff. We were told that the new "catch phrase" from the powers-that-be is "Do more with less." Oh really???? Hold on, let me find my tool that allows me to get blood from stones...one sec, I think I have one in the junk drawer somewhere...

Reducing staff. Entering a new fiscal year with a completely fucked budget to the tune of $13 million in the hole. (and remember this is just for MY hospital...we're not talking about the scads of other hospitals in the "system" that serve our heroes!!) Small problem. The DEMAND for services keeps rising. And in my particular sector, mental health, the demand is actually sky-rocketing. I can't even get my heroes in to see one of my shrinks for like three weeks when the request for an appointment comes in! It's getting straight up retarded trying to schedule all of the referrals I get into my clinic. And it's starting to scare me.

I'm supposed to tell some guy who just got out of the Army about two months ago - who served three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan and hasn't slept for three days because of his nightmares and is constantly fighting with his wife now because he's drinking a six-pack every single night, "Sorry. I'm fresh out of appointments. It's gonna be at least three weeks. Yeahhhhh...I hate that you're having problems, but you're gonna hafta wait...Oh what? You say you often think about blowing your brains out? Well, in that case, I can get you in, oh, let's say - two and a half weeks...that work for you????"

That does NOT work for me.

I'm down one doc and one nurse practitioner now. The doc's position? Not gonna get filled. At least my NP will come back from maternity leave. But, that doesn't even begin to fill the need I have pouring in on a daily basis, with all of the referrals coming to my clinic. I have to get really creative with getting the heroes in - and I'm starting to run the risk of burning my providers out. The only saving grace I have is that my providers are HELLA rad - a seriously AWESOME group of people - and they understand where this increased pressure is coming from. It's coming from REAL PEOPLE who are real heroes...suffering from REAL problems. It's not about budget deficits. It's not about full-time position caps. It's not about numbers or statistics or any political bullshit agenda. It's about taking care of our heroes. To care for him who hath borne the battle...

So, they overbook appointments. They see patients during their administrative planning time. They "squeeze" patients in where they don't have a slot. They call patients on the phone when they can't get them in. I mother fucking double dawg dare any fucker who wants to diss federal employees and characterize us as lazy sloths to come on in to my clinic and meet my staff...I will personally kick your ass from here to eternity if you meet my peeps and then have the nerve to talk shit.

Now, for my FROTH (oh, you thought that all of that babbling above was my froth?! newp...now sit your ass down and listen to me bitch, won't you?!).

Who the fuck wants to "cut" the federal budget?! Who in sam-doogety-dog-hell thinks we need to reduce funding to agencies that serve heroes?! Who fucking thinks it's a grand idea to have "less" government (and YES, that means reneging on keeping a fucking promise that Abraham Lincoln made to every single person who gives him or herself to Uncle Sam for "X" number of years)?! Less government DOES mean less services. Not just "less government interference." It means not enough doctors to see veterans. It is the equivalent of saying to a decorated combat veteran who has served five or six tours in God-forsaken places, "Fuck you." It means someone is telling MY dad, "Hey, Mr. Reckmonster's-Dad, fuck the 26 years you gave this country and fuck that delightful little "vacation" you took in Vietnam...we don't care because we want LESS government." Is that a grand fucking idea or what?!

Who wants to tell THIS guy, "Fuck YOU, Mr. HONOR. We had enough money to SEND you to that shit hole, but we're fresh out of benjamins to keep the promise we made to you."
I don't.
And I WON'T.

Cleaning out the junk drawer

2011-10-03T19:23:00.001-05:00

Holy Bat-turds, that is ONE fucked up junk drawer!
source

You know that drawer in the kitchen that you throw all kinds of shit into and have designated as the "junk" drawer? Yeah, I've got like three of them. Filled with stupid shit I should throw out...but instead I keep throwing more shit into them, with the good intentions to, "File that away properly" one day.

My brain kind of works like that too. I've got a junk drawer in my brain. Sometimes it is over-fucking-flowing with useless junk. Shit that really needs to get thrown out.

That's why I have to go back to therapy every few years. To clean out my mental "junk drawer." Just like the clutter builds up on my kitchen table - "life shit" tends to junk up my brain. If I don't keep the shit under control, at times, it can get the best of me. A couple of times, some of the "life shit" nearly blew the bottom out of the mental junk drawer. I don't want to get that close to rendering the junk drawer useless, because it really does have a purpose and a place in my brain, just like the one in my house. Plus, there's some really good shit in my mental junk drawer, so I'd hate to lose it all to a junk drawer blow out!

Junk drawers are interesting - once you do start cleaning them out, you find all kinds of stuff and say, "Holy shit! THAT'S where that was!!" or "Why the fuck do I still have this?!" And some stuff goes right back into the junk drawer, because you still need it. You have your basic stuff like pens and pencils, note pads, safety pins, push pins, business cards, and the like that are "essential" junk drawer occupants. These are the like the "basic skills" that I keep in my mental junk drawer: challenging irrational thoughts, taking stock of what I'm thankful for, recognizing useless behavioral patterns, etc... All stuff that I "need" but that sometimes gets lost in the mess when I start overloading the junk drawer with stupid shit that doesn't need to be in there (shit like holding grudges, self-doubt, complaining about things I have no control over, etc...).

Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a "messy" person to begin with (I am a self-professed shitty housekeeper and make no excuses for it...I figure as long as nothing's growing anywhere or there's nothing "scampering" about in my house, who gives a shit if I perpetually have two baskets full of laundry that need to be folded or magazines, mail, and my kid's schoolwork piled all over the kitchen table?). That unfortunate little trait spills over into how I keep my mental junk drawer as well, and that's not a good thing.

Every now and then, I get a wild hair up my ass and clean my house from floor to ceiling - vacuuming baseboards and bleaching the shit out of every nook and cranny and all of the other crazy cleaning shit. That's how I know my house is never really "dirty" - it's just messy. When I do the equivalent kind of cleaning for my mental junk drawer, it requires me to go back to therapy.

I actually like going to therapy. And I understand why people always said they liked coming to talk to me for their therapy sessions. You get to throw your shit up and leave it in someone else's office. That's only "half" of the "cleaning" though. You can purge...but someone's got to clean up the mess. If you aren't fully invested in therapy, then all you do is go into your therapist's office and throw shit up, but never take responsibility for "clean up" time. Those are the kinds of clients who piss therapists off. They come in and bitch, but never do anything different to change. I'm not that kind of client. I'm actually a very good therapy client. When I go every few years, it's because I know that I need to. And I go to get results. I go for a purpose, with a clear goal in mind, and I have a set amount of time to reach that goal. That's what some people don't understand about therapy. It's not supposed to last for-fucking-ever. You go, you throw up, you get your cleaning supplies (i.e., "skills/strategies") from your therapist and you clean shit up. And when the mess is cleaned up, therapy stops. That's it. You don't need to go forever, but it never hurts to go every few years when/if you notice that shit's starting to get messy again.

This round of messy mental junk drawer for me was spurred by the shit going on at work. I talked about it before, and the nasty little toll it was having on me - with the migraines, high blood pressure, insomnia and the ever-so-delightful bouts of the runs. Yeah. Good times, man. Good times. I lost sight of how to let things go and not let them run me. Especially since it's mostly shit I have no control over.

So, I started going back to therapy - and of course, it was like the, "Holy shit! There's that skill...I totally forgot all about it!" So, now I'm in the process of cleaning out and organizing my mental junk drawer. Right now, it sucks. I have homework. Homework that is basically the group of cleaning supplies my therapist is giving me so that I can get everything organized. Some of the cleaning supplies are long and trusted brands, and some of them are new products - but they are all geared at helping me get the junk drawer organized. I know once I get my assignments completed and my goals achieved, I will feel soooo much better. I always do. Now, if I could only get the REAL live house clutter controlled...Fuck it. I'll just win the lottery and hire a fucking maid for that. But, I'll always clean my mental junk drawer out all on my own. So that it looks like this:

Yeah-yuhhhhhh!!!!
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Yo! I did a guest post for Q...check it out!

2011-10-02T17:05:00.000-05:00

Hey kids, have you been to Q's blog, "Thank, Q! (Some things just need to be said)"???? If you haven't, now is a very good time for you to check him out. Q always brings it when it comes to discussing hot topics. And, he is really on point when he presents his arguments. Q writes one of my most favorite blogs, so I'm pimping him out and I think you should visit NOW...especially since I wrote a guest post for him while he takes a little bloggy break to help the Mrs. celebrate her birthday!

Go on...check him out HERE ...you won't be sorry, and you'll be glad I sent you!!

I've been busy turning 40...

2011-10-01T13:01:00.001-05:00

Lordy! Lordy! Look who's the NEW 30!!! Yes, sportsfans...The Reckmonster has officially entered "middle age." I had a birthday earlier this week (and got to eat lots of cake with buttercream frosting, which is my fucking FAVORITE thing about birthdays!). Now, fuck it all, I have to go and mark that NEXT box on the age ranges of surveys and shit:

_____30-39 (NOPE!)
__X__40-49 (ARRRRRGGHHHH!)!

Actually, that's not really true. I've decided that 40 is the new "30." So, I've got 10 more years until I turn 40. At least, that's what I'm telling myself so that I don't have to go around saying I'm 40. I don't feel 40. I never truly even felt 39. I still feel like I'm about 32, but I think I act more like I'm 13 (and like I'm an 8th grade boy, incidentally). I'm just fucking retarded. And I'm cool with it. I embrace it. I don't think I look 40 either. I have been blessed with the genes from both parents who don't look their age either. Shit, my dad JUST started graying a little around his temples (and he's 62 now). My momster is also pretty timeless. So, I'm glad that I won't be looking too damned old in 20+ years.

Another stupid fucking thing I have to do is go get a new driver's license. It's expired now (expired on my birthday)...and I'm rollin' around driving like I don't give a shit (well, I really don't give a shit - that's because I'm 40 The NEW 30, bitches!!!). I would have renewed by mail, but I really do need to go in and get a new license because I was too fucking lazy to get my last name shit changed after the divorce a few years ago. I've returned to my maiden name - so I need to get my license changed to reflect that. I wish I could bring my "own" picture to the driver's license place and say, "Here, fuckers...here is the picture I want on my license." If I could, I would totally pick this picture (because it is so ME!):

Fuuuuck! It's hot in here!
And I'm a jackass.

This picture was taken at work in the middle of July one day when the fucking air conditioning went out at work and I was about ready to lose my mother fucking mind. I was sitting there at my desk with my Hello Kitty fan blowing right on me, sweating my (figurative) balls off. And the glamorous moment was captured for eternal preservation - and I laughed my ass off - because, as you all probably already know - I like to laugh, even if it's ME who is looking like the jackass (which of course, turns out - provides me with ENDLESS hours of laughter since I do jackassery like nobody else!).

Sooooooo...The Reckmonster shall now pontificate with all of the wisdom and authori-taeee that comes with entering "middle age." Either that, or I'll just look even MORE retarded acting like I do, at the age that I am. We'll see...

The antichrist of "sexy"

2011-09-21T00:17:00.001-05:00

So, uh, this post is a bit on the embarrassing side, but I have to admit - it's pretty fucking funny, so I have NO choice but to share. Because if there's one thing I love - it's a good laugh - even if it's at my own expense. I crack myself up all of the time. This is no different - even though I am the subject of the ridiculosity.

Okay, let's get a few things established:

1. I am not "sexy." I am wayyyyy too much of a clown, a cut up, and an all around clutz to ever qualify as being "sexy." If I were to "stretch" it - I'd say that I get by on being "cute" and that's only before anyone hears me open my mouth.

2. When you TRY to be something you're not...your chances at showing up on an "EPIC FAIL" website increase exponentially, as evidenced by the following:

3. My firmly established "obnoxious" personality precludes me from ever being considered "sexy." I am okay with this. As a matter of act, I embrace this.

4. I believe in leaving certain things to the experts. I leave open heart surgery for the cardiac surgeons. I leave electrical problems to electricians. I leave plumbing problems for the plumbers. I leave flying to the pilots. I leave rocket science to the rocket scientists. And I leave being "sexy" to Halle Barry, Jessica Alba, Angelina Jolie, and the like. See what I'm sayin'?

5. Any attempts to ignore, avoid, or deny the four aforementioned nuggets will result in writing a self-deprecating post about oneself on one's blog.

Mkay...on to the story. The Reckmonster = NOTsosexy. And just so we're straight - I do NOT suffer from low self esteem in any way, shape or form. There are plenty of things that I "AM" - like fucking hilarious, incredibly bright, extremely goal-oriented, super open-minded, fiercely loyal, uber conscientious, unabashedly brazen, insanely driven, and obviously - ridiculously humble. Being "notsosexy" is really no big deal to me. I'm cool with it. I've been cool with leaving it alone too. Or so I thought.

So, yeah...there's a new guy on my dating horizon (henceforth referred to as "Prince Charming" or PC for short). I'm not giving up any details, so don't even think that you're getting any kind of 4-1-1, Mooner!! Just trust me when I say he's cool. And I dig him. And he seems to dig me. And by "dig" I mean, he says all kinds of stuff that makes me blush and super uncomfortable. Yeah...compliments! UGH!! Mother bitch! You can't even imagine what that does to a chick who thinks "romantic" is offering you one of my two last pieces of gum or putting a Hello Kitty sticker on something I give to you or inviting you to watch a Michigan game with me. That's when you know you're forging a path into my heart.

So, PC is solidly on his way to forging a path into my heart - or at least he's approaching the perimeter by 100 miles and he hasn't been shot yet. But, he continually cracks me up with throwing the "s" word around with other words like "you" and "are" in the same sentence. His comments are always met with an eye roll, a pantomimed projectile vomit or a simple, "You're on crack" retort. Apparently, he thinks "obnoxious" is sexy. Whatever. To each his own. He puts up with a lot of obnoxiousness and is largely unfazed, so he's a fucking rock star in my book.

I don't really know what the hello kitty I was thinking, because at some point, I thought, "Hmmmm...if PC thinks I'm sexy, then maybe I'll roll with it." BIG delusional meth-pipe induced mistake right there.

Fast forward several weeks...and I'm thinking I'll just try a little "sexy" on for size. I get one of those RI-FUCKING-DICULOUS outfits that I think will produce some serious points in the hubba hubba department. Awww yeah...Bowchickawowow! So, I decide I'm gonna surprise PC with my supah-sexy get-up. I get out of the shower and I'm all primed to put that bad boy on, thinkin' that I'm gonna put a serious hurt on his ability to resist the supah-sexy powahs of the Reckmonstah!! Christ on a mother fucking pony was I ever mistaken. What unfurls is the stuff that sit-coms could only HOPE to get on film and broadcast for a number one spot in the Nielsen ratings.

First of all, I must've been exceedingly nervous (but didn't notice because I was too busy basking in all of my sexy glory) because I commenced sweating like a little piglet. I had to actually open and close the bathroom door really fast to get some air flowing in the room to cool myself off. I was sweating so profusely at one point I thought I might have to take another shower!

The drawers were easy enough - pretty hard to fuck those up. One leg in, next leg in, pull up...VOILA! Easy peasy, a la cheesy (something my kid says). Now, the "upper" part of this get-up had something like 20 fasteners IN THE BACK - so that meant that I had to put it on backwards and fasten everything in the front and then attempt to "turn" it around for it to be positioned correctly. I don't know how many of you have ever put a corset on - but seriously - those things are tighter than Ebeneezer Scrooge. Trying to "turn" that thing around was like trying to twist the permanently affixed (non paper) labels on a beer bottle around - not happening. Except, I made it happen...15 minutes and two gallons of sweat later.

Next, came the real challenge. Those damned hose that fasten to those garter thingys hanging off of the corset. First of all - I fucking hate panty hose. I hate socks and I hate anything that covers up my toes or feet completely. I live in sandals. And I live most of the winter without socks. I push the limits as far as I can as with open toed shoes before the danger of frost bite sets in. So, as you can imagine, the picture of grace that I am, I fumbled with those fucking hose for quite some time and nearly incurred a traumatic brain injury in the process. I got the first "leg" of hose on fine - but it took me about five minutes to figure out the stupid little fasteners. I seriously felt retarded because I was thinking the bitches should've come with instructions (this coming from the chick who NEVER reads instructions. Apparently "sexy" doesn't come with instructions). The second "leg" of hose is where it got interesting. As I was trying to shimmy those bad boys up my leg, I lost my balance and went head first into the door. If I could have taken a video of myself falling into the door trying to put those fucking hose on - I swear, I'd post it on YouTube just so that I could laugh my OWN ass off watching me look like a complete jackass. When I regained my balance and the stars went away, and I eventually stopped cussing, I realized: This. Is. NOT. Sexy. The little concussion nugget on my noggin? NOT Sexy. The "wet look" I had going on - courtesy of the sweating like a whore in church? NOT Sexy. The ridiculous look of confusion and befuddled staring at the little fasteners? NOT Sexy.

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So, I did the most logical UNSEXY thing I could possibly have done after getting that asinine outfit on - I proceeded to bitch to PC about how difficult it was to put on, how completely retarded and ridiculous I felt in it, and I went on to describe in full melodramatic detail how I incurred a concussion in the process. I also complained about how my head was hurting as a result. How's THAT for pillow talk?!

BTW, PC thought that all of that was cute. Cute I can live with. Sexy? Fugeddaboudit. I'm going back to being happy in my NOTsosexy skin. And back to the things that I KNOW I'm an expert at - namely, nearly anything besides being sexy. And seriously - mad props to all of the chicks out there that can pull that shit off. I do not know how they do it, I just know I am going to remember those five little "establishments" I listed at the beginning of this post, so that I don't end up on YouTube with a tag of "EPIC FAIL."

And P.S. - NO, Mooner, there are NO pictures of the incident I described - so don't even bother asking.

This one is for Squat...GO BLUE!

2011-09-13T18:12:00.001-05:00

Sooo, um, a certain blogger pal of mine thinks that I'm off my rocker for being such a HUGE Michigan football fan. As a matter of fact, this is what Squatlo had to say about my recent post regarding Michigan's first "VICTORY" of the football season (and my note that Michigan has the WINNINGEST college football program history of EVER):

"Okay, I admire a woman who sticks by her Alma Mater, and gotta say also that a woman who loves college football has a place in my heart. But this "winningest team" ever shit really is getting old...

Ever stop to wonder how Meeshigen got that self-proclaimed award? By hanging around a pussy conference for a hundred years. If your only game all season, every season, is against the Buckeyes (and fuck a Buckeye, too...) it's easy to pencil in 10 wins a year, for a hundred years. Come play an SEC schedule for a year or two and let's see how quick the percentage starts to drop. Northwestern? Purdont? Iowa? Minnesota? Indiana? Illinois?
Hell, Vandy would win half of those games...

Love you, Reck, but really... this Maize and Blue haze has gone to your frontal lobes."

Love you too, Squat, but now is when I take the kid gloves off and let 'er rip! Now, I enjoy trash talking to the Nth degree...especially as regards Michigan football. I do realize that there are a few lightweights on their schedule...but it doesn't matter, a WIN is a WIN. And uh...did you SEE that Michigan-Notre Dame game last Saturday (and fuck you if you want to talk shit about their ridiculous looking uniforms...it was a "throwback" theme...whatever)?! Holy mother fucking nuns and monks! That shit was CRAZY!! And no need to point out that Michigan played like a heaping, steaming pile of donkey dung in the first half...it just doesn't matter. I've said a million times that Michigan is a second half team. And more specifically...a fourth quarter team. They turn on the mojo when they NEED to; sometimes I think they do that JUST to piss me off and make me curse like a truck driver because they think it's fun. And yeah, I like to think that because I am exceedingly narcissistic and truly believe the world revolves around me and my thought processes...tee hee hee.

BUT...my point (yes, I have one) in this post is to elaborate on the immense pride I take in being a Michigan alumni. There was a recent article that came out which ranked The University of Michigan as THE top U.S. public university in THE WORLD. Yes, you read that correctly: THE WORLD. As in - there is no other AMERICAN PUBLIC UNIVERSITY ON EARTH that is better than the University of Michigan. And as far as all schools are concerned - The University of Michigan ranked 14th in the top universities/colleges in THE WORLD. Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself. And Squat...how many SEC team universities do you see there in the Top 50? NONE?! Me neither. But, another BIG TEN team university is there - the University of Wisconsin-Madison is # 41. Hmmmmm...maybe we know a lil sumpin' sumpin' about schoolin' up there in Big Ten land...

And I can truthfully say that The University of Michigan provides a top-notch education. I know it kicked MY ass, and that's coming from a troll who made straight A's all through high school (well, except that B I got in Calculus my senior year...but STILL!) I graduated from both undergrad and grad school at The University of Michigan. When I went to grad school and got my M.S.W. (Master's degree in Social Work), the Michigan School of Social Work was ranked the # 1 school of social work in the nation (in the U.S. News and World Report annual rankings) - they held that ranking for nearly ten years.

We're talking about a PUBLIC state university here, folks. I fully expect that kind of shit from private schools - Stanford, M.I.T., Harvard, Yale, Princeton...fuck yeah - they'd BETTER be ranked as high as they are - for as much money as you fork over for the privilege of going there. Whoever says that a public education sucks can actually SUCK IT! I actually am the product of a public education - the FINEST public education that one can obtain: Department of Defense Dependent Schools (DoDDS). The military has a public schooling system that educates the children of service members overseas - and it rivals any private school in the U.S. that exists. I graduated from high school in Germany - at a DoDDS school. We had some of THE finest teachers on the planet. They are the reason I respect teachers so very much.

So, Squat - I am not only a football-lovin', trash-talkin', Wolverine-worshippin' bitch on wheels...I am so fucking proud to be a Michigan grad that I can't stand it. For realz. I have the Michigan Block "M" tattooed over my heart (because I bleed Maize and Blue). Yeah, some people think it's over my boob...but really - that is just silly. Because if I would have known what gravity, years, and having a kid would do to my boobs - I would NEVER have put a tattoo on my boob. But, I don't really care what those things did to my boobs...it's the Michigan block M over my HEART! Because I fucking LOVE The University of Michigan.

You're fucking with the WRONG kid's bitch ass mother...

2011-09-08T21:31:00.000-05:00

This is gonna be another post about my kid, so if kid posts bore you...I won't be offended if you skip it.

I will start this post out with a HUGE disclaimer: I think teachers are fucking rock stars. That is one hellaciously difficult job, and often vastly under-appreciated and thankless. I think we should pay our teachers millions of dollars instead of rewarding bitch-ass celebrities and athletes with huge paychecks. We entrust our most precious beings in their care every day, so it is our job (as parents) to make sure that we do everything we can to support teachers.

NOW...I have a huge mother fucking burr in my ass, as regards my son's current teacher. His first two teachers were fucking AWESOME. They worked so hard to work WITH my hooligan when he was having some difficulties in their class. I can't go on enough about what major rock stars they are. And his school counselor is the mother of all rock stars. She was instrumental in helping me figure out that occupational therapy was the best course to help him get the right treatment to help him with his particular issues. I wrote previously about my son's sensory processing disorder. We go to Occupational Therapy every friggin' week - in a town about 20 minutes away, at 5 pm in the middle of the school week - and we have since school started at the beginning of August. And we will, for at least the next six months.

The hooligan's occupational therapist is wonderful. She has given me tons of info and strategies to use with him. And holy shit...these "strategies?"...they actually WORK! She also prepared a very comprehensive folder with specific strategies for use in the classroom, and she wrote his teacher a very long, detailed letter explaining his issues and what is helpful for him - I sent the hooligan's teacher all of the information as soon as I received it and I e-mailed her with the O.T's contact info. The O.T. welcomes open communication with teachers so that they can work together to ensure the child is successful in the classroom (and less of a "management" issue for the teacher).

BAD idea if you're MY kid's teacher
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Sounds pretty fucking peachy, right? WRONG. It would be fucking GREAT...if a teacher didn't have a bit of a stick up her ass and decide to be a bit of a hard-nosed bitch with my kid. It would be fucking GREAT if she actually chose to USE the fucking information that I am making my kid learn in O.T. so that he can self-regulate and get focused. It would be fucking GREAT if I didn't get a progress report today that indicated my hooligan is having PROBLEMS with the exact things he is working on in O.T. - and wouldn't be having problems with if he was allowed to actually DO the shit he's learning in O.T. IN the fucking classroom. Uh. Yeaaaahhhhh...big problem here.

I do not make any excuses for my kid. When he fucks up, he has consequences. When he gets in trouble at school (being on the "orange" or "red" level at school for the day) - he has consequences at home. That's the deal. I KNOW he's a handful - why the hell do you think I call him the hooligan?! But get one thing straight - I will do everything I can to get him what he needs so that he is NOT a problem at school. I will do everything you ask me to do so that he is NOT a problem at school. I will do ANYTHING it takes to make sure that he has every opportunity possible to be a happy, healthy, well-adjusted little hooligan so that he can be a productive, hard-working, responsible adult hooligan when he grows up. But, if you interfere with any of my efforts, you'd better prepared to get the fuck out of my way or take a huge figurative beating when I steam-roll over your ass and put you summarily in your place. Afterwards, you may consider yourself "PUT. IN. CHECK." Because you do not fuck with my kid. DUH.

And goddammit, if I am going to go out of my way to take him to O.T. every week and pay for it out of my own pocket (because he doesn't qualify for the services through school, since he's not "special ed") - then you'd bet your ass you'd better be on the same mother fucking page as me. You'd better fucking read the special info I send you that his O.T. has prepared especially for you. You'd better fucking make sure that you LET my kid do the shit he's learning so that he's not a problem in your fucking classroom. And you'd damn sure better fucking NOT down my kid on a progress report if you HAVEN'T done the shit y'all GUARANTEED me you'd do to "help" my son be successful in school.

Because you know what??? If you think my kid is a hellcat...you should see his mother.

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People really need to learn about fucking with momma bears where baby bears are concerned. Especially crazy Reckmonster bitch ass momma bears. FO REALZ.

Fun with pitbulls and a Michigan win (sort of)!

2011-09-05T20:23:00.002-05:00

I shall start this post off with a video containing a few of my favorite things: The movie "Silence of the Lambs" - and one of my favorite lines from that movie; dogs - and in this particular video - a dog named "Max" who is a Pit Bull that belongs to a friend of mine; and of course, RETARDED humor - because that's just ME:

The disclaimer: No Pit Bulls were harmed in the making of this video. Max was totally on board with this - as he is quite a ham, and loves being the center of attention. Max's owner was also totally on board with this, because he was the one who showed me how to do this as well as highlighting many other of Max's many silly talents. And while I'm on this subject, seriously - I do not get why people still stigmatize Pit Bulls to no end. This dog was THE biggest fucking baby I ever met! Seriously, Max did not get the memo that he is NOT a fucking "Tea Cup Pit Bull." He plopped all of his 60+ lbs right in my lap at will. And vicious? Fuck, I nearly drowned in his drool when he was licking my face. He also got his feelings hurt when Lexi (my miniature Dachshund who thinks she is a Rottweiler) barked him over the "crumbs" of a dog biscuit as he sauntered by her. Sensitive boy came over and parked his sensitive ass right on the couch and seriously POUTED for a good hour. Yes, vicious dogs, those Pit Bulls. My neighbor two houses down has two Pit bulls also - and they are "ruled" by the little dog that lives with them. They're a bunch of candy asses too. I realize that dogs are a product of their owners, and that too many Pit Bulls have had assholes for owners. And that's a damned shame.

Now, onto other news. If y'all are like me - you were GLUED to the television all day Saturday as the commencement of "LIFE, AS I PREFER IT" began: College Football kickoff, bay-beeeeee!!!

There were a lot of great games on this weekend. I was happy to see Notre Dame get their asses handed to them. That is ALWAYS a plus. I was disappointed that Ohio State didn't get their asses handed to them, but they've got all kinds of other problems, so, it's not really that big of a deal. Snicker Snicker.

And the Michigan game...well, that was interesting. First, let me go on record and say I am diggin' me some Brady Hoke. So glad to see Rich NimRodriguez G-O-N-E, GONE! My hope has been restored for a winning season! And Denard Robinson? Such a firecracker...fun, fun, fun to watch! He is among the many reasons why I love college football. But, onto the game: I have never seen so many rain delays in a Michigan game. And I've NEVER seen a Michigan game get called for weather. Shit, I've seen nastier blizzards in Michigan stadium, and let me tell you - that shit is NO fun! When you breathe in and you get "snot freezies" in your nose because it's so fucking cold outside...and you can no longer feel your extremities despite wearing your long johns, scarf, hat, ear muffs, gloves, mittens and two pairs of socks under your biggest, warmest winter parka...THAT is when you should call a game for weather. It's way more likely to get frost bite than to be struck by lightning. But, I digress... And for all of the haters out there - it was 34-10 when they called the game in the 3rd quarter, and NO...I seriously doubt that Western Michigan could have "come back" and rallied to beat my Wolverines if they would have played the game out. And to those who STILL want to hate...just remember BOTH teams agreed to cancel the game (because it wasn't close)...so THERE! Here is a direct snippet from ESPN's website:

The Wolverines were driving for another score when the game was suspended because of lightning. Nearly an hour later, the game was called with the result and statistics standing in what school officials say is the first weather-shortened game in the 132-year history of college football's winningest team.

Did y'all read that last sentence? COLLEGE FOOTBALL'S WINNINGEST TEAM. Yes. That means the college football team that has THE most victories in all of college football. Yeah...so hate on that!! Boo-yah!! [Oh yeah...I tend to talk a lot of shit during college football season - even if Michigan is losing - so go ahead and get acclimated to my "shit-talking" big mouth for the next few months...like that'll be hard to envision.]

They're MY vets.

2011-08-30T21:47:00.001-05:00

Yeah. That's right. I said it. All of the vets that go to get their health care at any V.A.? MINE. I take personal responsibility for the care of each and every vet who walks through the doors of any V.A. health care facility. And I will be mother-fucking DAMNED if I let some rancid-assed eastern block transplanted VIRUS infect any of MY vets with his poison.

I started thinking about why I have carried my little "issue" so fucking far...to the point that I have suffered migraines, insomnia, and gastro-intestinal disturbances over one single mother fucker (you know him as "Dr. Mother Fucker...or Dr. MF for short, remember? Or if that didn't jog your memory, then this will SURELY explain things).

Yesterday was the first day of the uber-official "investigation" that has been convened to look into this creepy fuck. The investigation is still going on, and a shit ton of folks have been called to testify, and I'm quite sure I'll be called back to testify again before it's all over. So, I can't really give any "outcome" information just yet, nor can I breathe a huge exhaling sigh of relief. I'm still waiting on Madame Karma to show up at just the right time to help catapult this jackass into a huge mother fucking reality check. And there are a few other dillholes that can sit in the catapult cup with his ass because I threw them under the bus too. Why? Because they are different strains of the same virus from which this asshole is descended.

Just in case you didn't already know, I loves me some vets. They are my "peeps." They are why I go to work every day. They are the "pet population" I have decided to dedicate my career to. So, in essence, I have single-handedly claimed ownership of them, and that is why I am saying they are MY vets.

Providing care to some of the most deserving people in this country is really NOT all that difficult. You really just need to CARE about them first and foremost...and the rest is all gravy. You practice your specialty (whether you're a nurse, a pharmacy tech, a housekeeping aide, a doctor, a clerk, a speech therapist, a nurse's aide, or a social worker...you get the picture), but you must first LOVE the vets. If you don't love them, then you don't deserve to get to work with them. And that's not to say that there aren't some vets who don't try my mother fucking patience like one of Job's mouthy juvenile delinquent kids...but I still love them. When you DON'T love them, it shows. And they know.

Dr. MF loves no one but himself. He is toxic to MY vets. He is the weed in the garden of beautiful vet flowers that takes a strangle hold on their roots...and slowly chokes them out until they die. Yes, I am being quite melodramatic, but I DO have a point here.

He is the kind of person who thinks vets should defer to him, just because he's a fucking doctor. I do not roll like that. I don't care if you're Albert mother fucking Einstein, if you're an arrogant prick with no manners and you don't love my vets, then you need to move the fuck along. Dr. MF needs to move the fuck along. And now, I see it as my personal mission to help get him some "directions" about how to get there.

MY vets? They've already done their part. I often hear people complaining about how the vets think they're "entitled." And there are some douche bags in the mix who do take advantage of the system, for sure. But, for the most part...they ARE fucking entitled to get the very best care we can give them. WE PROMISED THEM THAT. So, these fuckwads who bitch about MY vets? They're the ones who don't love MY vets.

MY vets gave a part of their life to make sure that I could live my cushy life and drive through McDonald's, go to a 24 hour Walgreens, write blog posts about any fucking thing I want, assemble in an area with other people to let political numbnuts know when I don't like what they're doing, and yada, yada, yada. Some of MY vets have gone even further, and endured horrifying experiences that I will never have to know about because they took that burden on FOR me. And for you. And even for that naturalized prick, Dr. MF. Don't get me wrong - I'm not downing naturalized citizens - because my mom is one - and hell, she's more "Amurrrrican" than she is Filipino now. But this fucking unwanted transplant, Dr. MF, is benefiting from all of the "perks" of being a U.S. citizen - all the while, he stabs the backs of the very people who GAVE him those perks to begin with. That pisses me off.

Every single meeting I have had with that hemorrhoid, I have ALWAYS said something along the lines of, "No...we don't TELL vets what to do. We ask them if they mind doing this...because we OWE them the basic respect to not treat them like they are numbers. They're not just patients. They're very special patients. And we promised to CARE FOR HIM WHO HATH BORNE THE BATTLE..." He absolutely HATES when I bring up that quote, and you can see it in his eyes...which further underscores my assertion that he does NOT love MY vets.

So, migraines, diarrhea, insomnia be damned...I'm just taking care of MY vets. And even though it's taking a very long time, and is very draining and exhausting, I just think of the Marine sitting through monsoon season in the jungles of Vietnam - and how long must have felt. Or the Soldier STILL sitting in Iraq enduring ridiculous temperatures and even MORE ridiculous circumstances - and how exhausting THAT must feel. Or the sailor stuck on a submarine - under water for who knows how long - patrolling along to make sure shit is "safe" - and what a headache THAT must be like. Or the pilot - flying at all hours of the night on missions - and how fucked up his sleep patterns must be.

MY vets have already taken care of me. Whether I know them personally or not. And they may just think they're only ONE Soldier, Marine, Sailor or Airman who is contributing - but the fact remains - each one of them matters, and each one of them as a part of the whole owns their piece of importance.

Sorry suckas...no viruses allowed around MY vets!
source

So, THAT is why, I have continued to try and rid the place where we care for MY vets of this poison, otherwise known as Dr. MF. I'm not quitting till he's gone. At some point, they'll find a cure for cancer...and at some point, Dr. MF will receive his map with directions to that place called "The fuck out of HERE!" And I'll be waving a happy, hearty good-bye to his ass, with a peace in my heart knowing that there is ONE less infection to plague MY vets.

The story ain't done...because this fat chick ain't done singin'. Matter of fact, I'm just getting started. I think I got a second wind after my testimony yesterday morning. Look out, bitches...the Reckmonster is on the loose!

Double Whammy!

2011-08-27T23:02:00.000-05:00

Man, it's Saturday and I am still suffering the effects of having TWO infections at once - requiring a very powerful antibiotic to get the shit out of my system. And No, I don't have the clap, Mooner...so you can forget about making any crazy comments about that! Actually, I had a UTI (urinary tract infection), which happens from time to time and is about as annoying as the fucking pimple that pops up right under your nostril that everyone first looks at and thinks is a booger hangin' out under your nose (affectionately dubbed "the booger zit"). And on top of that, I had this killer strain of strep throat that very likely originated from the steamy, smelly netherworld regions of hell, or maybe it was just New Jersey...I dunno.

Anyway...long story short, I felt like I got mother fucking sucker punched by death and his creepy little brother - you know, the one you think is always peeping in the girls' windows. I was O-U-T, OUT of commission for a few days this week - missed two days of work and went back before feeling 100% (only because I was no longer contagious) because I am running low on my sick time. Like "Oh shit, HOW much is left in the checking account?" kind of low. I would like to have stayed home at least one more day...but no rest for the wicked. But really, I felt like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld was screaming at me, "No rest for YOU!"

EWWWWW!
Nas-teeeeeee!

My throat was so swollen that I could barely drink water without it feeling like I was swallowing knives. And my neck was actually all puffed out where my glands were swollen (on top of feeling like shit, I was also looking like a hot, steaming fresh heap of camel dung). I had THE nastiest shit going on in my throat - I even took a picture of it to share with my friends (because I'm a weirdo like that), and I was so alarmed at what I saw, I googled a bunch of pictures of strep throat JUST to make sure that was what I had because I was thinking it looked like the bubonic plague! [And yes, I'm going to share here too...because I wouldn't want y'all to think you weren't like friends and missed out on the uber-gross photo action!]

I was also really feverish - which was a delightful little blend of severe muscle aches, chills that made me think I was in Michigan again, and sweating like a whore in church on Sundays. I would take 800 mg of ibuprofen and get some relief for a few hours - but I could tell when it was starting to wear off because I eventually felt like I was mud wrestling with the devil's ugliest sister again. And trust me when I tell you...I was pretty fucking exhausted.

I was yapping with my supervisor when I got back and commented on how I have had strep throat a bajillion times before, but never had I suffered as badly and had the death strep kick my ass like this time. He said it was probably all of the stress from work that had my immune system down and rendered me utterly useless in the cootie-fighting war (well, he didn't actually say it like that...but you get the gist). And he told me not to let the place get to me so much because, "This place will kill you if you let it!" He's a cool dude. I know he's just as stressed because lately his sciatica is giving him pains (pun intended).

But, there is a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel as far as all of the work stress is concerned. There is a special investigative board that has been convened as the result of my, shall we say, "complaints"? And on Monday morning, I get to give my testimony (yeah...it's all official like, and you get sworn in to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or else Uncle Sam will come kick your ass his damned self). I've already turned in my two years of "documentation" that substantiates my complaints for the board to review. There are scads of people who have also been called to testify (and basically verify or negate my complaints). The investigative board will be hearing testimony for two full days. After that, I'm just going to take a deep breath and exhale two years worth of mother fucking ridiculous and inexcusable bullshit and wait for karma to do her job!

Sensory Processing Disorder and a flaccid punching bag

2011-08-17T20:18:00.001-05:00

Okay, this post is gonna be about my hooligan. So, if kid-type shit bores you, skip this post. I've gotten some news recently that is both a relief and a daunting endeavor. I call him my "hooligan" for a reason. He's a little hell-cat on wheels. No, he doesn't have ADHD - he's been tested. He can focus on many tasks and he's not hyperactive in the classic sense that he's pinging off of the walls all of the time. I've worked with ADHD elementary aged kids before - and God Bless their parents...it's extremely exhausting being in a room with them for even 15 agonizing-neverending-oh-my-god-i'm-gonna-pull-my-fucking-hair-out-minutes.

My own hooligan is exhausting enough. He is constantly wanting to rough house. And the kid is pretty big and strong for his age. He likes to jump and bounce on furniture, despite having been told 6,798 times not to. He can bum rush you from across the room and make you go, "Oooooffffff!" as the fucking wind gets knocked out of you. He's a ruffian. He's left bruises on my mom from bum rushing her (which does amuse me, mildly...but that's another issue!) I'm putting money on him growing up to play at the tight end spot when he gets a little bit older.

I always thought that it was a behavioral issue with him - because my bias is to look for a mental health slant (since I'm a therapist). I didn't know what else to consider, and quite frankly, I was starting to get a bit worried that all of the tricks I was trying (from my own days working with "behaviorally challenged" youngsters) were NOT WORKING. I beat myself up pretty bad, thinking that the divorce fucked him up for life and that my wise-ass personality was molding him into a future Eddie Haskell. I took him to a therapist. My son has THE most expansive "feelings vocabulary" (and regular vocabulary, for that matter) there is for a seven year old boy to have. He communicates his feelings very well. He is able to tell you exactly what sets him off and when he needs a "self time out." But, still...the "hooligan" in him never seemed to subside.

Last year, his handwriting was so atrocious (in first grade) that his teacher even talked with me about holding him back a year - thinking that because he was younger than most of the other kids in his class (he has a late birthday at the end of the school year, so he turned seven when most of the other kids turned seven well before him), an extra year might "help" him mature a little. Without even batting an eye, I shook my head and told her, "No." What I wanted to say was, "Are you fucking nuts woman?! My kid is a mother fucking GENIUS compared to the numbnuts you have in your class. His vocabulary surpasses most fifth graders, and he's been tested - his IQ is very likely higher than YOURS. So his handwriting is sloppy, I'll deal with that...my kid ain't stayin' back a grade. HELL.TO.THA.NO!" But, I held my tongue...because she really was a nice teacher and he did learn a lot from her; she just had her head in her ass about my kid being held back. And she didn't have the "authority" to hold him back anyway - because he scored well on all of the stupid standardized testing that was done during the school year. It was just his handwriting that was the issue.

I spoke with the school counselor who recommended Occupational Therapy services (which he didn't qualify for through the school because he doesn't have any "special ed" needs) - so I took him to his pediatrician to have him evaluated (so I could get my referral to O.T.). Then I took him to the O.T. agency and had him evaluated there. He was diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder and fine motor skill delay (the handwriting problem). These are actual neurological conditions - nothing to do with mental health. The way it was explained to me was that he is a "sensory seeker." What you or I might do by tapping our foot on the floor as a means of "self-soothing" - he requires tactile sensations with deep pressure to equate to the same kind of self soothing. So, he seeks out really bodacious sensory experiences - hence the bouncing, bum-rushing, and seemingly endless tolerance for shit that would seem painful to most folks. THAT is what he finds soothing. He's not in the autism spectrum either. It's just a neurological "glitch" and the task is to find out what kinds of things "soothe" his central nervous system. So, they recommended weekly O.T. sessions - for at least the next six months. He's been twice, and he's seemed to enjoy it and has learned a few new tricks to soothe himself. The therapist is great - she gives feedback after every session and gives me lots of handouts and ideas about things to get for him. THAT is good shit right there. I am an information-seeker, so this soothes me!

I've already gotten a mini-trampoline, ordered a bean bag, purchased an inflatable punching bag and am looking for all of the other things that will help my hooli figure out which thing soothes him. I am fucking relieved to get this diagnosis - because the Occupational Therapist said that it is an "easy" fix - and once we get the sensory processing issues squared away - the handwriting will just fall into place. Apparently, the success rate is very good. So, that's a huge relief - here I was thinking I fucked him up with some shitty parenting. I started thinking about how many times I told him to stop jumping on the furniture, to stop rough housing, and to just settle down - when all he was doing was TRYING to settle down via these hooliganish behaviors so that he could soothe himself. I felt pretty fucking guilty for a minute. But then, I got over that real quick, because I did everything I knew to do - and I was lucky to stumble upon the O.T. services - and now he'll get the help he needs, and he can move forward.

I'm not a huge fan of the fact that every single week, we have an appointment at 5 pm in the middle of the week, in a town 20 minutes away from mine - and we get home late - AND we'll be doing this for at least six months. Those bitch-ass weekly co-pays add up after a while too...but at least I have insurance that will cover the bulk of the O.T. services (because it ain't cheap!). I will have to make double dawg sure that his teacher this year is well-informed about sensory processing disorder and communicates with his O.T. on the regular, so that she knows how to handle him in her classroom. And I have to educate the hooligan's sperm donor as well as my parents about how to handle him and what things to do with him and on and on and on...

I will say that the inflatable punching bag...not such a good purchase. I wish I would have gone with a regular punching bag - the kind you can suspend from the ceiling in the garage or something. Because really, this thing is a piece of shit. It took for-motherfucking-ever to inflate, and the bitch leaks water at the base. Plus, one day later - the air doesn't really stay in - and well, it looks a little nefarious. Not something I really want my kid looking at every day. Check it:

It's a flaccid punching bag...
Even my "phallic" weenie dog thinks it's a piece of shit!

Help! I'm a man with boobs and a cooter!

2011-08-15T18:21:00.000-05:00

No, no...this is not me giving some grand confession about being a hermaphrodite. Nothing that exciting. It's just that I've been looking a lot at how I react to things and my attitudes about different things.

I think I possess more "dude" type traits than "chick" type traits. I mean, I DO possess some chicky-type traits, there's no mistaking it. I am a total purse whore. A perfume whore. A Hello Kitty whore. A nail polish whore. A shoe whore. Well, you get the idea - if it's something "tangible" and an "object" and geared at getting women to buy it, then chances are I covet it like any normal female would.

However, that's about where it stops. In the "emotional" realm - "intangible-ville" as it were, I truly think I am wired like a male. Well, there are a few things that pop up - but they're not my fault - it's totally got to do with estrogen running through my system.

For instance, I just cannot tolerate bullshit. Just fucking do it or say it and BE DONE. And IF you say you're going to do it - then fucking do it. Don't beat around the bush, make excuses, or pussy-foot around something - get to the point. Women talk too much. And they take too long to say it. I'm about as long winded as they come - but, in a "manly" kind of way. I like to tell stories - I'm an excellent story teller (*cue the "Rainman" voice saying, "Of course, I'm an excellent driver"). Guys tell stories - and if they're "long" that just means they're fucking funny. But, regular shit? Nope. Guys get right to the point. That's what I'm talking about - get to the FUCKING point.

I also abhor fucking emotional responses. I am guilty of said emotional fucking responses from time to time - but not voluntarily (that would be that damned estrogen issue). I do everything within my power to avoid the shit, but sometimes - BAM! Just happens. And it pisses me off. I hate crying. If I end up crying about something, I am ten million times angrier with myself about crying than whatever the issue was that prompted the flow of tears. My instinctual reaction is NOT to cry, but for whatever (estrogen-laden) reason, it happens from time to time. Men don't seem to have that problem. This was particularly problematic for me at times with my patients - therapists are supposed to be "kind" and "understanding" whereas I was more like, "Dude! Are you even listening to what comes out of your mouth?!" And when I would get the sniveling "oh-my-god-i-am-crying-about-the-same-fucking-thing-i-cried-about-the-last-five-sessions-in-a-row" patient, the hair on the back of my neck would stand up and I would be thinking to myself, "MOTHER OF CHRIST! Shut the fuck up and stop being such a pussy!"

I would totally rather watch football than some dopey chick flick. Chick flicks make me want to vomit. I'd rather watch a freaky psychological thriller about serial killers than a chick flick. Those are my favorite movies. To me, chick flicks are a waste of time. It's like, for real - give me a fucking break - shit never turns out like that, so why bother spending two hours of my life watching it? There are, however, fucking freaks in the world who are serial killers...so makes much more sense to become a student "learning" about how to avoid them (or even crazier - how to "best" them!).

I am extremely competitive. It drives me crazy to lose. Bullshit to that saying, "It's not if you win or lose...it's how you play the game." I'm all about, "Winning isn't everything...it's the only thing!" My dad and I would turn everything into a contest when I was growing up. Who could name the song on the radio the quickest. Who could grab the bigger piece of birthday cake faster. And forget Trivial Pursuit...he used to get pissed and accuse me of "studying" all of the cards and memorizing ALL of the answers when he wasn't home (Really?! Who has time for that? I just knew more stupid random facts than he did.)

I do not do "mushy" shit. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. If I make dinner and I fix you a plate and put it down in front of you at the table - shit, that right there is the extent of me being "mushy." Or, if we're riding in the car, I ask if you want some gum, and I actually take the wrapper off the gum for you because you're driving and then hand you the gum (OR if I'm feeling really romantic...I shove the gum in your mouth for you!) - that would be the equivalent of you giving me a dozen roses.

Why have I been pondering this, you might be wondering? Well, it's been brought to my attention that I am seemingly this "hard ass" whose walls are tall as the Tower of London...which, may be closer to the truth that I would care to admit. But, I immediately thought of how I think I'm just wired a little differently in some areas. I mean, I think my propensity to think or react like a male in many situations is responsible for the projection of this "hard ass" image I was accused of having. I don't think of it as a deficit...I think of it as being more "efficient." But that right there is proof that I really AM a female...because a male would NEVER admit that a woman's way of doing something was better. I guess the boobs and the cooter are properly placed.

E-motherfucking-NOUGH already!

2011-08-07T10:10:00.000-05:00

My heart is heavy. 31 US Troops, mostly U.S. Navy SEALS, (and seven Afghan troops) killed in Afghanistan when their helicopter is shot down. 31 of this country's finest and most highly-trained citizens gave their lives serving this country. 31 families devastated and grieving. Who knows how many children will be growing up without one of their parents now.

Almost ten fucking years we have been "at war" in Afghanistan...and even though the war has officially "ended" (yeah right...) in Iraq, troops are still there too. The entire time my son has been alive, our country has been "at war," and he doesn't even really understand what that means. He said something about "war" the other day, and I had to stop and talk to him about how horrible war really is. And of course, that's not because I've ever experienced war...but I see nearly every day what it DOES to those who have.

War is ugly. War creates wounds and injuries that are sometimes visible, sometimes not. War also creates casualties beyond what you would see as "obvious." Many marriages are casualties of war. Many childrens' relationships with a parent (who has experienced war) are impacted by war (trust me...this much I know firsthand). War makes giant, gaping holes in families when soldiers are killed. War rips out the hearts of mothers and fathers, when they watch their children travel into war's neighborhood of "harm's way." War puts the "system" that cares for returning warriors to the test...taxing it to its very core, to the point that even the basic provision of that care becomes difficult. I could go on and on about what else war destroys, but quite frankly, it's making me sick to my stomach to even think about it more right now.

I think that every single member of congress should be REQUIRED to attend every single funeral of every U.S. service member killed in war (unless they have already served in war themselves; Senators Inouye, Akaka, Lautenberg, Webb, and McCain - y'all are excused). That would be well over 6,000 funerals by now. If I had to attend over 6,000 funerals, I sure as shit wouldn't have time to give fucking media sound-bytes yakking about what assholes opposing party-members are. It would force them to manage their time a little bit better, that's for fucking sure. And it would also force them to LOOK at how their decisions impact the average American - the very people who vote them into office. I want them to have to look into the eyes of the family members of the fallen heroes and APOLOGIZE. And I mean EVERY single member of congress - democrat or republic - because they are ALL responsible for keeping this bullshit going on for nearly ten years. As far as I am concerned, if you are voted into public office, you assume responsibility for what goes on in this country. You don't GET to hide behind party lines - you HAVE to be responsible and fucking "man up" when shit goes wrong.

After all, soldiers don't get to "pick" when they want to blame someone else for shit going wrong. As a matter of fact - they do the exact opposite. When one of their OWN is killed - their battle buddies are more likely to blame THEMSELVES. Squad leaders take the responsibility. Platoon leaders take responsibility. THEY absorb the guilt for a soldier's loss. In my opinion, politicians should be the ones absorbing that guilt. Let THEM feel responsible. Let THEM feel guilty. Let THEM take the blame. And most of all - let THEM fucking carry that shit with them FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. It would make MY job a hell of a lot easier if some asshole in public office who lies for a living was the one with rightfully deserved nightmares and flashbacks and a heightened sense of hypervigilance wherever he or she went (and all of the other "treats" that come with PTSD). They have FREE health insurance for the rest of their lives - so I'm sure THEY can see the finest health and mental health providers when the shit starts to take a toll on their well-being down the road. And they get to vote themselves raises every year - so they'll be sure to be financially secure as they deal with the "war inside their mind" well after the "war" is over.

Yes, I need to figure out a way to telepathically transport all guilt feelings from soldiers who have lost a comrade and plant these feelings into the brains of 541 members of congress (oh wait - minus those combat veterans serving in congress - they already know what it feels like). In my little "utopia" there would be no war, and whatever remnants of the destruction war causes, as far as feelings are concerned, would be set squarely into the brains of politicians. For now, I guess I'll just take this unwanted confirmation of "job security" for myself and the other fine folks who help care for HIM WHO HATH BORNE THE BATTLE and prepare myself for the next 30+ years of work I have cut out for me. Oh yeah - and that's with all of the budget cuts they're planning for us...do more with less - makes perfect sense (if you have the brain of a politician).

Seriously.
Enough.
E-fucking-NOUGH.

Reckmonster: 1 Weed whacker: 0

2011-08-06T20:51:00.000-05:00

Awwwww yeah....That's right, bitches...I one-upped the mother fucking weed whacker!! And it's about damned time!

If you remember, I have a few "issues" with my FOUR weed whackers. And my buddy Coffey offered some sound advice about replacing the twine with plastic blades. I had no idea that such an option existed, but I was pretty stoked at the prospect of flipping that roll of twine the bird...

So, I took a trip to Lowe's and snatched up one of those attachments to put on the weed whacker...and I was so fucking excited because I have this batch of weeds at the end of the driveway by the mailbox and in the swale that was starting to look a little like the Amazon tropical rain forest...kinda sorta. (Not that I ever exaggerate or anything, though.)

So, I'm sitting there in my driveway with my "chick" set of tools - actually reading the instructions on how to attach said new set of plastic blades, because I actually have no fucking clue about how to make the weed whacker magically sport these plastic blades instead of the twine. And lemme tell you...reading directions pisses me off. I never read directions. I hate reading directions. Reading directions is for pussies. So, in celebration of the fact that I sport a vagina instead of a penis, I decided reading the directions was completely appropriate for this endeavor.

Oh, and did I mention it was fucking Africa hot outside?! Yeah...that seems to be the general consensus around the country lately...FUCKING HOTTTTTT. So, I'm sweating like a friggin' leaky faucet, which I also find profoundly annoying. Mostly because I have to stop and wipe off my forehead and neck - which takes valuable time away from completing the task at hand (impatient much????).

I decided to frankensteinize the Craftsman gas weed whacker because, as I mentioned previously, it was the one that was "just there" and "meh." Oh, yeah, and because I tried to butcher the Ryobi first, but in classic fashion, that fucker had a bitch of a mother fucking screw that I could not get off...soooo fucking typical of that Ryobi - chronic pain in my ass.

I finally got the penis extension attached to the Craftsman...and WHOA NELLIE!!!! I was blazing through that thicket of weeds in the swale like a machete-wielding native cutting a path for a group of gringo tourists in the tropical rain forest. I was fucking BEAST!!

That THAT, you fucking weed whackers!
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VICTORY!!!! Finally...in the war of Reckmonster v. Weed whackers, I finally won a battle! Yay me! And thanks for the advice, Coffey...you're a fuckin' rock star!!

Oh yeah...and BTW - the little water pills have worked wonders - I am no longer "puffy" and I can wear my rings, and my blood pressure is down and I haven't had another migraine. Double SCORRRRREEEEE!

Migraine: 1 Reckmonster: 0

2011-08-01T18:32:00.000-05:00

Mother Bitch! I woke up with a migraine this morning that had me crippled in pain. I was on the verge of vomiting as my alarm blared at 60000 decibels in my ear (or that's what it felt like). I have been having run ins with migraines a lot recently. I can feel my blood pressure starting to rise (usually around 9 a.m. at work) and then my head gets this wicked feeling - so I gobble up some excedrin migraine to stave off the brewing migraine. Of course everyone at work has been telling me to lay off the excedrin migraine because of this or that...yada yada yada. Sometimes working with medical people is actually a pain in my ass.

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Anyway, my blood pressure has been elevated in the last few weeks too. I know that the elevated blood pressure and the recurrent migraines are related...and I know what's causing them too: stress at work. Yes, yes, I know...I shouldn't let shit I can't control eat away at me. Trust me, I've been trying to pull all of my mad therapy skillz out of my own ass to use on my damned self, but it hasn't been working all that great as of late. But I AM acutely aware that something has got to change soon, because if I have to endure another mother fucking migraine like the one I had this morning, I'm thinking I may end up in jail after stabbing whoever starts their car too loudly on my block.

I had to drop the hooligan off this morning - and I seriously thought I was gonna get pulled over because I think I looked like a drunk lady driving (I kept hearing the rumble strips on the shoulder of the road under my tires every so often). I had to turn the radio off and tell the hooligan not to talk...and the sun...was so fucking blinding! I had my sunglasses on and if I could have cussed at them to be darker, I would have. It was a seriously raunchy fucking migraine.

I was going to go to the doctor after dropping off the hooligan, but I couldn't even bear the thought of driving one inch further than necessary, plus I was starting to get nervous because my vision was starting to get a little blurry. So, I went back home - obviously had to call out sick from work, which sucks donkey balls. And I got back in bed - and stayed there until 2 p.m. when I finally woke up and emerged from the death grip of the migraine. I swear, when I woke up, it was like having a hangover. I was a little confused, thinking that I might have partied a little hard - and looked around like, "What the fuck is going on? It's 2 pm?" Then I realized that I was suffering the after-effects of an ass-kicking migraine.

So, I took a shower and headed to the doctor's office. I don't like any of the migraine medicines - I've tried them all before, and all they do is knock me out like LL Cool J said his mom told him to do. But, seriously, after this morning's migraine - I don't fucking care if I get knocked out by Gomer pussy-ass Pyle - as long as the pain goes away - QUICKLY. I also got some fucking water pills (hctz) because apparently my blood pressure issue is making me swell up like a fatted calf. Hopefully this will relieve some of the pressure because I really don't feel like starting with the real fucking blood pressure medicine.

I'm sure you must be wondering why the Reckmonster is so stressed out that blood pressure problems and migraines are kicking her ass on the regular? Well, there was a little work situation I told y'all about...involving a certain Dr. Douchebag...and a certain kind of complaint...and a certain meeting I had with the director of the hospital...and a certain outcome I am waiting for. And I have no control over the situation - that much I have accepted. But, I AM certain that if there isn't a "certain outcome" that resembles something in the ballpark of "fair" then I'll be pursuing other actions. And, yes, I am being all fucking super-decoder-ring spy like and stealth-like secretive with how I'm phrasing shit...so, just deal with it because I can't really put it all out there in plain English right now.

The most annoying thing of all? The migraine...like my fucking achilles' heel. I normally deal with stress quite well. And I have an incredibly high threshold for pain. But this...this shit is like secret attack from out of nowhere. I'm annoyed that while I can normally deal with stress fairly well, this time, it's manifesting itself in physical symptoms, and I can't control it. Instead of me cussing like a fucking lunatic on my blog and getting the shit off of my chest and breathing a huge SIGH of relief (like the one you make after taking that huge dump you've been brewing up after three days of being constipated...you KNOW what I'm talking about!)...I'm crippled by a migraine that makes me squeal like a little bitch and forced to retreat to the doctor's office. THAT chaps my mother fucking ass. I'm obviously going to need to meditate more and do some other shit that fucking relieves my stress.

"Come to Big Daddy, Reckmonster..."
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If any of y'all have Matt Damon's phone number, hook me up...because I'm going to ring him up and import him to mah crib and take all of my frustration out on him. Shit, it might even end up being a blockbuster action flick...once we get it down to an NC-17 rating. Tee hee hee.

High time for another froth, doncha think?! And Peachy/Mooner shout out.

2011-07-30T12:48:00.001-05:00

Yeah, yeah...I'm sick and mother fucking tired of hearing about how a bunch of dillholes in D.C. can't agree upon a way to deal with the budget crisis because they're all so self-important that THEIR way is the ONLY way to fix shit, and they'll be damned if they'll be flexible, concede, cooperate or COME TO THEIR FUCKING SENSES for one fat fucking hairy second.

I've been on my mission to e-mail my representatives and senators - SPECIFICALLY ABOUT CUTTING VETERANS' BENEFITS - not any other bullshit. I am serious when I say - do NOT fuck with my veterans. Rep. Diane Black actually emailed me back (ha ha), using my proper name in the e-mail, but she obviously missed the fucking mark about why I e-mailed her in the first place (and yes, people, I am not so retarded that I do not realize this is a generic, blanket e-mail sent out to everyone and anyone - just the name at the heading was changed):

Dear Ms. Reckmonster,

Thank you for contacting me regarding the nation's public debt ceiling. Like you, I am frustrated that this decision has come down to the last minute. This legislation is not perfect, but it is an honest effort to move us in the right direction. Specifically, I voted for this legislation because it does not increase taxes, will help preserve our county's AAA credit rating, reduces spending by more than the increase in the debt ceiling and provides structural change.

Today, I voted with a majority of my colleagues in support of the Budget Control Act of 2011 which:

w Does NOT raise taxes because Washington has a spending problem, not a revenue problem

w Cuts more than it increases: Lowers spending by $915 billion, while raising the debt limit by $900 billion

w Creates a structural change by putting a cap on discretionary spending for the next decade

o If caps are exceeded, there will be an automatic across the board cut to eliminate excess spending

w Creates a committee of Congressmen and Senators to report a bill to reduce the deficit by greater than $1.8 trillion by November 23

w Requires that a Balanced Budget Amendment to the Constitution be sent to the states before the debt ceiling can be raised again

I am angered by the lack of leadership by past Congresses towards an issue that poses such a grave threat to the future security and prosperity of our nation. Since the beginning of this debate, I have felt that Congress must use this vote on the debt ceiling as an opportunity to push for significant cuts in spending and structural budget reforms to force the government to live within its means.

Unlike the past five years, the House of Representatives has meticulously debated how to stop this cycle of borrow and spend. Originally, President Obama and many House Democrats called for a "clean" increase in the debt ceiling, meaning that no budget cuts or structural changes would be included. In May, I voted with my colleagues in the House to reject this option by a vote of 318 to 97.

Other Plans to Reduce Spending

For months, House Republicans have been working on plans that would have cut current spending and put in place structural reforms before allowing for an increase in the debt ceiling. In April, I voted with my colleagues in the House to pass the House Republican budget for Fiscal Year 2012 that will cut $6.2 trillion over the next 10 years. On July 19, with my support, a bipartisan majority in the House passed H.R. 2560, the "Cut, Cap and Balance Act of 2011," which would have decreased current spending, placed statutory caps on future spending and offered a balanced budget amendment to the Constitution. Unfortunately, both of these sensible solutions to restore fiscal sanity to our government were rejected by President Obama and the Democratic controlled Senate.

Taxation is Not the Solution

Raising taxes on Americans is not the answer to solving our debt problems. The truth is that Washington's spending problems have lead to this debt crisis and President Obama would have you believe that the growth in spending is anyone else's fault, but his own. The budget he submitted for Fiscal Year 2012 proposed a $1.6 trillion deficit, the largest in American history.

However, I strongly believe that our tax code needs to be reformed for both individuals and businesses. On January 20, my first hearing as a Member of Congress was regarding tax reform. Since that day, my colleagues and I on the Ways and Means Committee have held 14 hearings to go over all the important issues involved in reforming our tax code. Our tax system is overly complex, as well as includes loopholes that stifle economic growth and place a greater burden on the average American. By fixing our current tax system we can lower rates for individuals and businesses to promote jobs and economic growth.

Protecting Medicare and Social Security for Current Beneficiaries

Some have tried to scare and mislead seniors by telling them that Social Security payments would not be made if the debt ceiling was not raised. However, the truth is that should the debt ceiling be reached, it will be President Obama's choice as to whether or not to issue checks to Social Security beneficiaries past August 2.

In addition, many seniors have been concerned that in the midst of earlier negotiations, reductions to Medicare benefits have been on the table. I do not support making any cuts to Medicare that would affect current seniors who rely on these vital programs.

It is an honor to serve Tennessee's 6th Congressional District. If you wish to share additional information with me concerning this or any other issue, please feel free to contact me or my staff at (202) 225-4231 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting (202) 225-4231 end_of_the_skype_highlighting or through email by going to my website at http://black.house.gov.

Sincerely,

Diane Black
Member of Congress
P.S. Stay up-to-date on key legislation and events; sign up for my weekly e-newsletter and follow me on Facebook, Twitter andYouTube.

Vomit. Barf. Spew. Hurl. Ralf. 'Scuze me...please pass the motion sickness bag, please.

You know what pissed me off the MOST? She said, "Like you..." as if to in-motherfucking-sinuate that I share ANY of her opinions... When I e-mailed her, it was SPECIFICALLY about disabled veterans - and veterans benefits in general - and how we must protect these because WE MADE A MOTHER FUCKING PROMISE to them, goddammit! Why she felt compelled to bombard me with all of that other bullshit in her e-mail is beyond me (and yes, I am being sarcastic, because, yes, I realize it was a "canned" response). I don't care though. I'm gonna keep e-mailing these rat bastards. Maybe until I get the Men in Black knocking on my front door...telling me to knock it off. BAHAHAHAHA!

In other news, I would like to do a two-fer-one shout out. One is to my beloved Boomslang Sister, PEACHY!! Today is her 29th birthday (again). So, I send bodacious birthday greetings and wishes for a supah-fly and extra-groovy day and a year filled with kind health care givers and better yet, a year filled with good health! A votre sante!!

For Peachy and for Mooner!

The other shout out is to my future husband, once he gets through wife # 11, because I will ONLY be an even-numbered wife in his bevvy of ex-wives. I thought for forever that my husband to be, Mooner Johnson, had "made up" this brand of beer - Carta Blanca - as he always ends his posts with some form of drinking Carta Blanca and encouraging you to do so as well. I'd never ever heard of Carta Blanca beer, and so I doubted its actual existence. And true to my word - I told Mooner if I ever did run across Carta Blanca beer, I'd take a picture of myself enjoying one.

So - to Peachy - I raise my Carta Blanca to you and say, "Happy Birthday, Hooker!"

And to Mooner - I raise my Carta Blanca to you and say, "Fuck Rick Perry!"

Why, as a matter of fact, I DID write a letter to my Senator....

2011-07-23T23:46:00.000-05:00

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Y'all know from my last post how chapped my ass was about Senator Bob Corker's (R-Tennessee) vote on H.R. Bill 2055 (about funding for the military and the V.A.'s budget). He is one of two Republican senators to vote "Nay" on the bill. It passed anyway...but I'm still pissed that he voted NO. So I went to his website and decided to go ahead and tell him what a used tampon I think he is. HOWEVER...I did clean up my language and I did put on my "professional girl panties" (and no...those are nothing to do with "hooker panties," spank you very much) when I crafted my correspondence. I didn't need to be labeled as some kind of "left wing nutcase" and summarily dismissed - or as one of my blogger buddies, Aaron, pointed out - part of the "angry left that is out to destroy 'Merka." So, I wrote to him and acted like a grown up, educated person whose vocabulary doesn't consist of 73.9% curse words.

Here is what I said to him:

Senator Corker,

I am writing to you to express my extreme dismay at your "Nay" vote on H.R. Bill 2055 yesterday.

As the daughter of a retired Army Officer who served 26 years and three tours in Vietnam, I am terribly disappointed in your choice to NOT support a bill that funds the Department of Veterans Affairs. I am also an employee of the V.A. - I have been for 8 years; I am a Social Worker.

I see firsthand the extreme NEED for more services for these fine American citizens who have volunteered and given of themselves to serve our country. Some of these returning OIF/OEF veterans have been deployed four and five times! They suffer from a variety of conditions - both physical and mental. It breaks my heart each and every day when I heart of yet another suicide committed by an OIF/OEF veteran - or ANY veteran for that matter.

I see firsthand the dearth of services we are able to offer these veterans. The number of vacant positions that are not filled (for going on two and three years) creates a backlog and ultimately, the veteran suffers. I am a mental health professional, but I also see the physical ailments suffered by veterans who have served in combat.

Our aging population of Vietnam veterans coupled with the influx of OIF/OEF veterans (who present with complex polytrauma needs) is taxing our system. We need MORE money in our V.A. budget - to meet the BASIC needs of veterans. That's not including highly specialized services that we SHOULD be able to offer (e.g., evidenced based treatment options for PTSD) our returning warriors.

I have the greatest, purest respect and love for all veterans. My career is dedicated to caring for this special population. "To care for him who hath borne the battle..." is an oath I take to heart each and every day I go in to my V.A. hospital.

I have heard your reasoning about voting "Nay" on this bill - as it regards our nation's current budget woes. I am fine with taking my two year pay freeze - if it means that a veteran will get more care. What I do NOT understand is how you you intend to care for this exploding population of veterans needing more and more services. I seek a clearer explanation of what you propose we do with these veterans. The need will only grow and grow - we continue to receive more and more referrals on a daily basis ( and that's just in MY field - the mental health sector). What do YOU propose as a solution for meeting the PROMISE we made to our veterans?

I am about as close as I can be to "outraged" regarding your "Nay" vote on this bill. We NEED more services in the V.A. You say "NO." Please, Sir, tell me: What do we, on the front lines at the V.A., tell these brave warriors returning from battle, when we "can't" give them an appointment for therapy any time soon because we just DON'T have enough therapists or psychiatrists? Do we have to just "let" them wait until they become so despondent that they go and commit suicide? I cannot hear of another suicide...my heart is already broken enough. Our veterans deserve more - and WE PROMISED THEM.

I am angry and disappointed (but relieved the bill passed despite your "Nay" vote)...if you ever care to know why - just come visit me at work one day, and I would be more than happy to show you EXACTLY why. I have the privilege of serving this nation's finest citizens. So do you...and YOU have an obligation to do what the American voters elected you to do.

Please help do the right thing...help CARE for our veterans.

Sincerely,

The Reckmonster

No, I didn't really sign it "The Reckmonster" - mostly because I don't want him peepin' in on my little bloggie and knowing too much about me. BAHAHA! (as if "Big Brother" couldn't get the scoop on The Reckmonster if he really wanted to!)

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I think I'll write him at least once a month until I get a response of some substance. I did receive the "canned" I-got-your-message-and-it-is-so-mother-fucking-important-to-me-and-I'll-get-right-on-that automated e-mail response. But, I just want to see if he (or, I should say - a "designated" person authorized to respond on his behalf) will actually respond. This is one of my new "missions" in life: To start writing to politicians when I see that their votes on bills and shit piss me off. It's nothing for me to write an e-mail once a month. It's the least I can do. I just want to be sure that when Big Brother does look to get the 411 on me (after the eleventy-billionth e-mail I send), he'll know I'm not a nameless, faceless retardo-lemming who just marches off the cliff he tells me to march off of. (And on a side note - do you know how much it PAINED me to end that sentence in a preposition?! I just can't write "off of which cliff to march" because it sounds so fucking pretentious!)

Also, since I am fixing to be 40 in a minute...I've decided to keep myself more informed so that I know which politicians piss me off the most with their votes on things, and I did find a neat little website (which I have not thoroughly investigated - but rather, perused leisurely...and decided it was easy enough to click through to find out what I wanted to find out). I'll share it with you since I'm feeling uber-generous: National Write your Congressman. I'm no political expert by any means (I'll leave that to Squatlo!)...but I like my shit summarized first WITHOUT left or right leanings - and then I will make up my mind what I think about it. That NWYC website allows you to join as a member (which I won't be doing any time soon...but I'll take their free 'samples' - you know, like how they give out shit at Sam's Club). There is also a little blog they do - with neat little American factoids/stories (if you're a history nut like I am - you'll find them entertaining - if you thought history class was a pain in your ass, you'll probably want to skip the blog). Anyway...the blog is here.

And since I'm no political dynamo...I'll be back to frothing about every day shit or specific people who piss me off in no time...